Chapter Text

Gravity Falls, 1980

Fiddleford McGucket arrived at work on a mild Monday afternoon, clouds of dirt kicking up under the tires of his car as he made his way down to the house on the end of Gopher Road. He parked in his usual spot in the driveway, pulling up carefully along into the vacant space facing the main body of his employer’s home. Gravel crunched under Fiddleford’s tires as he came to a halt, the engine sputtering into silence upon killing the ignition. Stepping out of the car, one arm reflexively coming up to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight shining down on him, McGucket took a moment to survey his surroundings.

Everything looked about the same as it did when he’d left for the weekend on Friday. It was a modest-looking place, a reasonably sized wooden building tucked into an unassuming clearing amongst the pine trees. Despite being only a decade old, the house had a way of appearing much older. The shingles that lined the long, steep roof of the house’s triangular body were always slightly crooked and frayed. The natural unevenness of the logs and wooden planks that composed the main structure made the building feel perpetually askew and look almost deceptively quaint – a little more akin to a shack than a house or a laboratory, if not for the various bits of research and surveillance equipment that were strewn around and the perpetual hum of electrical currents coursing through the tangled webs of cables surrounding them. A bright red Cadillac was tucked against the side of the building nestled between the wall and the woods. But being the only house this deep in the woods gave an air of mystery to the place, which Fiddleford assumed had only served to fuel the whispered rumors between the townsfolk of what he and the eccentric scientist who occupied it were up to.

Taking one last breath of the crisp forest air, Fiddleford straightened out the front of his suit and continued to prepare for the start of the day. It was nice out at the moment; Stanford would perhaps want to complete some field research with weather this pleasant. He leaned back into his car, reaching over to unlock the door behind the driver’s seat, doing his best to hurry himself along while moving to collect his briefcase and portable computer prototype from the backseat. As he gathered his belongings under one arm, he paused for a second to check his watch. It was just shy of 11:30 – already running late.

Cursing lightly under his breath, McGucket slammed his car door shut, adjusting his hold on the two bulky, rectangular containers before hurrying around towards the front porch. He reached into his pocket as he scaled the steps; his keys jangling together as he fished around for the copy to the front door his employer had given him. It took him a minute to even get a good enough grip to find the right one, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy while juggling between thumbing through the ring of almost a dozen nearly identical keys and struggling to keep his leather briefcase and metal computer case from toppling to the floor. He paused when the faint crinkling of paper being crushed under his foot caught his attention. Looking down, Fiddleford found that he had stepped on a copy of yesterday’s Gravity Falls Gossiper, still wrapped in its rubber band and sitting pitifully on the welcome mat. Absently, Fiddleford plucked the newspaper up, setting it carefully on top of the rest of his belongings before resuming his search for the house key.

After nearly dropping everything twice, Fiddleford lifted one of his legs to prop his knee against the wooden door, setting both cases to rest over his thigh like a makeshift table before returning to the task at hand with a frustrated huff. His limbs were shaking slightly by the time he slotted the right key into the lock, still balancing his belongings over his leg as he turned the knob and kicked the front door open. Using his free hand to gather both suitcases and Stanford’s copy of the Gossiper to his chest, McGucket shambled his way inside, shoulder pressed against the threshold to steady himself. It was noticeably cooler inside, the compact size of the room and the drawn curtains on the windows leaving the house’s foyer mostly in the shade. Shutting the door with the heel of his foot, Fiddleford sagged against the hallway as he wheezed out a long sigh of relief.

“Stanford?” he called out, setting his belongings down for a moment to slip out of his coat. “Sorry I’m late. Had a lil’ trouble droppin’ Tate off this mornin’. I think a tree must’ve fallen on the road or somethin’ cuz the road’s all blocked off. Y’all shoulda seen the traffic that was lined up just to get to the…”

He trailed off, the lack of response catching his attention.

Stanford was nowhere to be seen. Not unusual by itself – Stanford didn’t seem to work by any particular schedule, jumping from one project to the next every other day – but usually Fiddleford could hear him tinkering with whatever he happened to be working on the moment he stepped through the door.

The house was silent today however. No light emanating from any of the adjacent rooms with only the faintest creaking of the house settling to greet him.

Fiddleford’s mouth thinned into a mildly troubled line. Maybe Stanford was in one of the back studies and couldn’t hear him. Or the basement, he thought idly, stomach giving a familiar, anxious twist at the idea. He took another, more tentative step further into the house.

“Stanford,” he tried again, setting his coat on the rack by the door and tucking the newspaper under one arm before venturing down the hall. “Ford, ya home?”

The floorboards creaked as McGucket made his way through the house, glancing up the steps to steal a quick peek at the second floor as he walked by. It was quiet up there as well. The hallway was dark, with no light slipping out from under the bedroom or bathroom doors. Seeing no other signs of life, Fiddleford moved on towards the bio-study laboratory in the next room over.

Maybe he went out already, Fiddleford mused, reaching the end of the hallway. It wasn’t unheard of for Stanford to sometimes take off if something caught his interest before Fiddleford got there; getting swept away in his own excitement while chasing down various magical critters that happened to come his way, journal in hand and a delighted grin on his face. Sometimes Stanford at least had the courtesy to leave a note somewhere before he left, though it wasn’t always a guarantee. When it came to his work, Fiddleford learned early on, Ford tended to have his blinders on tight.

McGucket continued on to the bio-study, groping absently for the light switch along the wall. Finding it, he flicked the heavy switch to ‘ON,’ the tiny uncovered bulb that hung in the center of the room flickering to life. It provided little illumination, but it was enough that Fiddleford could at least see where he was going. He stood in the doorway for a moment longer, absorbing the scene before him.

The lab was a mess. A hodgepodge of litter and loose documents were strewn across the floor, as though they’d been tossed aside with no regard for where they landed. Every free surface seemed to be covered in something. Discarded books and files were piling onto each other in disorderly mountains on every workbench and table, even the table they had reserved for coffee and food breaks. Flashing bulbs on clunky devices set up around the room glowed bright reds and greens, occasionally ringing out with electronic beeps and buzzes in time with steady process of data. The tyrannosaurus skull that Stanford had excavated a few weeks prior was submerged in a large tank, electrodes connected along its surface while the analysis machine it was attached to steadily output readings that were piling up below it.

McGucket shuddered as he walked by, eyeing the dead creature’s dagger-like teeth with trepidation. He really needed to talk to Ford about moving the darned thing; it gave him the heebie-jeebies.

(Most things Stanford did these days gave him the heebie-jeebies, if he was being honest with himself.)

Fiddleford carefully treaded through the bio-study, doing his best to tiptoe around the clutter. Scrapped papers periodically crunched beneath his shoes, cutting through the otherwise hushed room. His hands twitched with the urge to stop and organize it all, but he forced himself to refrain, unremittingly moving on through the lab.

Stanford was still nowhere to be seen, however. Unease twisted in Fiddleford’s gut.

McGucket continued on through, the creaks of old floorboards beneath Fiddleford's feet the only response to his presence. He paused briefly to toss the old copy of The Gossiper onto one of the nearby tables, letting it fall into a heap with the rest of Stanford’s forgotten work, hands settling on his hips as a small frown passed over his face. There didn’t appear to be any particularly order to Stanford’s jumble of projects, the mish-mashed documents and files compiled into heaps with various tools, containers, and the occasional sample thrown into the mix.

He made his way to the far end of the laboratory, towards the doorway that lead from the bio-study to the kitchen. As he passed by the table against the back wall, a peculiar object caught his eye that gave him pause.

A stack of fresh papers was set neatly to the side, almost eerie in how orderly they were placed. Curious, Fiddleford picked up the top sheet, scanning over the tidy notes. A neatly written stack of complicated equations filled the entire page, mathematical symbols he'd never seen before scattered throughout with a small index in the corner listing what they meant. Glancing at the rest of the pages, the entire stack seemed to be more of the same. They were undoubtedly Stanford’s handy work, written in elegant cursive that Fiddleford had grown accustomed to.

Brilliance always seemed to strike Stanford whenever he wasn't looking, McGucket had noticed. With an incredulous frown, he put the paper back on the pile, now the only sheet that was askew, before surveying the rest of the surrounding items that cluttered the lab’s workspace.

Clusters of mugs were scattered on nearly every workstation, all filled to varying degrees with coffee that had long gotten cold. Up close, Fiddleford noted that mold was growing in two of the cups; round patches of white, green and blue fuzz floating atop the surface like tiny lily pads in a pond. Fiddleford grimaced, nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Stanford,” he groused, plucking up all the mugs he could carry and heading briskly towards the kitchen. “Can't y’all keep yer dang workbench clean for one day?”

He pushed through the doorway, careful to not the stale coffee slosh onto his suit and the floor. The mugs clattered together as he adjusted his grip, his fingers beginning to cramp with the effort of holding them all. He came to a halt in the center of the room, taking a moment to regard the next portion of Stanford’s house.

The kitchen didn’t look much better.

Though Ford only owned one of every type of tableware and utensil (“Much more efficient,” he’d declared when Fiddleford had asked, though he clearly hadn’t taken the possibility of having company into account) his mug collection appeared to be endless. But he’d evidentially used every single one of them over the course of the weekend since, as far as McGucket could tell, there were at least a few dozen coffee cups littering every visible, flat surface. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, some Fiddleford recognized as being there since he left on Friday, as well as new ones that Stanford had clearly tossed carelessly on top of them. Even the paper plates and plastic forks he’d purchased upon Fiddleford’s employment.

McGucket dumped out the old coffee and left the mugs next to the sink. Wiping his hands absently against each other, he watched the murky liquid trickled down between the grease-caked dishes, the remnants of the dark brown sludge lazily circling around the drain.

“I swear,” he muttered, “It's like working for a five year old.”

Fiddleford treaded out of the kitchen and into the adjacent hallway, scanning the down corridor for a clue of where to go next. He caught a faint glimpse of light trickling out from under the door at the far end of the hall, where Stanford’s parlor resided. Slowly, keeping his footfalls soft as to muffle the groans of floorboards beneath his feet, he crept towards down the hallway towards the parlor.

“Stanford?” he tried softly, giving the door an apprehensive knock. When he received no answer, Fiddleford pushed the door open, peeking around corner.

The parlor, much like every other room he’d encountered so far, was in shambles. Documents and more stray notes littered the floor – some crumpled, some torn, most simply tossed aside – with books left opened and marked on the side tables and parts of the sofa. The blinds were shut tightly, shielding the room from the sunny day outside. There was desk lamp sitting on a corner-side table that was turned on however, casting shadows over the various bits of clutter strewn across the furniture and floor.

At the far end of the room, a figure of a man was sprawled over the desk.

Fiddleford pushed the door open the rest of the way, the hinges creaking loudly under the motion, and crept inside.

Hunched over the desk was Stanford Pines – buried under a mountain of crumpled papers and scattered documents. Tufts of dark brown hair were poking out from beneath a rumpled brown coat that bunched around his shoulders. One of his hands was still clenched around his ink pen, a sharp streak of ink cutting across the page away from the sentence he'd been in the midst of writing, a black pool staining the sheet of paper the tip was still pressed into.

“Stanford?” McGucket whispered, coming around the side of his desk to carefully clasp his shoulder, giving his boss a few gentle shakes in an effort to rouse him. “Stanford. Wake up.”

Ford didn’t stir. Fiddleford’s mouth thinned, shaking him a little harder. “C’mon Stanford, wake up.”

Stanford jolted awake, springing up into a sitting position like a jack-in-the-box with a guttural snort. Fiddleford’s heart nearly leaped into his throat, a cry of surprise leaving him as he leaped out of the way. Ford didn’t seem to notice, head jerking sporadically as he looked around the room dazedly. His glasses were askew on his face, his tie loose around his neck and powder blue button up shirt wrinkled and unkempt. It looked like he’d been wearing them for days. Smelled like it too.

Stanford’s gaze fell to McGucket, squinting into the sunlight until realization slowly dawned on his face.

“Oh, Fiddleford,” he greeted, staring up at him with owlish bewilderment as he set his glasses right on the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here so early?”

“It’s nearly noon, Stanford.”

Stanford blinked at that, sitting up a little straighter.

“What? That can’t be right.” He pushed himself away from the desk, adjusting his glasses to squint at the clocks that on top one of the file cabinets. He stared at it for a long minute, brow slowly pinching into a troubled frown. “I could’ve sworn it was only midnight a few minutes ago. Are you sure that clock’s right, McGucke-”

Fiddleford tugged on the cord to the curtains before Stanford could finish, flooding the room with a shroud of bright afternoon sunlight. It was nearly blinding in its intensity, the room momentarily bleaching under its sudden presence. But McGucket ignored the stinging in his eyes, leveling his boss with a slightly vexed grimace. Ford fell back in his chair with an indignant yowl, shielding himself under his coat like a vampire. When he recovered, Ford peered back to McGucket, squinting at his backlit figure before ducking away from the sun once more.

“Ah,” Stanford murmured, still rubbing at his eyes, “My mistake.”

“Darn right it’s yer mistake,” Fiddleford snapped, “What the heck were ya doin’ all weekend?”

Stanford didn’t answer, adjusting his tie as he pushed himself out of his chair. He must've gone too fast since he nearly toppled over, groping blindly along the surface of his desk before managing to steady himself on one of the edges.

“Hey, easy now,” he chided gently, guiding Ford back into his seat, “Don't go hoppin’ around when yer all catawampus.”

Stanford gave him a befuddled frown, though Fiddleford couldn't tell if it was because of his phrasing or if the lack of sleep was still muddling Ford’s thoughts. Regardless, he obediently settled for the moment, sinking into his chair with a tired sigh.

The furrow in Fiddleford’s brow knit tighter, lips thinning into a concerned line.

“I'm gonna get ya a glass of water,” McGucket declared. He crossed over to the mini bar that sat on the other end of the room, the only things that seemed unaffected by Stanford’s flurry of destruction. The crystal scotch glasses were stacked neatly beside the metal tumbler and ice bucket, the various bottles of scotch and bourbon clustered together in no particular order, seemingly untouched since McGucket had last been in the parlor.

His boss hadn't been drinking excessively. At least Fiddleford could take comfort in that.

He plucked up the cleanest looking glass, heading over to the bathroom to fill it with tap water. It was lukewarm, but Fiddleford supposed it would have to do. Satisfied, he returned to Ford, finding his boss on the brink of dosing off in his office chair.

“Drink,” he ordered, water sloshing in the glass as he thrust it into Stanford’s hands. Ford didn't argue, taking a long sip. He made a relieved noise when he pulled away from the glass, eyes looking a little clearer despite the exhaustion still prominent on his expression.

“You feelin’ alright?” Fiddleford asked after a moment, gently taking the glass from Ford’s grip to set it on his desk.

“Yeah,” Ford mumbled, rubbing at his eyes with a tired groan. “Yeah, just. Just give me a minute.”

He slumped back in his seat, thumb and forefinger pinching at the bridge of his nose and eyelids. Fiddleford watched as Stanford’s head drooped periodically, like it was a fight for him just to stay upright.

“How ‘bout you take it easy today,” Fiddleford suggested at last, “If you ain’t feelin’ well it ain’t a good idea to-”

“No, I'm fine,” Stanford interjected, waving his hands dismissively, “Just need a little coffee.”

Ford sprung from his seat, using the armrests of his chair for leverage, and wobbled to his feet like an infant fawn first learning to walk. He managed to stead himself after a moment, wandering away from his desk and Fiddleford’s fretful stare. Clasping his hands behind his back, he circled the room; inspecting the array of clutter as though he only just now noticed the disheveled state of his home.

“Sorry about the mess,” Ford offered, awkwardly picking up nearby junk around his feet. “I didn't think I would lose track of time like that.”

“Ya outta be more careful, Pines,” Fiddleford retorted, taking another glance around the room. Other details were noticeable with a second glance; picture frames askew on the walls and a rumpled blanket donning the back of the sofa like Stanford had been sleeping on it. “Y’all really did a number on this place, didn't ya?”

Ford hummed, adjusting some of the picture frames that were hanging slightly askew on the back wall. Fiddleford pushed away from the desk, opting to help him, and started fixing the pictures at the opposite end. Most were framed charts of Gravity Fall’s geographical layouts and graphical depictions of Stanford’s favorite scientific theories and theorems (though there was also a portrait of Nikola Tesla; Fiddleford wasn’t sure what that was about) but there were a few decorative portraits of local landscapes. Slowly he and Ford worked their way to the center, flipping and straightening the picture frames as they inched along.

McGucket paused when he reached the one that held Stanford’s diploma, wiping at the glass with the back of his sleeve. Embossed letters proudly spelled out West Coast Tech in a bold, cursive font that stood out on the off-white parchment, the metallic gold of the university's emblem shining brightly under the glass. Beside it was another photograph of Stanford with the dean of WTC, holding the same diploma up to the camera; academic cap sitting askew on his head and embellished graduation garments indicating that he had graduated with honors. He was smiling politely to the camera, but his hand was curled into a nervous fist between the dean’s hands that were clasping it. Fiddleford couldn’t help the small, sad smile that twitched across his face at it, lingering on the photo a moment longer.

Stanford’s hand darted into his peripheral vision, pulling Fiddleford from his thoughts. Ford reached up and adjusted the picture of his graduation, pushing lightly at the wooden frame until it hung straight on the wall. McGucket shot him a questioning glance, but Stanford’s attention was fixed on the photograph before them, hands clasped behind his back once more. His expression was unreadable, scanning over the image with the same calculated indifference he usually reserved for particularly difficult quandaries.

“We should probably hurry along,” Stanford declared flatly. He turned away from the picture and began tidying his desk. “We have work to do.”

McGucket watched him work for a moment, studying Ford’s turned back mindfully. Though he was more lively than when he’d first come in, Stanford still moved sluggishly, hands trembling slightly as he attempted to organize his scattered notes. Fiddleford bit the inside of his cheek.

“Maybe we should put off workin’ for today,” he suggested cautiously, “Take it easy today so you can-”

“I'm fine,” Stanford replied, waving his hands dismissively. “Just need a little coffee.”

Ford stumbled his way around his, previous task seemingly forgotten, and began heading for the door. He faltered only momentarily, raising an arm to shield his face from the sunshine pouring through the window. For a brief, worrying moment McGucket feared he would topple over, a hand darting out and a noise of protest bubbling in his throat.

But Stanford was already out the door, gallivanting down the hall towards the kitchen with his coat fluttered rather dramatically behind him.

A low sigh left Fiddleford, dropping the papers he’d been attempting to organize back on his desk. He overshot his target and some of the pages fluttered to the floor, falling behind Ford’s office chair and under his desk. With a frustrated huff, he set the last of the papers back down on the desk before following the sounds his employer tinkering about the house.

He found Stanford darting around the kitchen, rearranging the clutter that occupied the table and counter. A half-empty coffee pot was sitting under a pile of documents that Ford promptly uncovered, dumping out the old coffee and refilling the pot with fresh water before pouring it into the coffee machine and turning it on. He plucked up a box of Overly Sensitive (Unsweetened) Owl-O’s from on top of the refrigerator, rattling the cereal inside it lightly to check how much was still left. Satisfied, he opened the cupboards and, upon finding no clean bowls, grabbed one of the bigger coffee mugs instead. He poured the cereal into it, filling it three quarters of the way and setting the box on the counter.

The coffee machine’s red blub flickered to life a few minutes later, indicating that it was finished. Ford practically lunged at the machine, pulling out the now full pot. He held up the coffee pot and his mug of cereal, glancing between the two a couple times before shrugging his shoulders and adding the coffee into the mug. Returning to the fridge, he pulled out a small carton of creamer and added that as well. Fishing his only spoon out of the sink, he gave it a quick rinse under the faucet and wiped the spoon dry on his coat before stirring the coffee and cereal together.

“So, what should we get started on first, McGucket?” he asked before taking a rather generous bite from his now coffee-soaked cereal concoction. Fiddleford had to will himself not to gag.

“Well, for starters,” Fiddleford said, eyeing the stacks of newspapers and crumpled, discarded notes that still covered the kitchen table, rings of coffee stains scattered across them. “We could clean this place up. What in tarnation did ya get up to when I was gone?”

Ford shrugged, having the decency to at least look a little sheepish. “Oh, nothing important really.”

Fiddleford crossed his arms, eyes narrowing skeptically. Stanford pointedly avoided his glare, suddenly more interested in the contents of his mug.

“It was just a little side project that got a out of hand,” Ford tried again, swirling the contents of his mug lazily. “You know how I am.”

He swallowed the rest of his coffee, cereal and all, before slamming the mug against the counter with a slight grimace.

“Anyways,” he continued, clasping his hands together eagerly. He was nearly vibrating with excitement, previous lethargy seemingly forgotten, already looked like he wanted to flutter out of the room and head straight for the basement. “I made some real breakthroughs on our project over the weekend. I’m sure you saw the progress in the lab when you came in, but there’s more in my study that you’ll want to see. I also sketched up some blueprints that I'd love for you to look over before we-”

“I think you’d be better off takin’ it easy today, Pines,” Fiddleford cut in, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “In the shape yer in, it might not be a good idea to work on the-”

“I'm fine,” Stanford interrupted, giving him a warm smile with a firm squeeze to his assistant’s shoulder. “I just got a little carried away with my research over the weekend, that's all. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.”

He gave Fiddleford's shoulders a light squeeze, smile tightening around the edges as he uttered out a confident: “Promise.”

Fiddleford’s brow knit together skeptically, studying Stanford’s face carefully. His smile didn’t waver, but the dark bags under his eyes crinkled with weariness, looking haggard from a lack of sleep. Despite that, Ford gave McGucket’s shoulder’s another insistent squeeze, eyes pleading for him to let the matter drop.

“Look,” he sighed, stepping out of his employer’s grip and gently guiding him towards the doorway, “Why don’t ya go shower or somethin’ and I’ll get started on gettin’ all this cleaned up. Then I can look over those blueprints, ‘kay?”

Stanford opened his mouth as though he intended to argue, but a thoughtful expression crossed his face and he gave a reluctant nod in agreement. “That’s probably a good idea.”

He trudged out of the kitchen, the burst of energy he’d exhibited earlier seeming to have left him, and headed towards the stairwell. As Fiddleford heard the echoes of footsteps plodding their way up to the second floor, he collected the old, stained newspapers from the kitchen table and tossed them absently into the trash. He shot a weary look at the filthy dishes still piled in the sink, briefly debating on starting them now before deciding against it.

With a low sigh, Fiddleford trudged out of the kitchen, back the way he came, gathering any loose papers that didn’t appear to still be in use before setting them aside to be discarded later. He took a moment to review his handy work before returning to the bio-study, gathering the mugs he hadn’t managed to carry before depositing them near the sink.

Upstairs, the sound of the groaning pipes and the shower running resounded through the house.

McGucket continued to work, rearranging the chaotic mess into more manageable stacks until he eventually heard the shower turn off, Stanford’s heavy, lumbering steps reverberating from the second floor as he continued to prepare for the rest of the day. Fiddleford peeked around the hall and caught a glimpse Ford passing by from the foot of stairwell, evidentially having changed into a fresher set of clothes but still wearing the same trench coat he’d woken up in. Though McGucket rolled his eyes, he couldn’t quite keep an amused smile from passing over his face.

Absently, Fiddleford checked the calendar hanging in the entry hall, only to find that it was still on the January page. He flipped through the pages, searching for the correct one. But after a few tries he realized that April was evidently missing, with only the illustrated image (a cartoon √-1 saying “let’s be rational” and a cartoon π responding “get real,” both furiously scribbled out) for the month left in its wake. The rest of the page where the current dates would’ve been had been curiously torn out – the jagged teeth where the paper was ripped the only evidence of the page left behind.

Fiddleford frowned. “Did ya have some sort of disagreement with yer calendar here, Pines?”

“Hm?” Stanford peered around the corner from the top of the stairs, hair damp and toothbrush pressed firmly into his cheek and excess toothpaste dribbling from the corners of his mouth. His curious gaze followed Fiddleford’s arm up to the hand still holding the shredded remnants of the April page. Interest drained from his face in an instant, toothbrush slipping out as he paused to wipe his face on the back of his hand.

“Oh,” he said flatly, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s nothing. I needed something to write on, so I grabbed the first writable surface I saw.”

Fiddleford gave a skeptical frown at that, turning back to the ruined calendar. There was a notepad on the side table directly below it, beside his rotary phone. It was even open to a page with a hastily written note regarding what appeared to be the beginning of a rather strongly worded letter to the Gravity Falls Library regarding their apparently staggering fees for overdue library books.

A curt smack against his back startled Fiddleford from his thoughts. His glasses nearly fell off his face, hands scrambling and managing to catch them before they could tumble to the ground. He shot a withering glare at Stanford, still looking tired and frumpy but more put together now, over his shoulder. His employer didn't seem to notice, adjusting a new tie with his other hand.

“Come along, McGucket,” Stanford ordered, giving Fiddleford another mild pat on the back as he walked by. “We’re behind schedule.”

Ford hurried out the door, already busying himself with a pile of notes he’d briskly scooped off one of his work areas. McGucket stood alone in the vacant hallway, staring at the empty doorway Stanford had disappeared through. With a tired sigh, Fiddleford followed him back towards the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he readied himself to start cleaning.

The shredded calendar page was left forgotten on the wall.

Whatever was eating at Stanford seemed to settle somewhat by the time they'd finished tidying up the kitchen and labs.

The tension Fiddleford had noticed built up in his companion’s shoulders and back lessened as they continued to work, the troubled lines of his brows and the corners of his mouth smoothing away. By the time noon had rolled around, Ford was back to his usual self, excitedly showing him the progress he had made on their experiment when McGucket had been away.

The morning’s incident remained unacknowledged, Stanford carrying on throughout his usual daily routines as though nothing unusual had happened at all. McGucket decided to let that go for now, there was no sense pushing anything if Stanford wasn't willing to bring it up.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, back to back as they tended to their respective computations. Fiddleford sat with the stack of equations he’d found in the bio-study, knee bouncing with an excitable energy, and compared them with the previous drafts of their blueprints and layouts and making note of where modifications would be needed to compensate. Whenever he finished with one set he would put them aside for Stanford to look over, the two of them checking and quadruple checking each other's calculations. Occasionally, one would glide across the room to the other with revised blueprints to look over and changes to assess, never once leaving their chairs, but otherwise they were content to stay in their own workspaces.

“How’s it looking on your end, McGucket?” Ford inquired, gliding his way over to Fiddleford’s end of the room to steal a peek over his assistant’s shoulder.

“Y’all weren’t kiddin’ when ya said ya made progress, Pines. I’ll give ya that,” McGucket conceded, holding the heap of edits he’d already completed out to his boss. “I think we’re gonna hafta to rework some of the wiring we’ve already done to match these adjustments, but it shouldn’t be too big of a set back.”

“I figured as much,” Stanford responded plainly, glancing over one of Fiddleford’s revised drafts. He slunk back to his own desk, taking the layouts with him. “We’ll probably need to raid the CSO for more materials soon too.”

Fiddleford gave an absent hum of agreement, jotting it down in margin of his notes. The Temporal Displacement Hyper-drive they had acquired from their previous expedition of the spacecraft was more than a sufficient catalyst for the device, but they were finding that their current equipment wouldn’t be powerful enough to handle the influx of energy required to operate it. With the equipment they had now becoming increasingly heavier and more cumbersome for the two of them to transport alone, they would probably need to hire some muscle when the time came to install the heavier machinery. But Fiddleford supposed that they would cross that bridge when they got to it.

(Right below his list, he added a note to himself to bring some sort of weapon on their next expedition. Heaven knew of the kind of foul creatures lurked in those woods. An involuntary shudder ran through him at the thought.)

He slid in his chair to the other end of his desk, scribbling a few extra additions to the blueprints of their project to accommodate the changes before sliding back to his own workspace. He caught sight of the photograph sitting at his workbench. His wife and young son Tate grinned up at him from the picture. Fiddleford found himself smiling weakly back, running his thumb tenderly along the frame.

The Missus hadn't been too happy when he'd told her how long he could be gone for, or that he was going to be leaving at all, but she'd given him a kiss goodbye when he’d left. It pained him to leave too, little Tate having just celebrated his eighth birthday a few weeks before Stanford had called, but they’d agreed that it was for the best in the end. Stanford Pines was certainly a trustworthy companion after all. Though Fiddleford had been a out of school for a few years and only recently engaged when he’d first met Ford, he had often stopped by the McGucket residence to discuss various theories with Fiddleford as they bounced ideas off one another. He’d practically become part of the family since then, his wife and son taking just as much enjoyment from Stanford’s company whenever he came to visit.

Money had also been a little tight at the time, and Ford’s offer was awfully generous. The personal computer business was a little slow starting at the moment, but Fiddleford was sure that it would catch on soon. Once he got his prototype fully operational, he was certain he’d have product that could do some real good for people. Besides, it wasn’t like Fiddleford would be gone forever. Once his and Stanford’s project was complete, he little would be back with his dear wife and little Tater-Tot before either of them could say “sweet sarsaparilla.”

(He kept forgetting to call her lately; ever since she'd arrived at his front door and dropped Tate off to live with him from now on. He couldn’t seem to recall why she’d left Tate with him either, but he was fairly sure that it must’ve been for a good reason. He really needed to leave a reminder for himself to call her soon. He hoped she was doing okay.)

“McGucket?”

Fiddleford blinked, startled from his thoughts, spinning his chair around to face his employer. Stanford was giving him a befuddled look, eyes darting briefly to the photo of Fiddleford’s family over his shoulder.

Coughing uncomfortably, he held up a copy of the latest draft of the project. “Calculations?”

“Oh!” Fiddleford gasped, sliding over to Stanford’s side of the lab. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that. Let's have a look-see.”

He took the latest draft of blueprints and flattened them across Ford’s desk, standing up from his chair to take in the design in its entirety.

It would be a substantial machine, a marvel of construction and engineering. The stabilizers would be placed on the ceiling and floor at the center of the room, allowing for a free-flow of enough energy to power the device. They'd revised the main body into a triangle (“For stability,” Ford reasoned) with a large hole where the entryway would lie at the heart of it. Star symbols were aligned around it, separated into even sections of the outer disk. Coordinates to destinations, if McGucket had to guess, though Stanford had been rather enigmatic when he had asked what they meant.

He had to admit, it would certainly be a sight to behold when it was finally finished. Whether it would work was another question entirely however.

Fiddleford let out a low, impressed whistle. “I gotta say Pines, if this works it’ll be yer best invention yet. It could very well change our understandin’ of the entire universe as we know it.”

“It’ll do more than that, my friend,” Stanford declared, smoothing his hand over line work of the portal’s main body. “If this portal succeeds, it could crack the doors to answering all of humankind’s biggest questions wide open. Just think: this could be the key to unlocking advanced space travel, teleportation, new developments in the field of quantum mechanics, maybe even bring us closer to learning the origin of the universe – the multi-verse – and. Whole new frontier of science to explore - and we will be right at the helm of it!”

He turned to McGucket, a confident smirk painted across his face. “The Forefathers of Multi-Dimensional Theory has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

Fiddleford shot him an uncertain look, studying his copy of the blueprints overlooking the latest design for a little longer. Its large, inverted triangle body would likely take up most of the space in Stanford's basement to construct, what groundwork they'd already laid out occupied most of the basement, with the circle in the center where the portal’s entrance would be placed likely to dwarf an average-sized person. In the far corner of the sketch was a depiction of the Beta Test, a crash dummy tied to a rope being tossed through artificial tear in space.

“Ya really think we could find another dimension?”

Stanford gave him an inscrutable grin. “I know so.”

Fiddleford’s brow furrowed.

A familiar feeling of suspicion twisted inside of Fiddleford at the pure, unwavering confidence in his tone. It made him wonder what Stanford knew that he didn't some days.

“Well,” he said, returning to his desk, “Let's not get too caught up in the excitement. It might take a few tries to get it right, ya know.”

Stanford's expression hardened. “It’ll work. It has to.”

Fiddleford shrugged. “I’m just, sayin’ is all. Remember what Edison said ‘bout the light bulb: he found a hundred ways not to make a light bulb before he found the way that worked.”

“Edison was a thieving scoundrel who rode on the backs of better men’s successes!”

Fiddleford shot Stanford a questioning look. Ford didn't elaborate though, gaze seemingly fixed stubbornly on his worktable. His expression was a strange mix of abject ire and doubt. Fiddleford wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, an uncomfortable sense of being out of depth overtaking him the longer he remained at Stanford’s side.

“Should probably finish quadruple-checkin’ this math,” McGucket mumbled after a moment, inching himself away from Ford’s workspace.

Stanford didn't answer, staring down at his latest designs. His pen tapped lazily against the paper, leaving stipples of ink along the edge. Fiddleford swerved around, returning to the equation he'd been checking previously.

“Did you ever hear stories about the Bermuda triangle, McGucket?”

Fiddleford looked up at that, swiveling in his seat to peer over his shoulder. Stanford was still facing away from him, fingers now laced under his chin and leaning back in his chair.

“I reckon everyone has,” he replied slowly, pen making meandering patterns in the margins of his blueprints.

Stanford nodded, shifting as he leaned back in his seat.

“When I was growing up,” he began slowly. His words were laced with an almost nostalgic softness. “I read about it all the time. There was a book dedicated to the subject at the local library. I used to borrow it every summer just so I could read it again. My favorite sections were the ones that covered strange phenomena.”

Ford looked down to his hands, his twelve digits curling self-consciously into his palms.

“A lot of legends have cropped up from those disappearances: Alien abductions, evil spirits, some even just falling into a rip in space time and ending up in a whole new place entirely. When I was a bit younger, I liked to think those people were chosen to vanish – like they were destined for something bigger.”

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“All childish daydreams, obviously,” he amended quickly, seeming to sense his assistant’s discomfort. “But still: Maybe there was a reason they all vanished.”

Fiddleford didn't answer, shifting worriedly in his seat as he stared at Stanford’s turned back.

“Just think,” he murmured, almost reverently, “There have been cases of disappearances all throughout human history, spanning over the course of centuries, that couldn’t be explained. We could be holding the key to solving all of them right in the palm of our hands.”

He sat back in his chair, the backrest creaking slightly under his weight.

“Maybe we’ll finally know where those people had gone.”

Stanford didn't say any more, staring wistfully somewhere off in the distance.

Fiddleford turned back to his bench, the scattered pages of sketches and equations glaring back at him. He glanced up of the photograph once more, his beloved wife and son smiling back at him, willing it to give him strength.

They worked in silence once again, but all sense of comfort had left it.

A crick had formed in Fiddleford’s lower spine by the time he’d finished, sitting back in his chair to massage his store muscles. One glance at the clock showed that it had been roughly two hours since they'd started, the late afternoon sun casting deep shadows against the Rees outside. Fiddleford let out inaudible groan at that - he wouldn't need to be home for Tate for at least several hours, but there seemed to be very little he could occupy himself with today.

Curiosity and boredom eventually getting the better of him, he glanced over his shoulder to Stanford, finding him still working tirelessly away at his own notes, a new batch of crumpled papers piling in his wastebasket. He muttered a string of colorful curses under his breath before tearing another page from his notebook with a frustrated huff and adding it to the other discarded notes.

“Stanford? How ‘bout ya take a break.”

“Not now,” Ford asserted, ripping another page from his notebook with more force than necessary. He crumpled into a tight ball, tossing it over his shoulder where landed near Fiddleford's desk. “I've almost got it.”

Fiddleford’s brow furrowed, picking up the discarded sheet, carefully un-crumpling the wad to take a closer look. Equations he'd seen Stanford solve at least a dozen times before were scattered in the margin - furiously scratched out and all of them wrong.

“Ya haven’t stopped since I got here though,” Fiddleford protested quietly, turning to glance out the window. “At least take a break for-”

“I said I’m fine!”

A loud bang resounded throughout the room, nearly startling Fiddleford out of his skin. He whipped around, some of his documents fluttering to the floor; a hand clutching at his chest as though that would stop his heart from racing.

Ford had stood up from his seat, his chair having been shoved violently to one side when he'd burst from it. His shoulders bristled with irritation, the trembling muscles of his back just barely visible under his tan coat. His hands were clenched into tight fists against his desk, the papers that had been beneath them now crushed between his fingers. Stanford slowly turned to face Fiddleford, his face a storm of frustration and fatigue, mouth open like he was prepared to snap at his assistant some more.

But the rage appeared to melt away when Ford’s eyes met McGucket’s own, softening to something more weary than truly angry.

“Sorry,” he croaked, quickly bending down to pick up some of Fiddleford’s lost papers. “I suppose it has been a… troubling day.”

He sluggishly sank back into his seat, pressing his hands under his glasses to rub at his eyes. Whatever he’d been doing over the weekend was unmistakably taking its toll on him, the slump of his shoulders more prominent than before. Sympathy welled up in Fiddleford as he regarded his boss, mind wrangling to think of something to say.

“Hey,” Fiddleford said before he could stop himself. He silently cursed himself for speaking up, struggling to think of a follow-through. There seemed very little he could offer Stanford as comfort when all he ever seemed to want was to burrow into his work like a hibernating animal hiding away from a harsh winter.

Stanford shot him a curious glance, face looking caught between looking to exasperated to deal with anything else but too tired to really put up a fight. Whatever intent McGucket had of backing out died away then; and, with a resigned sigh, Fiddleford leveled his boss with a sincere, reassuring smile.

“How about we do a little field work? I don't hafta get home for Tate’s babysitter for another few hours. And I bet ya got a few things out in the woods ya wanna take look at.”

Stanford’s eyes widened in surprise, gaze dropping to stare contemplatively at the floor. He didn't say anything for a while, seeming to be at war with himself. As the seconds stretched on Fiddleford debated telling Ford to forget that he'd even offered. But before he could Stanford looked back to him, exhaustion again etched into his features but his smile more genuine than any of the ones he had given that day.

“I think I’d like that.”

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Fiddleford wheezed an hour later, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve. He plopped himself down on a nearby stump, still struggling to catch his breath. “Robotic legs: They’re gonna be the next big thing, just you wait!”

“Bah, nonsense,” Stanford huffed, looking frustratingly unperturbed by the trek. “Fancy gizmos are all well and good, but nothing can ever truly top the efficiency of good old-fashioned hard work. The ingenuity and endurance of the human spirit can’t simply be replicated in the form of a machine. Just look at me.”

“Didn’t ya flunk gym in high school?”

There was a long pause.

“Anyways,” Ford continued, bending down to pat at the earth. Puffs of a glittery powder rose up beneath his fingertips. “The trail’s fresh. The migration grounds of the Faux Pas Pixies must be close by. We should catch up with them in the next hour or so at this rate. Let’s take care to avoid being spotted when we find them though – they’re exceedingly rude.”

“Well,” Fiddleford huffed, standing up, “We better find the lil’ critters soon or else I’m gonna-”

The ground jumped up to meet McGucket, colliding face-first with the patchy earth.

He sputtered, blades of crab grass stuck to his tongue, lips curling with disgust at the bitter taste it left in his mouth. Still spitting out the last remnants of dirt, Fiddleford pushed himself onto his elbows as he struggled to regain his bearings.

Stanford was kneeling over him, trying to look concerned but his barely-contained smile ruining his efforts.

“Are you okay?” He asked, mouth breaking into a full-blown grin.

Fiddleford huffed back in response, leveling his boss with a sharp but toothless glare as he moved to stand. Something pulled him back however, a sharp tug that held his leg firmly in place and made him fall back onto his stomach. An unyielding pressure remained clamped snugly around his ankle, holding him in place. Turning around with some effort, he peered over his shoulder to find that his foot was caught in a hole, previously hidden by the surrounding grass.

“My foot’s stuck,” he declared with a grunt, turning around fully. His ankle twisted within the small burrow feeling the end of his shoe scraping along its muddy walls. He winced, the muscles in his ankle and foot protesting at the position, but he eventually repositioned his body enough that he was facing the pit holding him in place.

The hole was a small, narrow gap, the mouth of which was halfway under the stump he'd been sitting on. It was barely an inch wider than the diameter of his ankle, allowing little wiggle room when he tugged experimentally at his leg. Annoyed, Fiddleford tried to move his foot in an effort to dislodge it, but the stump above it prove to be a barrier when the tip of his shoe was stopped by a tangle of roots.

“Here,” Ford interjected, crawling over to push some of the grass out of the way. “Let me try.”

He pushed at the earth around the mouth of the gap’s opening, testing its firmness.

“You’re really stuck tight,” Stanford commented when he pulled away, pushing himself onto his haunches to take in the full scene. “This might take a little more than just elbow grease. You're lucky you didn't sprain something.”

“Knowin’ my luck,” Fiddleford snorted, rolling up his pant leg to inspect the area better. “This’ll turn out to be a burrow for some sorta, I don’t know, Flesh-Eatin’ Mole People.”

Stanford seemed to honestly hesitate at that, adjusting his glasses to examine the tiny den that his assistant’s foot was trapped in. Fiddleford’s smile died in an instant.

“Stanford,” he ventured, eying his ankle warily. “I was just kiddin’ ‘bout the Mole People remark. That ain’t really a thing, right?”

Ford didn’t respond immediately, leaning in close to examine the area where Fiddleford’s foot remained trapped. Fiddleford squirmed, tugging his leg nervously. It still wouldn’t budge.

“Stanford,” he fretted, mild panic creeping into his tone. “Stanford, please tell me Flesh Eatin’ Mole People ain’t real.”

McGucket could feel his heart rate steadily increase in longer the silence persisted. He wondered briefly if this is what being a critter trapped in a snare felt like.

“You’re fine,” Stanford declared at last, sitting back on his knees.

Fiddleford sighed, the tension that had been coiling in him steadily unwinding.

“Wait,” Stanford blurted out, holding up a hand in pause. McGucket’s heart leapt into his throat, alarm skyrocketing through his veins as Stanford looked over his leg once again.

“Yeah, you’re fine.” Ford declared again, leaning over to push at the earth around the whole.

“Ya sure?” Fiddleford gulped, examining his leg again nervously. “Ya still ain't given me the rundown on whether Mole People are real or not.”

“No, no you’re fine. I’m,” Stanford paused, giving Fiddleford’s foot another once-over, “Eighty-five percent certain this is just an ordinary rabbit warren. Probably a year old from the looks of it.”

“Eighty fi- what the heck’s the other 15% then?!”

“This soil is pretty loose,” Ford commented, rubbing at this chin thoughtfully. “I think with enough pressure it should give way.”

“Ford, that ain’t an answer!”

“I think I got it,” Ford continued on, Fiddleford’s shrill protests markedly falling onto deaf ears. Stanford reached down and wiggled his forefinger and two middle fingers between his assistant's leg and the widest part of the burrow, digging at the mouth of the pit. Fiddleford winced at the motion, the pressure digging uncomfortably into his ankle and leg, but after a moment he could feel the hole give a little under the motion, his foot shifting a few centimeters.

“That’s it,” Ford huffed, pushing a little harder, “Just a little further, and…”

The earth around Fiddleford's ankle gave way completely. His foot pulled free in a burst of stray grass and dirt clods, the sudden lack of restraint making him topple over in the process. He looked down at his argyle sock-covered foot, soil caked onto the fabric, and glanced back at the gap his foot had occupied. The heel of his shoe was poking just above the entrance, the toe caught on the rim of the tree stump.

“Well,” Ford chuckled, reaching into the hole to retrieve it. He tossed the dusty loafer to Fiddleford, “I almost got it.”

Fiddleford caught his shoe with a light oomph as it struck his chest, shooting Stanford a look of mild annoyance.

“Hmph,” he grumbled, hopping on one leg like a jumping bean as he struggled to slip the shoe back on his sock-covered foot. “Sure hope we're as close to yer dang fairy folk as ya say, Pines. I've ‘bout had it up to here-” - he held his free hand up to neck level - “-with this place.”

Ford chuckled again, preparing to push himself to his feet. “Well, as soon as we get back I'll let you play your banjo after eight o’ clock if you…”

His words trailed off, glancing back down to the crevice that had formed at the base of the stump. Slowly, Ford dropped back to his knees, reaching his hands to the gaping opening. Pushing against the walls of the burrow, he began to widen the mouth of the opening.

“Uh, Stanford,” McGucket implored, still lacing up his loafer, “Ain't we gonna miss the-”

“Hold on,” Ford cut in, digging his fingers deep into the moistened dirt. “I think I found something.”

He began pushing away the moist earth in large, clumsy handfuls. Fiddleford crouched beside him, helping to brush the excess dirt piling around them. Glittering gold began to emerge from beneath the layers of muddy earth and stray roots, the outline of a hard, semi-round object taking shape the more they uncovered.

“What is it?” Fiddleford asked, adjusting his spectacles as he leaned over for a closer look.

“Not sure,” Ford replied, reaching into his coat and brandishing one of his fountain pens. He took the butt of the pen and stuck it into the hole he and Fiddleford had made, using it for leverage and heedfully pushing the object to the surface.

The strange gold thing freed itself from its lodgings, leaving a hollow cavity where it had been resting. Ford retrieved the object, brushing away the moist dirt that hugged its surface with his thumbs.

“Gold teeth?” Stanford pondered aloud, adjusting his spectacles as he leaned in to examine them better. “What are they doing all the way out here?”

“Bits of a statue?” McGucket suggested, “Or maybe the remains of some sorta burial site?”

“Perhaps,” Ford mused, scraping away at the dirt. More hints of gold were shining from the pocket where the pair of teeth had been excavated. “Though there doesn’t seem to be anything else buried here – just more of these dentures.”

Up close, the teeth were remarkably life-like; the small grooves of each tooth fitting perfectly into sets of molded gums, as though they'd taken someone’s real teeth and coated them in gold. They felt heavy in his hands when Fiddleford picked up a pair, like a singular hunk of metal, yet their surface was so seamless like they had molded from molten gold. He set the dentures to carefully unearth the next set of teeth.

“Who do ya reckon would bury a bunch of gold teeth out in the middle o’nowhere?”

“Not sure,” Ford replied, reaching into his coat to pull out his travel canteen. Pulling off the cap with his mouth, he drizzled water over the pair of dentures he was holding, washing away any remaining dirt. “But that’s what we’re going to find out.”

With a satisfied nod, he shook the teeth off one last time before holding them out to McGucket. “Here, put these in your mouth.”

Fiddleford blinked. “Pardon?”

“Put them in your mouth,” Stanford repeated, holding the gold teeth out to him expectantly. “I want to document any possible magical properties.”

“Now, hold on,” McGucket protested, pushing the dentures away from him. “I ain’t gonna stuff any ol’ – possibly magic – junk straight into my mouth willy-nilly. We don’t even know where those have been!”

“Sure we do, they were in this hole.”

Fiddleford could feel a headache forming.

“Point is,” Fiddleford tried, “If those teeth are magic, they were probably buried all the way out here for a very good reason and we best not be messin’ with ‘em.”

“Oh come now, McGucket,” Ford pressed, “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Y’all ain't payin’ me for a ‘sense of adventure,’-” he put the phrase in air quotes “-yer payin’ for my mechanical expertise. So unless ya was a start workin’ on some sorta high-powered super dentures for old folks, or ya want to fetch some that alien squiggle-cow’s milk, or make some forever-lastin’ chewin’ tobacco, ya ain’t puttin’ any dubiously enchanted anythin’ in my dang mouth!”

“All right, all right,” Ford conceded, reaching into his coat once more. He pulled out a spare spiral notebook and offered it to him. “How about this: I’ll test out the teeth so long as you help me document the results. Sound reasonable?”

Fiddleford eyed the notebook, the corners of his mouth turning downwards into a grimace. He shot Ford another look, who met McGucket’s skeptical expression with an eager smile. Fiddleford sighed.

“Okay,” he muttered, begrudgingly taking the notebook from Stanford. “But if ya put ‘em on and turn into some sorta monster, I’m leavin’ ya here.”

Stanford chuckled, “Duly noted.”

He wasted no time slipping the teeth into his mouth, pushing back his gums and slotting them in place. There was a prominent bulge beneath his lips where the dentures were, but if they were uncomfortable Stanford showed no signs of it.

“They fit right over my regular teeth,” Ford commented, his words only slightly muddled by the obstruction. He held up his canteen, baring his teeth to examine them in his reflection. They gleamed brightly in his mouth, the gold tint bouncing off his lips and parts of his face.

“Feelin’ any different?” Fiddleford asked, already dashing down a few observations. He rolled back onto the balls of his feet, pushing himself into a squatting position in case he needed to run.

“Not really,” Ford admitted, “Maybe a little tingly, but that might just be from all the coffee I had before we left.”

“Ya really outta cut back on the caffeine, Pines,” McGucket commented, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Can’t be healthy to be drinkin’ as much coffee as you do.”

“I’ll have you know that the amount of coffee I ingest is the perfect amount for how much work I do,” Stanford retorted, “How am I supposed to get anything done if I’m wasting time on useless things like sleep?”

McGucket’s brow furrowed perplexedly at that, glancing up from his own notes to level Ford with a befuddled look.

“Besides, my caffeine intake is certainly better than your chewing tobacco habit. Not to mention those awful molasses flavored popsicles you insisted on making last week.”

Fiddleford's pen scrawled to a halt.

“And just what exactly was wrong with my popsicles?”

“They were sticky, unwieldy things that were so sweet they made my teeth itch,” Stanford responded instantly, “I fed the rest of mine to a gnome when you weren’t looking and told you I’d finished it.”

Ford’s jaw clicked shut, eyes widening in surprise. His eyes met Fiddleford’s disconcerted stare, a smile spreading across his face.

“Truth-telling teeth,” Ford declared with an awestruck giddiness, fingers tracing lightly over their bumpy gold surface. “Incredible!”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford fumed, “Just peachy.”

Stanford didn’t seem to hear him, his pen scrawling hurriedly across the open page in his journal. Words tumbled excitedly from his lips as he spoke, the delighted grin never laving his face.

“These could be easily be a replacement for any polygraph test when it comes to revealing deception. Of course I’ll probably run a few more tests after this, but I’m sure the judicial system would benefit from teeth like these, though I’m sure there’s people would find them useful in just there daily lives.”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford affirmed, “I’d love to find out what happened to my Cubik’s Cube.”

“Oh, that was me,” Stanford confessed with the tone he usually reserved for explaining his latest theories and discoveries. “I took it when you weren’t looking to see if I could render it unsolvable. Which I did – I switched two of the stickers – because I thought it would be funny to see the look on your face when you found it but couldn’t solve it. Are you documenting this, McGucket?”

“Yeeeep,” Fiddleford muttered, sitting back to look over his notes.

Magic Gold Teeth:

Filthy/Unsanitary; were in the ground

People who wear them are unable to lie

Makes Stanford a big ger jerk

jerk Hide Cubik’s Cubes

“Got it all down.”

“Oh, good,” Ford replied absently, interest already shifted to another pair of teeth he’d set on the stump before him, sketching them down on a blank page of his journal. “I’ll look them over back home. I probably won’t need them though, I’m certain mine will be more than sufficient. No offense, of course.”

Fiddleford glared at Stanford’s turned back. He quickly revised his previous note.

Makes Stanford a bigger jerk the biggest jerk

“Well, so long as we’re testin’ some magical truth-tellin’ teeth,” Fiddleford proposed, “Ya wouldn’t happen to know what happened to my Schmez dispenser, would ya Pines?”

“Oh, I lost that way back when we were still constructing the bunker,” Ford replied, a little too chipper for Fiddleford’s liking. It was hard to tell if that was a result of the teeth in his mouth however. “But I didn’t tell you because I figured I could just replace it later. But then I never got around to doing that because I tend to lose sight of things that aren’t relevant to research, so I just swept the whole thing under the rug like I usually do because that was easier.”

He paused, glancing down at McGucket still transcribing onto the notebook. “M-maybe don’t write that one down.”

McGucket couldn’t help but smirk, jotting onto the page:

Stole my Schmez dispenser (I knew it!)

“Would certainly have been interesting to see what my mother would bee like under the influence of these,” Ford commented absently, pulling back his upper lip to examine the place where the dentures overlapped his gums. “My brother too.”

The last part seemed to take Ford by surprise, as though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He set his canteen down, quickly returning to scribbling in his journal. He wouldn’t look Fiddleford in the eye.

McGucket cleared his throat.

“So do ya feel any different wearin’ them,” Fiddleford asked, going back to his own notebook. “I mean, can ya tell that somethin’ is makin’ ya be honest?”

“Not particularly,” Stanford replied promptly, blowing lightly on the ink of his latest sketch. He sat back for a moment to assess his work. “It’s more reminiscent of no longer having a brain-to-mouth filter. Or when you say something that seems like a good idea to say at the time that you immediately regret afterwards. Kind of like what I did just now.”

Stanford paused; a fleeting, troubled frown passed across his face.

“Although the teeth don’t appear to differentiate between lies and omissions,” he added, quickly crossing out a few lines from his entry. “They seem to induce total honesty across the board. That could be troublesome – people tend to have their reasons for lying by omission after all.”

Fiddleford nodded, writing the information down.

“Of course, I might not be the best person to gage that sort of thing,” Stanford continued, running a pen lazily over the part in his journal that he’d scribbled out. “I tend to hide from others more than most people. I’ve tried to avoid dwelling on most things – ever since I left home for school.”

Fiddleford's pen nearly ran of the edge of his page. He glanced up, leveling Ford with a look of bewilderment, the worried feeling he'd gotten at the house once again pooling in his gut. Stanford looked equally concerned by the confession, fingers pressed to his lips as if that would retroactively prevent his mouth from speaking.

“I-I suppose that I might be extremely fatigued too,” Ford admitted after a moment, the gold teeth practically radiating in his mouth when he flashed Fiddleford a weak smile. “I’ve been trying to keep myself constantly busy so that I don’t have time to think about anything but my research lately.”

Fiddleford’s eyes widened. “What for?”

“Because today’s the same day that Stan-”

Ford’s hands flew to his face, clasping over his mouth in an effort to silence himself before he could say any more. But words continued to spill forth, only muffled by the insistent press of his hands as Stanford’s expression became increasingly disconcerted the longer he spoke. Fiddleford yelped, but Stanford had already begun wrenching the teeth from his mouth before he could move to help him. His fingers scrambled to pry out the gold dentures, hurling them to the ground when they were finally out. They tumbled across the grass and dirt, chattering like a pair of Summerween gag-teeth as they rolled, before stopping just short of where Fiddleford was kneeling.

Stanford stared down at them, looking as though he were trying to burn holes into their golden surface. His hands were clenched into tight fists, shoulders heaving in time with his heavy pants. Gradually, his posture relaxed, easing down until his arms hung limply at his sides. After a few moments, his gaze drifted up to meet Fiddleford's, expression uneasy and tense but quickly shuttering into something more controlled. He slowly moved to pick up his discarded journal, scanning over the entry he’d made for the teeth.

“We should head back now,” Ford said at last, “It’s getting late, and I still have a lot of specimens to document back at the lab.”

McGucket watched dumbly as Stanford snapped his journal shut, tucking it and his fountain pen into his front coat pocket before gathering up the rest of his belongings. His senses returned to him when Stanford stood, picking up the discarded gold teeth and holding them up to his companion questioningly. “What ‘bout the-”

“Leave them!” Stanford interjected, a little too quickly to keep the waspish tone from his voice. A mix of surprise and frustration briefly passed over his face at the slip-up, but shuttered back to something more neutral with a deep breath. “Leave them. I have all the data I need for now.”

He promptly stood up; journal tucked under one arm and swiftly headed back the way they came. Fiddleford watched as his employer disappeared into the trees, stray branches and bushes rustling as he pushed his way back to the path they’d come. Taking one last glance at the strange teeth seemingly grinning up at him, Fiddleford pushed his way through the brush and back towards the house.

Stanford was nowhere to be seen by the time McGucket returned to the house. The door was unlocked, but the lights were off, the blinds tightly shut. His belongings were left at the front door, coat and bag carelessly discarded on the floor as though Ford had tossed them aside as soon as he’d set foot in the house.

But Fiddleford did find a note this time, taped on the door that lead to the basement and written in Stanford’s telltale cursive:

McGucket,

Went down to my study. Call me up if there’s an emergency.

- Stanford



Fiddleford had opted to let him be then, hoping a little time alone would allow him to cool his head for a bit. He pulled out the prototype he’d brought with him, opening up the back to tinker with some of the wiring, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. It was well past dark when Fiddleford finally gave in and peeked down the basement steps again, checking for any signs that Ford might be surfacing soon. But the basement door was still tightly shut.

Tate’s babysitter for the night would be expecting him to be home right about now. He’d told her that he didn’t expect to be working late tonight.

With a weary sigh, McGucket trudged over to the wall phone that was hanging in the kitchen.

“I’m awful sorry this is on such short notice, Susan.” Fiddleford said, twirling the phone cord nervously. “I really didn’t expect this to be such a late night.”

“Aww, it’s no problem McGucket,” Susan’s cheerful voice rang through the receiver. “Nothing’s gonna blow up over there, I hope?”

“No, it’s nothin’ like that.” He switched the receiver to his other ear as he glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the basement. “Work took an unexpected turn, is all. I just gotta look into somethin’ real quick before I start headin’ home.”

“You just take your time, hun,” she replied. “Tate over here has just been a sweetheart.”

“That's good,” Fiddleford mumbled, still fidgeting with the phone cord, “He ain't too mad that I gotta work late again, is he?”

“Nah, of course not,” she cooed. He could just imagine her waving a hand dismissively. “He knows you get busy. He talks about you all the time.”

Though Fiddleford sighed with relief, he could still feel the guilt pooling in his gut.

“Really, I can't thank y’all enough.”

“It's no trouble at all,” Susan reassured him, “You just work on your thingamahoozits with your mysterious science friend. We’ll be fine.”

“Yer an angel Sue,” He said, untangling his fingers from the phone cord. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Speaking of your mysterious science friend,” she said, voice taking on a coy tone. “You plan on introducing us any time soon? I would love to see what you two get up to over in that spooky lab of yours. Give a gal the grand tour!”

Fiddleford smiled weakly, slumping against the doorframe with only mild exasperation.

“Ya know I can’t do that, Sue.”

“Come oooon, I can keep a secret!” She said excitedly, static garbling her voice with the rise in volume. “Heck, there was this one time I caught Toby Determined – ing… in the… with a… and – never told a soul! I mean, I just told you, but-”

Fiddleford smiled. “G’night Sue, see ya in a bit.”

“… Or, oh! What about that time when-”

“G’night Sue,” he repeated, more firmly this time, but he couldn’t stop the low, amused chuckle that left him. Hanging up, he let his hand linger on the receiver for a moment longer, gathering the nerve to finally pull away from the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, McGucket turned and made his way over to the basement door.

“Stanford?”

His voice echoed down the stairwell, the wooden steps creaking under his feet as he wandered his way down to the basement. Florescent lights lined the stairwell, painting the corridor with a faint blue-green glow. They always made the journey down below feel much more sinister, in Fiddleford’s opinion, but he pushed on. He kept a knuckle-white grip on the handrail as he descended, the uneasy feeling that had been swirling deep inside of him from the moment he’d stepped through the door reaching its peak.

McGucket stopped in front of the elevator, opening the control panel beside the heavy metal doors.

It ain't too late to turn around, Fiddleford told himself, hand hovering over the keypad. He could go home right now, relieve Susan early and spend the rest of the evening with little Tate before tucking him in bed. Stanford would get whatever it was that was eating him up so badly out of his system, and by the time Fiddleford came to work the next morning he'd be his usual, off-kilter but eager self. They could let the incident in the woods fade out of their memory and simply be water under the bridge.

It would be like it never happened at all.

Fiddleford stood before the doors for a while longer, the thought of leaving churning over and over in his head. But, he sighed; he supposed that his mind had been made up the moment he’d come down the steps.

(Maybe his mind had been made up since that fateful day Stanford had called and asked him to come work for him up in Oregon.)

Stanford usually accessed his private study through the controller he'd designed on his wrist, but he'd given McGucket the override codes soon after he'd begun working. Meticulously, Fiddleford punched in the combination and pressed the button for the second floor. The elevator hummed to life, jerking into motion as it began its descent. It came to a halt before a large, mahogany door with gold trimming, left slightly ajar with the murky blackness that rested on the other side creeping through. The door creaked when McGucket pushed at it, opening up the room to him.

Stepping out of the elevator, Fiddleford was met with mostly darkness. Blobby shadows of objects piled on nearby shelves and tables filled his field of vision like towering, decaying pillars. Strange little objects that Ford had accumulated over the course of his studies lined the walls, nested between shelves of books and various pieces of equipment. An open book rested on a desk tucked into a small nook amongst Stanford’s collection of curiosities, the chair pushed out as though his boss had stood up and left abruptly. A spiral staircase was tucked into far corner of the room, disappearing into the murky darkness. There was a glimmer of light at the far end of the room, emanating just around the corner and leading to the section of the room that Stanford claimed he reserved for meditation.

Fiddleford gulped, legs trembling as he ventured further inside.

“Stanford?” McGucket uttered again, keeping his voice just above a whisper. He wiped his palms against his pant legs, leaving a thin sheet of sweat on the fabric. “I was thinkin’ of headin’ home soon – gotta get home for Tate ya know – so if ya need anythin’ before I go, ya better tell me… now…”

Fiddleford stopped in his tracks.

A ring of candles sat in the center of the space, burning low in pools of melting wax. Pyramid-shaped prisms were set between them, reflecting little rainbow patterns across the floor and nearby walls. In the center of the circle was an image of a cycloptic, triangular creature surrounded by fire, woven into the maroon throw rug below it. There was a gold statue of the very same creature on the other side of the room, and depicted on several more tapestries hanging behind the slews of Stanford’s research.

There was no Stanford in sight. McGucket felt a shiver run down his spine.

With cautious, halting steps, Fiddleford forced himself to step further inside. He tiptoed around the low-burning candles, feeling as though the eyes of the triangle creatures that covered the walls were following his every movement. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on edge, coming to a halt upon reaching the other side of the room.

A tarp covered a desk, the outline of some sort of display set up on it, was pressed against the furthest back wall. It was draped loosely over the surface, one of the corners peeking out from beneath the sheet as though it had been hastily tossed over the region, the faint outlines of other objects prominent between the folds of fabric.

McGucket found himself being drawn towards it, gripping the edge of the sheet and tugging it away.

A corkboard was installed on the desk, covered corner-to-corner with papers and pushpins. Lines of red thread drew lines between assorted pieces of information, comments added between connections on Stick-It notes and stray bits of paper. Piles of newspaper clippings from every part of the state of New Jersey, all donned with headlines of various John Doe murders and unsolved deaths, were strewn across the surface. They were marked with notes in red pen; circling the dates and time of death, underlining the descriptions of the unidentified bodies, little notes written in Stanford’s tidy cursive about the details filling up the margins.

Various books (a collection of reported alien abductions, a series of folk tales and urban legends about humans being spirited away by benevolent and not-so-benevolent magical folk, theories on traversable wormholes) were stacked beside them, dog-eared at the corners with additional notes scribbled on various Stick-It notes that poked out from between the pages.

McGucket picked up a book at random, flipping idly through the pages before setting it back down. He caught sight of a thin, rectangular object tucked behind a stack of books and other supplies, a faint sheen of glass glinting in the candlelight. Pushing the obstructing items aside, he was met with an old picture frame.

Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, hand hovering over the frame before building up the nerve to pick it up. A thin layer of dust coated the glass, obscuring the photo held in the old wood frame. McGucket blew light at the surface, coughing slightly at the specks of dust the motion kicked up, before wiping away any remnants. Taking a step back for better light, Fiddleford carefully examined the photograph.

He was met with the image of a family of four, a mother and father flanking either side of their children. The mother - with a deep red dress and dark, almost black, hair – leaned over of them with her arm around the child closest to her. The father stood straight as a board behind them, hands planted sternly on his hips with dark sunglasses and a thick mustache rendering his expression unreadable. Two identical-looking teenaged boys were at the front and center, arms wrapped around each other as they flashed wide, joyous grins. One Fiddleford recognized as his employer, despite being roughly a decade younger. The Stanford in the picture was looking to his companion, a wide smile plastered across his face and shoulders hunched as though he hadn't been quite sure what to do with himself. His companion – with Stanford’s face and only a few minor differences – was staring straight at the camera, eyes bright from the flash of the bulb.

“Whatcha doing, Four-Eyes?”

Fiddleford startled, dropping the picture frame with a high-pitched shriek. He whirled around, back of his body slamming into the desk. Stanford stood behind him, practically towered over him, drenched in darkness that made him look like a phantom or a wraith. He stood motionless, silent and still as a statue and standing so close that Fiddleford had no hope of moving past him. The faint shadow of smile was stretched across his face, so wide that even in the low visibility McGucket could see the sheen of his gums peeking from beneath his lips.

For a brief moment, Fiddleford swore that his pupils were snake-like slits.

Fiddleford found himself stumbling backwards, a startled cry leaving him as his hands scrambled for purchase. His frantic hands disturbed the stacks of papers and books, sending them toppling to the floor. Fiddleford followed suit, feet tripping over each other in his haste, a sharp jab of pain shooting up the side of his hip and rear. He ignored it, still clambering across the floor, his mind screaming at him to get away, to get out, to back away from those horrible yellow eyes and

“McGucket?”

Fiddleford glanced up at the sound of his name to find Stanford staring down at him. He was standing in the middle of his now scattered paperwork, posture and expression giving away nothing. Most of his face was still shrouded in shadow, the distant candles backlighting him, but. He readjusted them, taking a few tentative steps towards him. The light behind Stanford was reflecting off the lenses of his glasses, allowing Fiddleford to have a clear view of his face. His eyes were normal, no trace of yellowed whites or slit pupils. Fiddleford’s heart began to slow, shallow inhales gradually evening out until it felt like he could breathe again.

Stanford stood up slowly, brushing off the front of his clothes before quickly setting to work of collecting his scattered papers. Fiddleford blinked, brain finally catching up as he quickly dropped to the floor to help him. Ford took no notice, continuing almost mechanically to gather his documents together.

“S-sorry,” Fiddleford forced out, the words feeling ungainly on his tongue. “Didn’t mean to startle ya.”

“It’s fine,” Stanford replied flatly, not bothering to look up from his task. “Did you need something?”

“Uh…” Fiddleford started. His hands were still shaking as he handed Ford the remaining papers. “I was just thinkin’ that I should be headin’ home soon.”

There was a pause.

“Alright then,” Stanford said at last. He gingerly took the rest of the loose papers from Fiddleford’s grip, tucking them under his arm with the rest. He stood up and shuffled his way around Fiddleford, setting his haphazard collection of work back down on the cluttered desk behind him. “Have a good night, McGucket.”

Slowly, Fiddleford pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt like jelly and he feared he might topple over at any moment. “Do ya need anythin’ before I go?”

“I think I’ll be fine.”

Fiddleford glanced warily around the study. The unblinking eyes of the triangle figures bore into them, drinking in their every move.

“It’s gettin’ awful late, Ford. Ya really outta hit the hay.”

Ford shuffled a few pages together, binding them with a paper clip. “I just want to finish up a few things first.”

Fiddleford fidgeted awkwardly in place.

“I don't think I've seen ya take a break once today, Stanford,” he offered weakly. “If ya keep goin’ like this, yer gonna run yerself right into the ground.”

Stanford paused.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said at last, voice unnervingly even. “But it’s unwarranted. I told you: I'm fine.”

McGucket bit the inside of his cheek.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford started carefully, “I understand that this means a lot to you – really, I do – but…” He paused, regarding Stanford’s turned back. One six-fingered hand drummed idly against the corkboard, the other skimming across the mess of papers and pushpins as though he were only trying to look busy. A wave of pity swept over Fiddleford. “But I’m worried about what you’re gettin’ yourself into.”

The faint pitter of Stanford’s hands came to a halt. He pushed himself away from the wall, hands clamped firmly behind his back, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. Despite the tension clearly building in his shoulders, his voice was even when he spoke.

“What do you mean?”

Fiddleford scratched the back of his head, clearing his throat awkwardly while he flailed to find the right words.

“I mean, what you’re doin’ now. All this…” His arms gestured uselessly to the chaos that was strewn across the room – an entire lifetime worth of obsessions surrounding them. “It ain’t healthy. Ya know that, right?”

Stanford didn’t answer.

“You’ve been actin’ real odd lately,” Fiddleford added gently, a little more assured than before. “Ever since ya started this project, gettin’ these crazy ideas, ya haven’t been actin’ like yerself. It’s like yer somewhere else when I talk to ya some days. Sometimes it's like ya aren't even you anymore.”

Fiddleford picked up a nearby object from Ford’s desk. It was an old compass, the same brand as the ones Stanford had brought on their first expedition together, the needle spinning lazily in circles. He smiled weakly down at it before setting the device back where he’d found it.

“I just worry that all this craziness is gettin’ to ya sometimes, ya know?” Fiddleford continued, “That yer gonna get in too deep tryin’ to find what yer lookin’ for, and that ya won’t be able come back from it when ya do. That at the end of this what ya really want’s gonna be unreachable and that’s gonna break yow worse than when you started. I really don’t wanna see that happen to you, Stanford. I don’t wanna lose a friend over this.”

McGucket paused, looking over Stanford carefully in an effort to gage his response. But Ford remained resolutely turned away from him, stubborn as ever. Irritation bubbled up in Fiddleford, fingers twitching briefly into fists.

“Look,” Fiddleford stressed, taking a bold step forward. “I’m not sayin’ that I don’t get why yer actin’ this way. Heck, if I was in yer shoes, I reckon I might be doin’ the same thing as you right now.”

McGucket took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he was about to say next. “But chasin’ after ghosts and fairy tales isn't going to bring your brother back.”

Stanford bristled visibly at that, but Fiddleford continued on. “This isn’t gonna change that your brother ran away-”

“Stanley did not run away!”

Stanford’s voice cracked with the all the explosive discharge of a gunshot, the bite behind his words making Fiddleford recoil in surprise. Ford’s shoulders were hunched, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Fiddleford bit the inside of his cheek, wringing his hands nervously.

“Stanford…”

“Save it, McGucket,” Ford snarled. He whipped around so quickly that Fiddleford didn’t have time to move out of the way as Ford stormed up to him, finding himself being corralled between the desk and the wall. Stanford reached up to prod at Fiddleford’s chest, finger colliding roughly with his shoulder with a sharp, aggressive jab as he hissed out, “You don’t know anything about this!”

McGucket swallowed, his own rapid heartbeats roaring in his ears. They were nearly nose-to-nose, the dull candlelight surrounding them making Stanford’s eyes practically glow with rage, lips curled into a fierce snarl. His nostrils were flaring with his heavy inhales, shoulders heaving with every puff of air. Even though Stanford wasn't the one pressed against the wall, he reminded McGucket vaguely of a cornered animal - trying to look bigger than it actually was.

Underneath the sharp chill of dread and concern that flooded through his veins, Fiddleford couldn’t help but feel a twang of sorrow that coiled within him at the idea.

“Don't look at me like that!”

Fiddleford jumped. “Like wha-”

“Like that,” Stanford shouted, taking a few steps back to gesture at whatever it was he thought he saw in Fiddleford’s expression. “That… That look like I'm someone you should pity! Like I'm some kind of crackpot!”

He directed a wild gesture to his person, spinning on his heels to stomp back into the center of the room. Once he got there he came to a halt, scanning the area wildly as though he were searching for something. Seeming unable to find it, he turned away with a huff, storming in circles around the room. He looked like a caged lion prowling its territory for an escape route, face hardened by a determined expression Ford only ever seemed to get when his mind was buzzing with several dozen thoughts at once. Fiddleford bit the inside of his cheek.

“Ford, I’m sorry; I didn't mean it like that,” he tried slowly, taking a step forward in what he hoped was a placating gesture, “Let's just sit down and talk ‘bout-”

“I have talked about it!” Ford snapped, momentarily halting his wild pace. “But no one ever wants to listen!”

Fiddleford’s jaw clicked shut, shrinking back a little under his sharp tone. Stanford made another frustrated noise and resumed his mad pacing once more.

McGucket had seen Ford like this once or twice. On those dark nights when he’d still been in school and the stress had nearly consumed him, during those melancholic holiday and summer breaks when he didn’t want to go home – where bad memories were much more potent, the recently more troubling nights when the only thing that mattered to Stanford was that blasted portal a floor below them.

But Fiddleford, even wracking his brain of every dark day he’d ever witnessed of his friend, couldn’t say he’d ever seen Stanford Pines quite like this.

Ford continued to pace around the room, jittering as though he were wrestling with some intangible force that he couldn’t get a handle on. At some point he'd begun speaking, and endless slew of words that increased in volume until he was nearly shouting.

“Don't you see, McGucket?” Ford implored, pinning Fiddleford with a pleading expression. “There were no witnesses. They checked out every highway and town within fifty miles, and not one person could say for certain that they’d seen Stanley. Nobody saw him that night, nobody heard anything; nobody even noticed he was gone! You’re telling me that Stanley just waltzed off into the night, with only the clothes on his back, and not a single person saw him?”

Fiddleford watched him in stunned silence, feet feeling as if he'd been bolted to the floor. Ford continued on when he received no answer, spinning briskly on his heels to study his board, gaze trailing over the patterns of bright red threads that crisscrossed over Ford’s collections of various clippings and notes to form a tangled web of conspiracies.

“Sure,” he hissed. His words took a venomous turn, as though the mere admission pained him. “He wasn’t doing very well in school; and he got into trouble more times than either of us could count. Maybe our father wasn’t exactly the easiest man to live with, but that doesn’t mean he would just leave unprompted. It wasn’t like him to run away like that.”

At some point Fiddleford feet began to move on their own accord, shuffling quietly until he found a surface to rest against. He didn’t sit down fully, unsure if he would need to make a hasty exit, but otherwise made no effort to leave. Fiddleford had no desire to worsen the situation.

Stanford didn’t react to, or perhaps didn’t notice, his movements – clearly lost in thought.

“There has to be something that I – that everyone overlooked,” he murmured, with absolute conviction. “That connects it all. If I could just find that missing piece, it would all come together. He couldn't have run away. It's impossible.”

Fiddleford shifted on his perch.

“How can you be so sur-”

“Because I would’ve known about it if he had!” Stanford roared back, circling back around to face Fiddleford fully. A shrill, desperate edge had begun creeping into his voice as he resumed pacing wildly around the floor. “He was my brother, I knew him better than anyone. He would’ve told me. He would’ve had to tell me! O-or written a note, or made a phone call, or given me some sort of sign instead of just-!”

A shrill crack cut through the room, stunning them into silence. The furious glare melted from Stanford’s face, quickly replaced with a look of wide-eyed alarm. An involuntary flinch ran through Fiddleford at the sound, hands instinctively darting outward as if he could somehow retroactively stop the source of the noise from breaking. His gaze landed on Stanford’s feet, catching sight of the picture frame being crushed beneath the heel of one of his loafers.

For a moment, Stanford didn't move; staring helplessly at his assistant like a deer transfixed by oncoming headlights. Slowly, he looked down, lifting his foot off the wooden frame. Little slivers of glass glittered between the threads of the maroon rug, the reflections of the nearby flames dancing around Ford’s feet like tiny fireflies. Stanford stared down at the scene; as though he didn’t know what to make of the little speckles of light, before gradually bending down to pick up the picture frame. A few more pieces of glass dislodged themselves from the portrait as he carefully turned over the photograph, tinkling to the floor, but Stanford took no notice.

“He would’ve told me,” Stanford repeated, running his thumbs tenderly along the spider web of cracks that now marred the picture frame’s surface. His voice became softer as the words continued to tumble from his lips like a mantra, his expression hidden in the shadow as he turned around. “He would’ve told me. He would’ve… would’ve…”

All of his anger seemed to drain from him at once, shoulders sagging in defeat and coming to a stop in the middle of the room. He pulled the picture out from its ruined frame, tossing it into the nearby wastebasket with a heavy clunk. Still staring down at the photo, he trudged back over to his corkboard. The tangled mess of news clippings, notes, pictures and red string were slowly shifted as he gingerly made room near the center, readjusting thumbtacks with the clinical precision and care of an acupuncturist before pinning the picture down in the empty space he’d made for it.

Folding his hands behind his back, he took a step backwards to look over his handy work. The outline of his shoulders and arms were visibly ridged underneath the thick fabric of his coat, wound up tighter than a spring.

Stanford stood that way for a long time, as still as the photograph that currently captivated his attention. Briefly, McGucket debated leaving right then, the almost overbearing quiet giving him a sense of that he was unwelcome now – intruding in on a moment of solitude that was reserved only for Stanford.

“Why would he leave his car?” Ford murmured, barely audible despite the silence.

Fiddleford blinked, words dying on his tongue for the moment. He thought of the sleek El Diablo parked out in the driveway – with its bright red finish that was a little too flashy for either of their tastes, another old photograph tucked away in the glove compartment, and vanity plates that now forlornly read STNLYMBL.

(Before he’d known that there ever was a ‘Stanley,’ he’d asked about them once. Stanford, only a little more than an acquaintance back then, had stammered out an explanation of a twin brother who wasn’t around anymore, with a strained smile that pleaded for Fiddleford to drop the matter. He’d only ever heard of Stanley in rare passing after that. Little snippets and details that Ford accidentally let slip through the cracks, with a regretful look briefly flashing over his face every time it happened. On even rarer occasions when Stanford would break open a bottle of scotch or bourbon and invite Fiddleford to join him, he would even get a short story or two; the alcohol loosening Ford’s tongue enough that he no longer made an effort to omit his lost brother from his tales. Even then, he never spoke of Stanley for longer than a few sentences at a time. Never enough to make his lost brother anything more than an amorphous apparition.)

Stanford turned to face Fiddleford fully. In the auburn of candlelight, stark shadows made the heavy bags and taut lines of sleep deprivation that marred his features. His eyes were bright with a desperate sort of sadness, regarding Fiddleford as though he would find the answers he was looking for somewhere in his expression. He looked more tired and despondent than Fiddleford could ever remember seeing him.

With a low sigh, Stanford turned his attention back to his research, one hand tracing patterns lightly across the pages pinned to the board. He stayed silent for a long while, the way he usually was when lost in deep thought, fixated on the photo that now rested at the heart of his chaotic array of news clippings and reports.

Part of McGucket wanted to leave right then - back upstairs, back home to his dear little Tate, forget this ever happened - and let Stanford be. To give him his space and not pry open this achingly personal affair any further. Let Stanford grieve in peace rather than unearth any more skeletons better left buried trying to explain the matter to his assistant. Another part of Fiddleford wanted to curse himself for bringing it to the surface at all.

But then again, Fiddleford thought as he regarded Ford’s hunched shoulders, he supposed that wouldn't be very fair to Stanford. Slowly, Fiddleford settled himself against the nearest table, sitting down fully. Getting comfortable, he rested his hands upon his knees, his undivided attention fully centered on Ford as he waited for him to finish.

“He loved that car,” Stanford finally continued, voice barely above a whisper. “I was there when he first bought it. He saved up for months just to get it. He used to spend hours maintaining the thing. Sometimes even I couldn't pull him away from it. Was probably the only thing he put as much care into as the – As the Stan O’War.”

Fiddleford wasn't sure what that meant, but Stanford carried on before he could think to ask.

“I-it’s funny,” he stammered out, chuckling mirthlessly. Ford pushed a hand under his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “I remember thinking to myself that if he’d just put that kind of effort into something more productive like his school work as he did getting that stupid car, that he w-wouldn't be such a…”

A strange, choked-off noise left Stanford then, sounding crossed between a frustrated growl and a pained whine. It made Fiddleford’s hairs stand on edge, fingernails digging nervously into his pant legs. But he remained where was, seated against the edge of one of the study’s desks, listening intently.

“But it was still there when I got home that night,” Ford eventually continued. “Everything we owned was right where we’d left it. Clothes, bags, photos, that car, the extra rainy day money he’d hidden under his mattress – everything. It was like he’d never been gone. Like… like he didn’t even come back after we spoke at the…”

His voice died off again, hands opening and closing helplessly as though they were searching for something to hold on to. They came to finally rest on either side of the desk, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed against his corkboard.

“So why would he leave everything?” Stanford asked, more to himself than anyone. “Surely, if he had planned to runaway, it would've been much easier to bring his car with him. Wouldn't it? Using his own vehicle would’ve been much quicker and safer than hitchhiking or taking a bus. Even selling the damned thing would've provided him with a decent amount of money to live off of, even for just a while. At the very least, you’d think he would want to bring a spare change of clothes or two.”

Ford’s hand paused over the image of Stanley, thumb stroking gently along the photo’s glossy edge. The Stanley in the photo was smiling up at them, eyes bright from the camera flash and arm wrapped tightly around young Stanford’s shoulders, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Ford’s raised a hand and curled it into a loose fist against the wall, right over the old photograph, as another heavy sigh left him.

“But he just…” Stanford shrugged – throwing his arms up in a defeated, uncertain gesture before letting them drop flaccidly back to his sides. “Left it. I don't...”

Stanford didn’t seem to know how to end that sentence, leaving his words to hang unfinished in the air. His head hung low, staring down at the worn carpet where little shards of glass still glittered up at them from between the woven threads.

“It just doesn’t make any sense.”

Stanford fell silent again; deflating until it seemed like the only thing keeping him standing was sheer willpower. Fiddleford straightened from his perch on the end table, taking in his words in stunned silence. Most of the candles had gone out now, casting stark shadows over Stanford’s collection of occultist memorabilia and possessions. The golden triangle statue gleamed a rich amber color under their glow, its singular unblinking eye seeming to watch them with a cruel indifference.

Fiddleford couldn’t say that he blamed Ford. He tried to imagine himself in Stanford’s shoes, picture himself waking up one morning and finding his wife or son or one of his many cousins had suddenly vanished into thin air, but whenever he thought about it for too long Fiddleford inevitably found the notion too much to bear. He wasn’t sure what he would do to try and make that kind of heartache cease; but despite what he’d said before, he couldn’t quite imagine himself being like Stanford – no sign of ever 