Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a slow day. Then again, every day was a slow day at the Gravity Falls public library, especially in the summer.

Kids had just been let out for the summer, and the last place they wanted to be during their vacation was at the library, the closest thing to school. If kids did show up at the library, it was usually teenagers, and they were more interested in spray-painting the side of the building or setting off cherry bombs in the back, both things you’d have to run them off for. Parents were still working, and even if they stayed at home with their children, it was far easier to park them in front of a TV than to take them out to the library for the day. You couldn’t blame them much for that; taking kids anywhere was a hassle, so why bother? Then there was everyone else in Gravity Falls, who couldn’t even tell you where the library was located, much less what their last check out was, or if they even had a library card.

And there you were, stuck in the middle of it all, tethered to the most forgettable job in town. Parked at a desk, people seldom approach to check out books, only the motivational cartoon book posters to keep you company.

You wouldn’t claim you hated your job, per se. It was just deeply unfulfilling to work somewhere for five years and not really have anything to do or anyone to talk to. Granted, you could vacuum the yellow shag carpet 20 times over or reshelve the books by color, age, or title, but it would just be a waste of your day. Plus, who would you be doing that for besides yourself? You wished to have a coworker to complain about your boredom to or at least chat with, but Roadkill County’s budget was already tight enough as it is. The county wouldn't pay for frivolous expenses, like hiring extra employees or installing lead-free water fountains. Honestly, it was a surprise you got paid at all.

You had to admit, at least the library was air-conditioned; the building was an oasis in the sweltering Gravity Falls summer heat. So at least you were grateful for that luxury. The rest of the town was filled with lumberjacks, mechanics, or carpenters. All waking up at the crack of dawn and working with their hands all day, dealing with customers and co-workers alike. If anything, your job was cushy, getting to sit around all day with hardly a person to bother you. However, much like the rest of your life, it was utterly boring.

You’d become accustomed to the mundanity and routine your life held. Arriving at work at nine sharp, sitting through your lonely shift, then finally locking up and coming home by five or six o’clock at night was not the pinnacle of excitement. The most thrilling thing you did during your week was a different route to drive by the lake in the morning or watching Cash Wheel past your bedtime on Saturday nights, hardly what you imagined your 20s to be like.

What’s arguably worse is that you were beginning to accept this dull domestic life, writing down shopping lists every weekend, making your bed every morning, and staying in if it was raining. You wore slippers around your house for crying out loud! You had the ambitions of a young adult, but the day-to-day life of a 70-year-old woman. Sure, you had a stable job, and sure, you had a moderately nice home, but you often daydreamed about how different your life could be if you just up and left Gravity Falls without a word. Would anyone even notice if you did just up and go? What if you did drive down to California to become a movie star or to New York to be a savvy businesswoman? Even if you couldn't pull off shoulder pads, it would be new and exciting.

You knew you shouldn’t taunt yourself with ideas of a more sensational life since it would only highlight how monotonous your real life truly was. But it helped pass the hours at work. What you had to remind yourself was that your job was your job and somebody had to do it, even if you found yourself doing nothing all day.

So, being stuck at the front desk on a Tuesday morning, doodling on a blank library card, was not something out of the ordinary. The orange wallpaper and tall wooden bookshelves centered around your large front desk. You’d only come in an hour earlier, brewing your coffee in the cramped employees' room –the janitor's closet with a coffee machine awkwardly stuffed inside– and plopping yourself down on your worn-out brown vinyl swivel chair. The only sound in the room was your occasional sips of black coffee and the clock on the wall loudly clicking down the seconds until you could go home.

While your pencil scratched along the rough paper card, you thought about what you should have for dinner –the cold chicken in the freezer or the leftover pasta from the night before. You hummed to yourself, adding the last little bits of detail to your cat doodle, the likeness of a cat which would sometimes wander outside of the library.

You were so preoccupied that you didn’t notice the additional sound of a car pulling up right outside the library.

It wasn’t until a few moments later, when the blinding light of the sun hit you, that you were snapped from your focus. The front door was wide open, the morning sun pouring in with no relent. Immediately confused, you dropped your pencil and cupped your hand over your eyes to block out the sun. Add some hissing and smoke, and you’d look more like a vampire than a librarian.

When you peeked under your hand, ethereal rays of sun shone behind a figure at the door, face obscured by the dark lighting in the library. You almost expected trumpets and harps to replace the ticking of the clock, a bit scared, if you checked your pulse, you wouldn't find one.

But once the front door closed and your eyes adjusted back to the dimness of the library, you realized it was just some guy in a…sweater vest? In the summer? You lowered your hand, perplexed by who this was. A new mailman? A lost tourist? Someone to finally look at the asbestos in the ceiling? It only took you a brief second of looking him over to piece it together.

This is a library.
People come into libraries.
They check out books.

You felt a bit stupid forgetting the sole purpose of your job, but really, who could blame you? Five years with few and dispersed customer interactions would make anyone rusty. You haphazardly put on your customer service face.

“Uh… hello, welcome to the Gravity Falls public library. How can I help you today?”

You quickly swiped the library card with your doodle off your desk and to the ground as he approached you, the tan trench coat he was wearing trailing behind him as he moved.

“Greetings, I’ll be needing a library card and perhaps checking out some books today.”

The man’s eyes didn't meet yours. He rambled to you while scanning the nearby shelves, his pointer finger rubbing thoughtfully over his chin.

“Library card, alright, I can do that.”

You almost jumped to pull the drawer of your desk open. You couldn't remember the last time someone asked for a library card, so you were thrilled to say the least. However, you kept a save face, not wanting to scare off the man who’d come in. As you were digging through the files for a card, you realized something.

You’d never actually seen this guy before. Granted, you weren't the most active member in the community, only going out into town for errands or the occasional dinner, but you still knew everyone in passing. It was hard not to recognize everyone in such a small town. This person standing before you was an utter anomaly.

You finally grabbed a library card, but you hadn’t given it to him just yet. You lingered at your drawer, taking a brief second to look up and inspect this man while he was still studying the bookshelves from afar.

For one thing, he was very put together. His pressed light blue button-up shirt peeked out from under his brown sweater vest, giving him a definite professional look. Not to mention his glasses, which were burying its arms into the sideburns on either side of his face, behind it all, you noticed bags under his eyes, nothing prominent, but still there. He didn’t seem like a local at all. You wondered what he was doing here in Gravity Falls, rather than at some college, where his clothes would better suit him.

You took the library card from the drawer and promptly dropped it to the ground. Jitters from having a patron at your desk made you a bit clumsy in your work. Where was your mind when you were actually doing your job? You quickly snatched it up from the ground, finally placing a library card at the other end of your desk.

“Just fill out all your information on there.” You plucked a pen from your pencil holder and held it out to him.

“Alright then,” he mumbled back, taking the pen and looping a large signature on his card.

You occupied yourself for a moment while he filled in his information, shuffling through some blank paperwork to busy yourself with so as not to sit and watch him awkwardly. Still, you couldn't help but glance over to him now and then, trying to decipher him more through his appearance. On your third or fourth glance, you focused on his hands, furiously scribbling on the tiny slip of paper. You didn't look long enough, but his hands seemed…off. However, your concentration was broken once again when he curiously asked.

“Is this yours?”

You weren’t sure what he meant. Until he flipped his library card to the back, holding it out to you to reveal the cat doodle you’d been sketching earlier.

You could feel your face heat up when he asked, a slight panicked shooting through you as your eyes widened, quickly realizing you’d grabbed the wrong library card for the floor.

“Oh, um… yes, you can fill out another card if you want to, and I can just take that.”

“No, it's fine. I don’t mind.”

“…Are you sure? I have more.”

He shook his head and simply tucked the card into his jacket pocket, “It’s alright, Miss, it's a nice life portrait, and I’m not averse to cats.”

With that comment, he was off, wandering past the front bookshelves and into the rows and rows of literature, his loafers softly padding against the shag carpet. You dropped back slack against your chair when he was out of sight, still embarrassed by your doodle, he almost forcibly took. Even if you were slightly flattered by his comment on your art, why did he take it? Why wouldn’t he take a new library card? You just chalked it up to not wanting to rewrite all his information, but even then, that would’ve only taken a few extra seconds. Whatever the case, it was odd to have another person in the building for what was probably weeks, if not months. Hearing him in the distance shuffle through the books and flip through pages was a bit unnerving when you were used to silence. In fact, you weren’t sure what to do now that someone was here. You felt like you should help him look for whatever he needed, but that seemed clingy for some reason, like he was going to be the last patron ever to step foot in the library. It was best just to stay seated and busy yourself until he was ready to check out.

It was around 45 minutes later before his puffy brown hair peeked back around the front bookshelves. You’d been occupying yourself by bending paper clips into the shapes of small animals, not yet noticing how many books he’d pick out. When you looked up to him, he was struggling to carry around 20 or 30 books to the counter, steadying the stack with his chin on top. You almost stood to help him, but were left slack-jawed in your chair, staring at the ladder of books.

“Uh…”

“Sorry, I wasn’t sure what your checkout policy was,” he explained, carefully setting down the stack of books on your desk and breaking it down into three smaller stacks to avoid them falling over.

“It’s usually ten. But it’s not a strict rule, and besides, no other books are checked out at the moment. It’s fine if you take some more.”

“Well, I’m not one to break policy. If ten is the limit, then I’ll take ten.” He began to pick out ten books from his small stacks, placing them in front of you.

“Oh, then do you want me to save the others behind my desk?”

“That’s quite all right, no need to keep them from their shelves. I can come back to find them. Nothing wrong with the proverbial thrill of the chase when it comes to finding books.”

“Alright then,” you shrugged, thinking it to be counterintuitive to put all the books he picked, but if he didn’t mind, you didn’t mind. If anything, it was something to do later. “Could I see your library card?” you asked, taking out your date stamp from your desk drawer and adjusting the stamp to read Jun. 6 ‘78.

He dug into his pocket and swiftly pulled out his new library card, which you took. You looked the card over, still curious as to who this mystery man was. His handwriting was a bit hard to read since it was large cursive on such a tiny card, but you could make out:

Stanford F Pines.

Well, you finally had a name to a face. No answers to why he was at the library or why you’d never seen him before, but a name was good enough for now.

You began the long process of checking out his books, first taking out the checkout card from the sleeve inside the book, copying down his name, stamping it with the date stamp, and placing it in a pile on your desk to file later. Then, you rotated the date stamp to read Jun. 20 ‘78, two weeks from today, and stamped the due dates slip inside the cover of the book.

You couldn’t help but read some of the titles as you checked them out- Algebraic Applications to Cooking, Geology for the Modern Rocker, Burmuda Triangle: Search for the Burmuda Hexagon, Cryptography: Mayans, Aztecs, and Atlantians. You knew the Gravity Falls public library had some odd literature, but it’s been a moment since you read some of the weirder titles.

Your curiosity about who this “Stanford Pines” was began to get the better of you as you wrote his name over and over again. Casually, as you worked through his books, you started up some light conversation to get to the bottom of it.

“New?”

“Pardon?” he asked, his eyes flicking up to you from his thick black glasses, slightly confused by the vague question.

“Are you new here, in Gravity Falls?” you clarified, stamping another due date slip and closing a book.

“No,” he replied rather bluntly, not with any annoyance or malice, but just quickly, like you were supposed to know how long he’d been living here.

“Really? I’ve never seen you before.”

“I work a good deal. Don’t have much time to come into town,” he adjusted his glasses before crossing his arms in front of him. Maybe a sign he wasn’t keen on talking to you, but you ignored it and continued pushing. It was the first interaction with another person since what felt like February.

“Why’d you come in today?”

“Books,” he replied once again in that straightforwardly blunt tone, beginning to collect the checked-out books you’d set aside.

Well, of course, it was a library, so surely he’d come in for books. You wanted to know why these books, though. The books that looked more like fiction than the facts they claimed to be. Beyond that, you wanted to know so much more about him. You wanted to ask him what he did for work, why he didn’t come to town more, why he was wearing a trench coat, and how long he’d been living here. Your curiosity was running wild with questions about this man who seemed so mysterious, obviously one who kept to himself. Maybe it was the fact that you socialized so little or the fact that someone took an interest in your work, but you felt intrigued by him. Even so, you had the right mind to keep your mouth shut. You knew you shouldn’t overwhelm him with insistent questions, especially since you didn’t know him. Plus, you’d run out of books to check out, closing his last book in front of you, severing the line of questioning.

You paused a moment, realizing you had been checking out his books while lost in thought about what to ask him. You placed the last book on his checkout stack and put the date stamp back away in its drawer. Deciding to take one final stab at talking with him, you quickly pulled out the world's most overused anecdote.

“Quite the weather we're having,” you could feel yourself cringe when it slipped from your lips, immediately wishing you’d never felt the urge to comment on the weather of all things.

But he barely paid it mind, instead focusing on straightening out his checkout stack of books. You, getting your second glance at his hands. This time, you could tell something was amiss, but you still didn’t have enough time to figure out what, his voice bringing you back to his eyes.

“Gravity Falls isn’t prone to its seasonal heat waves,” he explained casually with a shrug. He seemed very confident in his reply. Maybe he was a meteorologist? But, you didn’t ask; instead, you went into your rules for the books.

“Make sure you bring your books back by the 20th,” you took one last glance at his library card before holding it out to him between your fingers, seeing if you could be friendly enough to use his name, “Mr. Pines.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss,” he glanced at your name plate, reading off your name back with an obliged grin before taking the library card back from you, tucking it into his jacket pocket again, “I’ll make sure of it.”

That was it. When he took his card back, you finally realized what was so unusual about his hands. He had six fingers. You almost had to count a second time before he pulled back, but you were sure he had an extra finger. It was something you’d never seen before, much less a biological trait you believed could be exhibited in humans. It was a shock, but one that made you want to learn more. His hand had clinched the growing intrigue you had for him. He had utterly captivated you without saying so much as a full sentence to you in the hour or so you’d known him.

You wanted to ask him about his hand, but before you could get another word in, he lifted his stack of checked-out books and began on his way to the front door, seemingly about to leave without another word.

“Have a nice day,” you called from your desk as you stood up, pulled from yet another dazed thought, in a seemingly desperate attempt to keep the conversation going just a tiny bit longer.

“You as well,” he answered back without much thought, not even glancing back as he opened the front door to the scalding summer sun until you were enveloped in the dark library, once more alone. As quick as he’d appeared, he was gone.

You stood there for a moment, a bit disappointed to be left at your solitary desk again. You looked over his pile of books still sitting on the edge of your desk, knowing you’d have to arrange them back to their alphabetized spot in the vast catalog of organized text. This would have upset other librarians, but you already had enough free time on your hands as it was; having a task that pushed you to do your job made you feel important. Still, it was downright depressing to be alone after coming across someone who was so flawlessly fascinating. Maybe it was the out-of-season and academic clothing. Or the ambiguity of what his work was. Or the way he carried himself. Or, most of all, his hands. Whatever it was, you felt an overwhelming compulsion to understand who this “new” local was.

While scanning over the pile of books, one caught your eye— Mothman Mythos Volume 3. Seriously, where did the library get these titles? But the title isn’t what caught your eye; it was the odd cover, an illustration of a winged black creature with deep red eyes. It seemed almost vaguely familiar. Strange.

After picking it up, an idea formed in your mind. Maybe reading one of the books he’d picked would give you some more insight into who Stanford Pines was. Perhaps you could find some common ground, or you could ask him about the book? Then you could talk with him more. Liking the little scheme you’d concocted, you plopped yourself back down onto your chair, cracking open the book and beginning to read the first page, and waiting for what could be two weeks until you saw Mr. Stanford F Pines again.

Chapter Text

Reading the book was no challenge; years of being a librarian with nothing to do made you an exceptionally quick reader. But it had only been three days since you met Mr. Pines, and you were already craving to have him back at the library to ask him about the contents of the book. 

The real challenge was deciphering why he wanted a book like this. At first, you thought the text consisted purely of some lunatic zoologist claiming to have found a creature dubbed the Mothman on the East Coast, mostly seeming like a collection of crackpot theories that locals of the area could’ve easily made up. But the more you read and the more the author described the creature in vivid detail that nobody could make up, you began to reconsider your previous thoughts. The large black feathers found in caves, late-night screech signals, and the countless stories of piercing red eyes in the forest at night. The evidence was described so realistically on the pages that it easily pulled you into the mythos of the Mothman, even more than you initially imagined. Overall, it got your mind working about whether something like this could actually exist.

You knew about the oddities in Gravity Falls; everyone who’d lived here did, but it was always treated as silly folklore in day-to-day conversation. Nobody brought it up, instead choosing to say it was a bear that had eaten their car or a deer that had knocked down the 300-foot redwood tree. 

Your personal encounters were few and far between. The occasional group of gnomes digging in your trash can at night, or a rare spotting of a plaid-covered platypus waddling near the edge of the forest. However, the subject of the book began to bring up memories from your childhood, prompting you to think about the anomaly encounters you remembered. While reading the book, the retellings of the Mothman’s piercing red eyes really stuck in your mind. It felt familiar to you, almost like a fuzzy memory you could barely pull from the back of your brain. But then again, memories like that could have always been dreams or your imagination projecting the book’s stories into your subconscious.

At any rate, you wanted to ask Mr. Pines about the Mothman, see if he knew anything about it or, better yet, if he knew anything about the odd creatures that secretly roamed this town. Boy, the look on his face if you were the one who got to tell him about the bizarre eyeballs with wings. 

All of that would have to wait, though, because it was almost two weeks until he had to return his books, a long way off from your mind-numbingly slow Friday. Like every day, you had your morning coffee, then just sat around. You’d already put away the pile of books Mr. Pines had picked out last time he was here, so your schedule was completely open. And as the dreadfully sluggish morning turned into the afternoon, you pulled out the brown paper bag you brought from home, imagining what everyone else across town would be doing for their Friday night. Biting into your ham sandwich and crunching into your apple, you thought about how the lumberers and bikers would probably kick off their weekend by spending the evening at Skull Fracture, the rough bar on Main Street. Kids would be off at the arcade, dumping their weekly allowance into the coin slots, and older women would be at the church’s sewing club. 

You didn’t have plans, but you certainly felt like you should. After all, it was summer, people were soaking up the warm nights and having fun. Why couldn’t you bring yourself to do the same? Perhaps it was just easier for you to stay in the comfort of your home instead of tearing up the backwater town. Whatever the case, you looked forward to the approaching weekend, which allowed you to catch up on errands and chores.

While you finished up your sandwich, you imagined a checklist of what you’d need from the store. You were low on butter and had gone without paper towels for a few days. However, your thoughts immediately halted upon your ears perking up to the sound of a car pulling up on the curb outside the library. 

Instantly, you thought it was Mr. Pines, but it couldn’t be; you knew there was no possible way he had finished all ten of his books in three days. You recalled some of them being the width of textbooks; there was just no conceivable way he’d gotten through all those lengthy pages in such a short amount of time. But to your surprise, he strolled in through the blinding front door, with what seemed to be all ten books in his arms. 

“Mr. Pines?” you asked, quickly packing your lunch back into your bag, still astonished he had shown up so soon after his last visit. 

“Ah, hello there again,” he replied back, ambling over to the front desk where he set down his stack of books with a thud. “I’m returning all my check-out books as promised.”

“Return? Really?” You asked, now properly counting the books with your finger. Ten. All there. You had to admit, you were a bit bewildered. Once again seeing how large the books were put into perspective the rate at which he breezed through them. 

“And you read them all?”

“Front to back. Yes,” he looked puzzled, like it was a surprise to get through the stack of books. 

“Sorry, I’ve just never had someone come back so quickly with books. And I’ve never even heard of someone getting through 10 books, especially that big, in three days.” 

You realized you accidentally mentioned how long it’d been since he was last here. You didn’t want him knowing you’d been counting the days, you swiftly deflected and quietly added. “More or less.” 

But, like most comments you made, he didn’t take much note of it, instead breaking the book stack down into smaller piles as he’d done before. “Well, I had the free time to read; therefore, I was able to get through them quickly. Plus, I’ve wanted to retrieve the rest of the books I’d picked out. So I’ve come to do just that.”

That must’ve been a lot of free time; once again, bringing the question of what he did for work, which allowed him to have such an exorbitant amount of time to read. As you glanced down to take out the stack of checkout cards from the small file cabinet under your desk, you summoned the courage to ask him one of the major questions you’d been ruminating on for the past few days. What was his job?

You looked up to ask him your question, but the words promptly died on your tongue when you noticed the tail end of his trench coat disappear into the labyrinth of bookshelves. 

You grumbled to yourself, upset that he’d left out of nowhere and that you’d missed your opportunity to talk with him. But it wasn’t all lost. He’d be back with his newly selected books in an hour or so, then you’d spring the question on him. You had to say, he was quite headstrong about delving into the library, making a routine of wandering off after exchanging pleasantries. You briefly considered whether it was you who was causing his detached behavior, but quickly dismissed the idea because you had barely even spoken to him in the minute he’d been here. Most likely, he just wasn’t a social person, which was bad in your case since you were dying to talk to him.

You’d just have to keep yourself busy at your desk while he was off in the cluster of dusty books looking for his ten new titles. You reached forward, grabbed one of the books, and started trading out the due dates slip inside the book’s sleeve with the corresponding checkout cards.

The first time Mr. Pines had come in, he’d spent 45 minutes going through to pick out his books. This time, he’d spend almost four hours in the library doing who knows what. You hadn’t seen him at any time during those four hours; still wasting time at your desk reading over pages of the Mothman book you’d earmarked. There wasn’t a moment in the last hour that you hadn’t thought about what was taking him so long to pick out his books. Maybe you should’ve kept his pile of books at the front desk against his wishes, just to make things easier on him. Then again, it was nice to have him at the library; automatically having his books for him would’ve defeated the purpose of keeping him here long enough to get to know him. 

Still, you were bothered by how long he was taking. It’d be best to check up on him, right? You weren’t trying to be nosy; you were just going to pop in to see what he was up to, no harm in that. 

You closed your book and lethargically stood from your swivel chair, giving your back a quick stretch before heading into the maze of overbearing wooden bookshelves. You glanced through the gaps between books on the shelves while you walked, looking for where Mr. Pines could be. You soon realized that it might be a bit unnerving for him to have some women lurk through the library to find him, so you grabbed a few books from a shelf to make it look like you had something to do. 

It quickly became apparent that he was nowhere near the science and natural history section, where you’d expected him to be. It wasn’t long until you cleared most of the rows of shelves, looking for him, coming up empty-handed on his whereabouts. You thought that he might have left out the back. Maybe to steal books, but that just didn’t seem like him. Then again, this is only your second time meeting him. The last major place to look was the nook near the children’s section that had a few desks. 

You roamed through the small shelves in the children’s section and instantly heard the sound of paper being rearranged and flipped. As expected, he was at one of the desks in the nook, but he didn't seem to be reading; he looked like he was writing. The closer you got, the more you could see him scribbling in a dark red-bound book.

You shuffled over to one of the bookshelves beside the desk he was at, and pretended to scan over the books with your finger, all the while noticing a chewed-up pen and splotches of ink on the desk. You carelessly shoved one of the books you were carrying onto the shelf. 

“Don’t mind me, I’m just reshelving,” you mumbled quietly over to him, shoving another random book into the shelf. 

He really didn’t mind you; actually, it appeared that he didn’t even notice you’d entered his space, still vigorously writing in what appeared to be a journal of his. 

A few moments of dead air hung between you both as you continued to pretend to do your job. Wanting to get to the bottom of what he was doing back here, you curiously asked, “I thought you were looking for your books, Mr. Pines.”

“I found them already,” he gestured with his pen below the desk where a stack of ten books sat, his eyes never breaking contact with his pages. “I thought I should get some work done while I’m here.” 

There it was again, that elusive topic of his work, the mention of it taunting your curiosity. Someone’s work could tell you a lot about them, their interests, passions, skills. You had so many theories about who he was just by what his job was. Was he a writer because of the way he quickly read and how easily his pen glided on his page? Or maybe an archivist at the local museum, because of his organization and the general look he held? Mathematician? Paralegal? Veterinarian? It was driving you mad!

Finally, in a casually interrogating tone, you set down your books on the bookshelf and popped the question, “What is it that you do for work, Mr. Pines?”

“Oh,” he set his pen down; his demeanor changed like the flip of a coin, his eyes suddenly lighting up at the question as he looked up at you. “I’m a cryptozoologist.”

Even though you sprung the question on him out of nowhere, he seemed more than pleased to talk to you now– a stark contrast to his earlier single-word responses and apprehensively skittish manner. It was a bit startling to see his mood change so quickly, but you weren’t complaining; it was delightful to have him so keen on talking with you. The only problem was that the word he used didn’t seem familiar to you. Maybe he had mispronounced out of his eagerness?

“Do you mean a zoologist?”

“No, zoology is the narrow-minded man’s field of study. Cryptozoology is the study and discovery of creatures whose existence is disputed by the scientific community. And dare I say much more thrilling since you uncover what’s believed to be hoaxes and tall tales. And there are more of those legends here in Gravity Falls than anywhere else in the county!” If you skipped the formalities, he was incredibly talkative about the subject of his studies, not to mention eloquent in his speaking. Much more animated as well; his hands gesturing around him with great expression, and his eyes holding an excited splendor behind them. 

“It’s a subject I have extensive knowledge on, it being one of my PhDs,” he mentioned offhandedly, not with any boastfulness to it, but definitely to inform you that he knew what he was talking about. 

When he explained what his work was, everything made a lot more sense: the strange books, the large amount of free time to read, the knowledge about Gravity Falls’ weird weather patterns. A clearer tapestry of him was beginning to form in your mind. However, the biggest takeaway from his explanation was that he had a PhD, which wasn’t the biggest of surprises considering how he dressed. But what was surprising was that he said “one of.” Did he seriously have multiple PhDs and choose to live here in Gravity Falls of all places?

“Wow, and here I was calling you Mr.” You chuckled a bit awkwardly, tapping your hands together. “Do you prefer Dr. Pines?”

He appeared a bit caught off guard by the question, nervous almost, seemingly not accustomed to hearing his formal title. “Dr., I suppose.” 

He paused, decisively considering something for a moment, before shrugging and aptly adjusting his glasses. 

“But you could just call me Stanford… Ford, even. Dr. feels far too professional if the other person isn’t working with you on a study.” 

You stopped, not just because he offered for you to call him by his first name, but you could’ve sworn his face turned to a light shade of red. Perhaps out of embarrassment from the title, but it was most likely the dim lighting of the library playing tricks on your eyes. Regardless, you pushed on, happy with the notion of not having to call him Mr. or Dr., just plain Stanford. Not wanting to seem too glad at him offering his name, you pull yourself back into the awkwardly stalling conversation. 

“Do you work with other people a lot?”

“No,” he mumbled with a chuckle, his voice holding the slightest hint of dejection, “Just me and my anomalies.” 

That seemed fitting. Again, he didn’t seem to be the most social butterfly, reserved, outside of talking about his research. Knowing that, you brought the conversation back to what you knew he would discuss: his work. 

“So you do know about weird eyeballs with wings?”

He perked up at the mention, “I don’t just know about the eye-bats, I study them.”

He held up an inquisitive finger before flipping a few pages in his journal to reveal a page filled with detailed sketches and looping notes about the creatures. Being a librarian, you’d seen your fair share of scholarly work and illustrations in books, but it was another thing to see a creature only known to so many rendered on a page. 

“Whoa,” you murmured in awe, “And you actually catch them?”

“It’s interesting that you mention that. I’ve been charting out a research mission for next week. I’ll be looking into a new cave system that could possibly house some of the eye-bats.” 

He once again flipped a few pages in his journal, pulling out a brown, stained piece of paper and holding it out for you to look at. A topography map sketch on one side and on the other, those same looping letters spelling out a list of supplies and notes. 

“However, who knows if it will produce anything substantial? I’ll most likely just find a species of moss I haven’t documented yet.”

He tucked the paper back into the pages of his journal, most likely realizing that he was rambling a bit too much, “Apologies, here I am talking about my plans while you need to reshelve.”

You wave his apology off, sheepishly glancing back at the random books still sitting on the shelf. “No, you're fine. I’m finished with that.” 

“Well,” he sighed, pulling back his sleeve to check his watch, “If you're free, then I’d better check out my books,” he proposed, closing up his journal, which you could now clearly see a familiar gold hand on the cover, and setting it on his stack of newly collected books. He swiftly brought himself to his feet before hoisting up his stack from the floor. Once again, without a word, he began wandering back towards the entrance. 

You followed him, silently noting how he was really making a habit out of roaming away when you least expected, and without hesitation. One quiet stroll back to your desk, and he plopped his stack down on your desk, picking up his journal and safely tucking it into a pocket on the inside of his trench coat. It was the same routine as last time, taking out the checkout card, copying down his name, stamping it with the date stamp, stamping the due dates slip. The repetition only halted when you noticed, out of the corner of your eye, the Mothman book cover sprawled out on the edge of your desk. You knew this was your chance; you had to ask him about the peculiar beast before he left again. Otherwise, maybe you’d never have the guts to ask him again. You timidly began your conversation back up.

“With all that knowledge about Gravity Falls, do you think you could find anything like, I don’t know…”, you shrugged, trying to be casual about the topic; however, you were anything but in your mind, “The Mothman?”

“Hm,” he puffed, glanced up to the ceiling, thinking briefly, “Considering the atmospheric pressure and the flora present in the area, there’s a possibility. I’ve never encountered anything similar, but, then again, nothing is impossible here in Gravity Falls. Why do you ask, though?”

You set down your date stamp and picked up the book, raising it out to him, “I read this recently and was curious about it.”

“I picked out this book.” He seemed pleasantly surprised, taking the book and turning it around in his hands a few times, examining the cover and the back summary.

“Yes.”

“And you read it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why did you read it?” he inquired, looking up to you with his scrutinizing, yet captivated eyes.  

“I…” you bit your tongue, knowing it would be utterly cataclysmic if you told him you’d only read the book as an excuse to talk with him about it. Surely that would scare Mr. Pines, Stanford, away. Straightening your words up, you replied, “Well, I was curious about the topic. The cover really caught my eye.”

He flipped the book back around to study the front illustration, once again pausing to think, “It didn’t happen to mention anything about the creature's migration patterns or dietary sources, did it? That would make researching easier.”

Researching? He wasn’t serious, was he? On the other hand, he sounded like he was going to give you a full dissertation report, the way his voice held a wondering tone to it. All of this from a single question? A mention that you were curious about it? “Uh, I don’t remember anything like that. It was just a lot of locals’ stories.”

“Hm, fascinating,” he mumbled, rubbing his finger over his chin. “Then I will find out and return with answers for you,” he eagerly took the top book from his stack and discarded it onto your desk, setting the Mothman book on top of the others. 

“Are you sure? It would probably take a lot of time to do that, right?” you asked, not wanting him to sink his work time into the research of the creature. But then again, you were just as interested in finding out as much as you could about the Mothman. You took up Mothman Mythos Volume 3, pausing a moment to make sure he really wanted to take on this investigation before you began checking out the book. 

“What’s another pet project?” he reasoned, happily standing with his hands clasped behind his back, sure of his commitment to the study. 

You complied with his sureness, going ahead with the book; checkout card, copy name, stamp, stamp. Repeating the process with his other books, while he rocked back and forth on his feet, eyes closed, quietly chatting about how the weather was looking for the next week. There wasn’t much else you could think of to discuss with him, so you seemed to once again fall back on the overused small talk of the weather. All the while, in your mind, you were guessing how long it’d take him to finish his research on the Mothman. Considering how quickly he went through his books, for all you knew, he could have an essay on it by the end of the day. If he found any signs of it in the area, would he try to catch it? Would he show you? Actually show you the creature in all its terrifying and magnificent form, not some sketch on a page in his journal. That would be something. Just his willingness to look into it was commendable.

Checking out his last book signaled his impending departure, making you a bit disheartened. You’d come to realize during this visit that it was becoming a comfort to have someone else in the library while you were here. Even if you weren’t constantly talking with him, it was reassuring to have someone existing close to you. 

You set his last book on his stack before he scooped it up with his hands. He and his stack of books made their way towards the exit. You thought it would be another cold-shoulder goodbye, but instead of stoically leaving like last time, he turned back to you.

“I’ll update you on my findings as soon as possible,” he assured with a subtle grin, the edge of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly as he looked back to you. “So long”

You gave a small wave, matching his grin. “Bye, Stanford.”

His name felt strange rolling off your tongue, but it was a welcome change from the formality before. It felt almost normal to say goodbye to a patron of the library. He pushed the front door open with his back, exiting out into the scorching sun. When the door had closed and he was out of sight, you noticed you felt a bit more toasty than you had before. It was probably the rush of the hot summer air from the door, but it was a heat that lingered on your cheeks and made your palms sweat. You ignored it, looking at the clicking clock on the wall. An hour of work left. 

You rapped your fingers against your desk, trying to think of something to do, but your mind was only coming back with your conversation with Stanford. By the way he talked about his job so frantically, it felt like he was just as lonely as you were in your work. Even if his career was more exciting, interesting, and eccentric than yours, he was still doing it alone, and it didn’t seem like he loved the isolation of it all. Did he think the same of you? Did you hold an air of solitude and unsociability to you for working by yourself for so long? 

You tried to toss that depressing thought away, but it just kept returning like a dog with its ball. After around 20 minutes, you finally decided to occupy yourself by putting the books you pretended to organize back in their original spots. Get your legs moving, and maybe get your mind off your intrapersonal shortcomings. 

You pushed your rolling chair from your desk. Planting your feet on the ground and idly veering around the front of your desk, wanting nothing more than to go home and stay in the rest of the night. Crunch. You looked down, your mind taking a moment to really process what lay under your foot. The whites of your eyes popping like a madwoman. 

He’d dropped his research mission paper…

Land sakes! He’d dropped his research mission paper! 

Snatching the crusty paper from the floor, you fumbled with it in your hands, making absolutely sure it was the same paper he was showing off to you earlier. 

Dammnit, it was. 

The worst thing was that he probably didn’t even realize that he’d lost it. The paper seemed to be pretty important to his research, and he did mention that he’d be needing it next week, so surely he’d be back any minute now to retrieve it. Or maybe he had copies and didn’t even need it? The latter being unlikely with his scrutinizingly detailed handwriting plastered across the page. Starting to pace, you tapped your fingers against the paper, thinking about what to do if he didn’t come back. 

After a dozen or so paces in front of your desk, you decided it was best to wait and see if he’d return before you closed for the week. Otherwise, you didn’t know what you should do.

Chapter Text

Ding. 

The counterbell of Greasy’s Diner echoes another finished order. Utensils scraped against porcelain, the cash register went off as a family got their receipt, and the lively conversations of the Saturday breakfast crowd settled between the wooden walls of the establishment. 

You sat at the countertop, the stool sinking in a bit more than you thought it should. Behind you, in a booth seat, you heard an older couple chatting. You didn’t look back, but by their voices, you could tell it was Ma and Pa Duskerton, the owners of the local Dusk 2 Dawn. It was the way Ma laughed that gave them away, the same giggle she’d give when she’d pinch your cheek at the checkout counter, a habit she’d made since you were a kid. 

Pouring some more creamer into your coffee and crumbling up another yellow sugar packet, you wonder what you should do about Stanford’s paper.

You’d ended up closing the library 30 minutes late the night before, taking the extra time to wait and see if Stanford would come back for his research mission paper. When you got home, you’d spent the rest of your night rereading his paper over and over again. Wondering if he’d even noticed it was missing, wishing that he had come to pick it up so you wouldn’t have to take care of it. For some reason, having it for so long felt weird, almost like you’d stolen it when that wasn’t the case at all. 

Taking a sip of your coffee, you took your other hand and pulled out the folded research mission paper from the back pocket of your shorts. You spread it flat on the table, looking over it once again as if the words had changed since the last time you’d read them. It felt odd to read it so many times, but it was like nothing you’d ever seen before. The map detailed parts of the forest you never knew existed. In hand with the map were notes about which creatures he would encounter in which region and how to avoid them. You felt you were learning secrets about your home not yet known by the general public. Secrets you only shared with another person.  

All in all, the paper placed you in a bit of a conundrum. If you let Stanford retrieve the paper himself, would he be upset that you didn’t notify him that he’d left it? Or if you return it yourself, would he be weirded out that you’d tracked him down? What was the proper etiquette for returning an antisocial scientist’s research to him? 

You traced your finger over the text, going back and forth about which was the better choice in this situation, so lost in thought that you jumped at the sudden voice behind the counter. 

“Need a refilled, hon?” 

Still hunched over the paper, your eyes shot up to the waitress, her dusky purple hair pulled up and a coffee pot in one hand. Susie, you think, maybe? It’d been a while since you’d come to Greasy’s, so your mind was stalling on her name. A quiet nod, and you pushed your near-empty mug towards her, which she started pouring the fresh coffee into. You stayed quiet, not much wanting to talk, but that was certainly not the case for the waitress. 

“Whatcha got there, sweetie? Yard sale map?” she asked curiously, leaning in a bit closer to have a look. 

Instinctually, you brought the paper closer to you, tucking it under your arms. You didn’t know if anyone else was aware of Stanford’s research or even knew what he did. Even more so, you didn’t want to be showing off his work to random townsfolk without him knowing. 

 “Map of the woods, someone lost it down at the library,” you replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask more about it. But, of course, she did. 

“Well, not sure why anyone would need that around here, nobody is trying to go through those woods,” she chuckled, topping off your cup before adding, “Unless it’s that mysterious science guy. Is it that mysterious science guy?”

“Uhh,” you didn’t know what to say. Did she know something about Ford that you didn’t? You decided to continue keeping your answers vague: “Maybe, I’m not sure.”  

“I’ll tell you what, that man is just the oddest fellow. Came in a few months back and asked if we could run coffee through the coffee machine, instead of water,” she huffed at the odd request, “If I’d done it, I bet you anything he’d been wired for days.”

“Susan, you talking about that trench coat guy?” A local lumberer chimed in beside you. Holding his coffee mug out for her to fill, while he put his two cents in on the topic of Stanford. “He tried convincing my whole unit to preserve a redwood we were trying to cut down. Told us that “Cowls” had been using that tree for three generations. If you ask me, I don’t think he’s right in the head.”

The discussions began to pick up more steam at the diner counter. Sitting a few seats down, that lady who ran the butcher's shop interjected, “Well, he asked me if I had any local animal skeletons. Like I’d be cutting up opposums. He wanted to display them in his house, of all places! That boy doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

Eventually, the whole diner was murmuring among themselves, and the discussion surrounding Stanford quickly turned into pure speculation and gossip. Some of the quips you could make out were: 

“I heard he makes mail bombs.”

“My cousin said he won the lottery and is hiding out from the mob.”

“I think he’s more alien than man.”

“Well, you know he speaks in tongues, so he can communicate with the Devil.”

“No, he isn’t in communications with the Devil, he’s in communications with the FBI.”

So, people did know about him, or at least claimed to know about him. Of course, you weren’t in the loop of the town gossip, so a lot of this hearsay was new to you. You were just surprised that people knew he existed, making you wonder more why you’d never seen him before this week. Some of what people were saying seemed completely propitious, but then again, some of the encounters people had with Ford did sound like him, or how you’d imagine he’d interact with the town. What didn’t make sense to you was why people speculated so much about him. He was nice to you; he would probably be just as kind to the townsfolk if they gave him a real chance and got to know him. However, maybe that was naïve of you; maybe the town knew more about this man than you realized. A new question began to brew in your mind: just like his books, how much of Stanford Pines was fact and how much was fiction?

The lumberer sitting beside you nudged your arm with his elbow, bringing his voice low and serious, almost like he could sense your contemplation. “Best stay away from the trench coat guy. You hear, kid?” 

You glanced down at the research paper, still hidden underneth your arms. You squeaked out a quiet, “Yes, sir,” folding up the paper and sticking it back into your pocket. Even with his suggestion, you were wary of listening to him, to anyone in the town's opinions of Stanford. You knew Ford… well, sort of, more than these people did anyway. What gave them the right to tell you to stay away from him?

You sat around in Greasy’s a bit longer, finishing up your coffee while your mind was still trying to think about how to handle the research paper situation. Even with the town’s warnings, which were most likely fake anyway, you felt compelled to give the paper to him in person. So then, you wouldn’t have the odd feeling of keeping his work without him knowing. With your mind set straight, you decided it was time to head out on your new errand of the day, giving Stanford his research paper back. 

You walked over to the cash register, and the cashier ran up your tab: 50 cents for the two coffees. As you pulled out your wallet from your back pocket, you noticed the payphone hanging in the corner.

Bingo.

He had to be in the white pages. You would call him, have him come to the library to pick up his paper, and then everything would be back in order, easy as that. 

You pulled out a dollar and handed it to the cashier. “Could I get my change in dimes, please?” 

The cashier carried out the transaction and handed you five dimes back with your small paper receipt, which you tucked all except one dime into your front pocket. The payphones had a bulky phone book hanging on a cord between them. You grabbed the beat-up book and began flipping through the residential phone numbers, heading for the P pages. Making your way through the book, your eyes grazed over every last name that started with a P: Pimlett, Pincham, Pinder, Pines. There it was, and just your luck, only one Stanford Pines, your finger right underneath his name. You shoved the dime into the coin slot and dialed his number. The phone rang a few times, but no answer. 

You tried again with the coin in the return slot. Still no answer. 

Damn, he must’ve been out of the house. You hung up the phone, thinking about what to do now.

You could take the paper to him instead of having him get it. That would be far easier than having to arrange a time to meet at the library. That’s exactly what you’d do, you’d take it to his house and leave it in his mailbox. Or, better yet, if he wasn’t there, what was the harm in returning it anonymously? You could set the paper on the porch and make it seem like he’d lost it there. Above your finger, still pointed at his name in the white pages, you memorized his address, 618 Gopher Road. 

As you headed out the door of the diner, you hoped that this whole plan wouldn’t be too creepy; you just wanted to return his paper after all. You weren’t trying to stalk him; the situation just called for it. This was your rationale, but if you were being 100% truthful with yourself, you did want to see him again, get back into a riveting conversation, see if he’d learned anything about the Mothman, ask if he’d read anymore of his library books. 

Once you’d sat down in the driver's seat of your banged-up car, you felt almost crazy for doing this, any of this. Your sweaty palms and that oddly toasty feeling in your cheeks were coming back to you; you really didn’t like it, your breath feeling more uneven as you started up your car. 

The longer you drove, with the road turned to dirt and thick lines of trees beginning to surround you, the feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it got worse, a growing sense of anticipation ravaging your mind as your slick hands tapped anxiously on the steering wheel. You’d rolled down your window to cool yourself, insisting that it was the warm weather getting to you. You had no idea why you could be feeling so stressed about returning the paper; it was just a piece of paper, nothing more than that. You thought you would be excited to bring it to Stanford, but that was anything but the case. What was going on with you? 

You distracted yourself by tuning the radio to an oldies station, an upbeat doo-wop song playing, which reminded you of your childhood summers. You took some deep breaths as you glanced up, sunlight flicking through the parting of the trees above you. It was a lovely day, a bit hot, but when the wind blew, it was the perfect temperature to be out and about. Having this errand today made you a little grateful, returning the paper an incentive to take you out of the house for a while and enjoy the summer weather you’d been avoiding. Even with the weird feeling, you were having a nice time driving down the winding roads through the forest. 

You thought it was strange that Stanford lived so far away from town, a good 15 or so minute drive. That’s probably why he didn’t come into town that often, think of the gas bills. Plus, his work surrounded him. Not much sense in driving out into the woods every day when you could just walk out into it. You wondered if he liked it that way. Being so far removed from the town that there were more local legends about him than the real cryptids. 

Continuing to drive, your mind and body began to relax in the calm foliage surrounding you, your hands loosening around the wheel as the drive turned less into a mission and more into a lazy summer outing. But that feeling was short-lived. 

A blur dashed across the road, just a few yards in front of you, quickly followed by… was that Ford!? Just nearly ducking past your car? You slammed down on your brakes hard, your tires digging against the dirt road, kicking up a mist of dust around you, your engine halting harshly in the middle of the road. It was all so quick, a blur, a camera flash, everything over in the snap of a moment. You were alright, just jostled around a bit, but those anxious feelings came tearing back, your adrenaline now making you more terrified than anything. Terrified that you’d somehow hit him. Terrified that you’d somehow crashed into a tree. 

Your heart thumped in your ears like a worn-out tire against a highway, your lungs struggled to catch a breath, but you still undid your seatbelt, stumbling out of your car in a shocked haze. You needed to know he was alright, needed to make sure you could still walk. 

The kicked-up dust was settling, and you spotted Ford lying on the lush ground just off the road, coughing into his arm. He looked out into the forest in the direction of the blur he was chasing. He then suddenly slammed his fist against the ground, frustratedly yelling, “Damnation!”, panting also from the unexpected scare. 

His head quickly craned over to you, his expression exasperated, most likely believing some hick local ran him off the road. But his eyes soon softened when he saw it was you. He gradually brought himself to his feet with a grunt; the wind was definitely knocked out of him. You stagger disorientedly over towards him, your voice trembling.

“Stanford, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he coughed, dusted himself off, unscathed. “I ducked and rolled, that's all. Just some dirt. Really, I’m fine.” 

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t even see you coming, gosh, I almost hit you, like really hit you.  I-I’m just so sorry, I don’t know what-”

“Are you alright?” he cut you off, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder to steady the shake that had covered your whole body. 

“Uh, um… I don’t know,” you puffed out, hands shaking beside you. You felt like you were going to pass out just from the shock of almost hitting Ford with your car, now with him checking to make sure you were alright, his hand gently clutching your shoulder, you felt like you were going to have a heart attack. 

“How about we go sit down for a second and catch our breaths, okay?” he didn’t wait for your response, guiding you unhurriedly over towards your car, your legs feeling as if they’d give out at any moment. 

You both sat down on the trunk of your car, your anxious inhales still not wavering. Ford watched over you, his eyebrows crossing in a bit of worry at how much you were still shaking. He wrapped his hands together, tapping on his knuckles as he decided how to address you in this state. 

“You know it’s not your fault, you almost hit me. I’ve run across these roads far too many times in pursuit of creatures without making sure it was safe. My luck has just seemed to catch up with me.” He chuckled a little, a sign he wasn’t in too bad a state of shock if he was laughing over his near-death experience. 

“W-what were you chasing after?” you asked, your voice still trembling, trying to make sense of why he disregarded his safety to run heedlessly onto a road. 

“A Gremloblin, one of the rarest beasts in this forest and one of the most fierce. I haven’t had a chance to sketch it yet, and I so happened to stumble upon one on my morning expedition.” His voice was soft and even, surprisingly so after almost becoming road kill.

“I’ve n-never heard of that before.”

“I’m not surprised you haven’t. As far as I know, there isn’t any local folklore surrounding it. I myself only discovered the creature a few months back from some well-preserved tracks.”

He pulled his familiar red-bound journal from his trench coat, seemingly needing to cite his sources for you. He flipped to an unfinished page with a large inhuman footprint sketch and his signature looping letters. 

“You should’ve seen it. It’s around twelve feet tall, and uglier than you could ever imagine. I hate to say such things about the wildlife around here, it would probably hurt its feelings, but it really is ghastly.” He used that same enraptured explanatory tone he applied when talking about his research; you couldn’t help but think it was charming. 

“Huh,” you hummed, looking over the journal entry, once again a treat to see the research he was doing. You were calming down with the casual talk, his elated voice almost blocking out how scared you were. However, his emerging inquisitive tone brought you back to the present.  

“Can I ask what you're doing out here?” he questioned, setting his journal down beside him on the trunk of the car. 

After your scare, you’d almost completely forgotten why you had come out here in the first place, the question bringing you back into the embracing arms of your self-consciousness, that burning in your cheeks, and made you hesitant to answer. 

“I um, I actually came out here to give you this.” You fumbled with the research paper in your back pocket, unfolding it, and hastily handed it to him, practically shoving the paper into his chest, still quite wired. “You dropped it at the library, and I just wanted to make sure you got it back.” 

He was puzzled for a second until he saw the contents of the paper. His eyes widened, aghast that you’d just handed him his own research mission notes, turning the paper over a few times to see if it was a forgery. Convinced it had to be, he opened up his journal and flipped through the pages, only to see that the paper was nowhere to be found. 

“My word,” he murmured under his breath before speaking up, “Good heavens! I really did leave it. How could I be so careless?” He ran his hand down the side of his face, once more inspecting the paper, absolutely bewildered how he’d left his work without even realizing it. Just the reaction you were expecting, you had to hold back a grin, the way he looked over the paper like a worried mother whose child had scraped their knee. 

“I tried calling your home telephone, and you didn’t answer. I didn’t know if I should have brought it to you or if you’d want to come into town to get it. Sorry for really appearing out of nowhere with it.”

“No, no, you did me a great favor by bringing it to me as soon as you did. I’m heading out on this expedition this Thursday, and I need all these notes and the map to keep me on track. I assure you, it’s very much appreciated.”

He thankfully grinned at you, the edge of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly like you’d noticed in the library, making you think it was almost… cute. You could feel your shoulders tighten like a taut rope. Did you really just think that? Why would you think something like that? It wasn’t him that you thought was cute, no, no, it was his eyes. Not even his burnt ember eyes, just the crease under his eye when he’d smile at you. He wasn’t smiling at you; he was just grinning because his paper was returned to him. That was the case.

You felt yourself staring at him too much, so your eyes darted to the ground as he tucked his journal and his research paper back into his trench coat. 

“Have you felt your adrenaline subside? Are you feeling alright now?” 

You could feel your blood pressure spike when you saw him look over to you from the corner of your eye. His voice was deeply caring and sincerely concerned about your condition. You wanted to tell him that you still needed a few more moments. Not because you still had to steady yourself, but instead, you yearned to keep the back and forth you had with him. However, he’d see right through that. Your shaking had stopped, and your breathing was almost back to normal, so there was no use in telling him you wanted to sit and babble on the trunk with him any longer. 

“Yeah, I think I’m okay. I really just feel like going home and lying down for a while now.” 

“Yes, I think I’d better head home as well, get some more mission planning done since I have my research paper back.” 

Readjusting his trench coat around him, he hopped off the truck and kicked his leg up behind him, taking his ankle and stretching. He didn’t intend to walk all the way back home after today, right? You probably couldn’t walk a city block if you tried, and here he was stretching as if he was preparing to run a marathon. 

“You're going to walk?”

“That’s how I got out here in the first place. Really, my home isn’t that far away, only a few miles.” He waved you off, taking up his other leg and stretching it behind him. 

It might be a few miles to him, but it sounded like utter hell to you. You didn’t feel right letting him walk all that way when your car was right there. He would probably feel like he was imposing by asking for a ride, so you did it for him. 

“Would you like a ride? You seem like you were running a lot. And I still feel pretty bad for almost running you over.” 

He set his leg down, taking a second to think the offer over, a quirk that you’d become used to. 

“I suppose so,” he replied, stretching his back with a grunt, more than likely battered from earlier rolling into the ground, “After all, no harm in taking the easy route back home.”

Hopping off the trunk of your car, you celebrated a silent victory in your head. You’d, in fact, get to spend more time conversing with him, and maybe even ask if he’d started researching the Mothman. However, this celebration was cut short by the memory of that exceedingly nervous feeling you got around Ford. He wouldn’t be able to notice, right? See how your cheeks burned, or note how you were now struggling to make eye contact. It was almost sickening just to think about it, so much so that you’d thoroughly convinced yourself you had to be coming down with something the way you were acting. Summer cold always seemed to strike unexpectedly.

When you opened your door, you spotted your keys still dangling in the car ignition, not even remembering turning the engine off. You ducked into the driver's seat of your car, once again greeted with the hot, stuffy air.

For a brief second, you hoped that this whole ride would go as smoothly as possible, now that you weren’t horrified Ford would jump out in the middle of the road at any moment. As he buckled his seatbelt, you inconspicuously glanced to your right, his trench coat bunched up in his seat, and his hands set forwardly intertwined together after the lock had clicked into place. Did he always hold his hands like that in a stranger's company? Not that you were strangers, but your interactions were always held in the safe location of the library, never as close as arm's length. Was he nervous? You knew you sometimes held your hands like that when you were anxious around people. Was he just as nervous as you pretended not to be? 

Taking a few low, deep breaths, you gripped the steering wheel and turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life. Repeatedly assuring yourself that he couldn’t see your sickness, couldn’t feel how clammy your hands were around him. 

Chapter Text

After halting so quickly, your car sputtered and spurted, jostling Stanford and you down the dirt road, almost guaranteeing a check-up at the mechanics. However, it didn’t matter at the moment; you were driving the pace of a weathered grandmother. A little panic-stricken something, or someone else, would jump out into the road. Your window was still rolled down, thankfully, a rush of fresh air to your face, which was continuously sweaty from the summer heat. And only the summer heat, you told yourself. 

Since you’d offered Ford a ride, he’d been deafeningly quiet, but then again, you were as well. Nothing says “talk to me” like a woman clutching her sweat-covered steering wheel, intently staring down the road she was cruising down at 5 miles an hour. You felt a growing sense of anxiety trying to bring yourself to talk to him, feeling your ploys to converse were seeping with desperation that he could easily see. However, on the other hand, you couldn’t bear to sit in silence for the entirety of the drive to his home. It felt even more awkward than jumping questions at him. You chose to fall back on what you knew would break the silence, even just for a brief moment. 

“Nice weather today.” 

Seriously, how did you always manage to bring up the topic of the weather with him? Apparently, it always seemed like a subject you could both agree on, and it usually got the conversation going a little bit. At the very least, inviting him to comment. 

“Indeed,” he sighed, seemingly content, staring out to the trees slowly passing by, his hands still intertwined together, “Quite a day for a drive.” 

He did not comment after, dipping you back into the silent car ride. He could’ve at least explained why he’d chosen to wear a sweatervest and a trenchcoat in 80-degree weather. That would’ve been a good conversation starter. You cursed the attempt in your mind, stirring up another question. No harm in trying to coax him into conversing again. 

“Start reading any of your books yet?”

“Yes, two of them,” he hummed back, continuing to focus on the passing scenery. 

The conversation soon fell flat again. A quick exchange, and you were back in the pits of silence. Starting up your conversations with him always felt like the tides at Lake Gravity Falls. The small ripples would reach out, lapping against the shoreline before immediately pulling back into the lake. His one-word answers and short replies were beginning to test your patience and put your shaky social skills to the test. You wish you knew what else he would discuss besides his work. Maybe it felt so quiet because the radio was off. If some music were playing, then a conversation would surely follow, right? Plus, even if you didn’t talk, any sound would be better than the awkward silence and the occasional hissing your car was making under its hood.  

“You can turn on the radio. It must’ve cut out when I stopped,” you suggested to him, nodding down to the dial in the center of the dashboard. 

“Happens a lot, doesn’t it?” he asked, glancing over to the car radio. 

“Mh, can’t complain. In Gravity Falls, everyone's does. I usually just turn the dial around for a minute, and it jumps back on.”

By far the least strange thing to occur in the town, but still odd nonetheless. You didn’t know of any other town that had people go to the mechanic at least twice a year for busted radios, to the point that there were loyalty punch cards for radio repairs. You always thought it was a bad frequency that so happened to cover the town. But Ford quickly shed his own observant light on the subject. 

“In my experience, it’s usually extraterrestrial frequencies that cut them off. They usually aren’t fatal to the device, but I have had a disastrous blowout with a ham radio because of it,” he was starting up his conversation, enough to pull his eyes from the flora and glance over to you. 

“However, I’ve actually picked up some transmissions on my home satellite dish. I haven’t deciphered any of them, but I’m sure they’re ripe with information.” he reached out as he began to ramble with a small grin, his hand turning the radio dial back and forth, trying to get the music going again. 

“You don’t say,” you commented with a small chuckle, in for what you expected to be a riveting explanation, and an easy back and forth between you two. Proving what you already knew, his work really was the key to his voice. 

However, while you slowly trailed down the road, your eyes caught on his hand fiddling with the dial. Reaching out so near to you. His six fingers splayed closer than you’d ever been able to see before. Your mother always told you not to stare, but you couldn’t help it; his hand was beyond anything you’d even seen in Gravity Falls because they weren’t from here. You didn’t know how long he’d been living here, but you knew Ford didn’t grow up here; he had to have moved here. It was wholly captivating; his hand wasn’t a product of his environment; it was purely him. 

“I try to tackle the transmissions like anagrams. What you do is write down the –” his meticulous tuning of the radio dial halted, and he fell silent again. However, it was a different silence that caught in his throat, one that made you look up to him. His hand clenched up, and he drew it back into his lap, wrapping his hands together like they were before, his eyes not meeting yours.  

It suddenly dawned on you why his hands were intertwined so protectively in his lap. He wasn’t nervous around you; he was embarrassed by his hands. It didn’t even initially cross your mind that he must’ve been ashamed of them, but seeing how quickly he guarded them, it became very clear he probably didn’t have the best experience with people reacting to them. Your eyes swiftly latched back onto the road. But out of the corner of your eyes, you could vaguely make out the expression he was concealing. He looked like he was handed a microphone and told to sing karaoke in front of a full auditorium. The sunlight beating through the windshield clearly showed the red accents in his face. 

You felt so bad, a heavy feeling burrowing into your chest, and weighing you down. You didn’t mean for him to think you were staring. Well, you were… but not in a disgusted or uncomfortable way. You were merely curiously gazing upon the remarkable eccentricity he held, one that was truly one of a kind. The radio crackled some static before shooting back to life, playing another doo-wop song that took you back to your childhood, a small relief in the suffocating quiet. 

You could feel your mouth starting to move without even thinking, the polite side of you trying to keep the conversation going as if nothing happened. You cleared your throat.

“Um, so aliens, you say? With… with all the radio stuff,” you stammered, the uncomfortableness heavy between you both. 

“Yes, seems to be that way.” 

Quiet again. Shit. In your mind, you were starting to panic, scrambling for anything else of substance to discuss so you wouldn’t have to sit in that uneasy silence you’d unfortunately created. Why couldn’t you talk like a normal person? Why did you have to be so awkward around him? Why, oh why, did you have to look at his hand? Then you remembered. You could ask about Mothman! Yes! That’s what you were hoping to do while you were out here anyway. You could ask him how his research was going and maybe–

“I’ve made some headway on the Mothman research,” Ford stated simply, his hands still rigidly ensnared together, not looking towards you. 

“What was that?” you asked, pulling yourself back to the reality of the car. You were surprised he brought up Mothman before you had a chance. It seemed like he wanted to take over the conversation before it got even more humiliating than it already was. 

“The Mothman research I’m conducting. I informed you that I would update you on my findings as soon as possible.” His voice was level as he spoke, not at all hinting at the anxiousness his body language still conveyed. “Now seems to be as soon as possible.” 

“Oh, oh yeah, I’d almost forgotten about that,” you lied; you hadn’t stopped thinking about it all week. “What is it you discovered?”

“Well, after we discussed the creature at the library yesterday, it jogged my memory on a sample I’d collected around a year ago. I was a black feather, around a yard long. I innitinally believed it could’ve been an abnormal crow’s feather, but I now think it could be connected to a possible regional variant or the original fabled Mothman.”

His voice was steadily turning more zealous, less clinical in the way he brought up his investigation. The more he talked about his progress, the previous uneasiness begining to fade away, albeit slowly.

“I’m going to plot the region in which I found the feather and plan a personal research mission to the area to see if I can find any more evidence that could bolster the hypothesis, but I think it’s a solid lead.”

“Really?” you perked up, glancing over to him. 

You knew it! This town was far too odd not to have the Mothman in it! Well, not THE Mothman, maybe a local variant, but the details didn’t matter in the moment. You were just ecstatic that there was some weight to your question, a hit of validation you didn’t know you craved. He was even going to go on a research mission to prove it for you. 

For you. Why was he doing all of this for you? 

You nudged the question away, not the time or place to think about it further, happy in the moment that any of this was happening in the first place. However, you still had a question about his study. Wouldn’t it be simpler to have the creature come to him instead of poking around its supposed territory? 

“Y’know, I read in the book that Mothman is attracted to light. Couldn’t you just lure it somewhere with lots of lights?”

He finally pulled himself from staring out the window and glanced towards you. 

“Maybe. My guess is, just like a normal moth, a dense amount of illumination in a small area is what attracts the beast. That’s probably why it doesn’t appear near the town more often. Since the downtown is spread with only so many streetlights, it probably isn’t enough to lure the Mothman out of its hiding in the woods.”

“So, having something like lots of bug zappers and flashlights together could maybe attract it?” you asked, still trying to understand a method of enticing the creature into a certain location. 

“Precisely.” He nodded towards you, unsheathing the red-bound journal from his trench coat. He snatched a pen from his pocket, placing the journal in his lap and jotting down words you couldn’t see from the driver's side.

“However, not the most effective way to document it. Who knows how the creature could react? It would be much more efficient to plot coordinates in the area and research that region. You know, research and hypothesis, the good old-fashioned scientific method way of studying the anomaly.”

Very procedural. You weren’t surprised Ford had a protocol when studying new creatures. By your estimation, it probably took a day or two for him to chart a region and find a creature if he had a good enough lead, like a feather. 

“So you think you’d find it? Like, how long would it take to research and hypothesize?”

He adjusted his glasses, pen continuing to glide against the page, eyes following the note in his journal. 

“I think I’d have time to look into it in, I’d say, a month or two from now.”

Surely he couldn’t be serious? A month or more? Yes, he had other research to do; you knew that, you understood that. But the simplicity of luring out the Mothman with lights was far easier and more efficient than waiting a month and then taking days of his time to trek out into the woods and look for clues to Mothman’s existence. Why would he prolong the research for that long? It simply didn’t make sense to you. However, your disappointed and slightly miffed expression fell when you reached the end of the road.

It was a mossy clearing, the perimeter sheilded by large redwoods and pine trees, with birds’ songs echoing around it. In the center, a quaint A-frame cabin with a satellite dish and a small radio tower peeking around the sides. He must be doing pretty well to be able to afford property like this. You wouldn’t lie, you were expecting a run-down shack, but his house was a lot nicer than you expected it to be. Honesty, you’d live there if given the chance, have a nice garden in front, and maybe a stone bird bath. 

Ford smacked the ends of his book together, closing it up, and in turn paused your redecorating plans. He slipped his journal and pen into his coat while you pulled up close to the stairs of the porch, unsure where else to park because the whole clearing looked like the front lawn. 

“I’ll update you if I make any more discoveries. And you can call me if you have questions. I’ll make sure to pick up the phone next time,” he said, holding out a small ripped slip of paper, which was the same paper as his journal. Written on it were the same 10 digits you’d dialed on the payphone earlier in the morning.

“Oh, okay,” you timidly replied, taking the slip of paper. You weren’t too sure what to say; you were occupied, and somewhat flattered, he had told you to call him. It was in a purely scientific context, but it still felt personal. Was he indirectly telling you that he enjoyed talking with you? Was this a hint at possible friendship? Whatever he was implying, your face heated up for what felt like the 20th time today. 

He gave you a courteous nod before unbuckling his seatbelt, his feet making their way out of the car door and to the ground. Between the car and the covered porch, you noticed how his chestnut locks were sun-kissed and lit up in the summer sun. He strode up the wooden steps of his porch, approaching his front door. Once again, your mouth started moving without even thinking. 

“Hey, Ford,” you sheepishly called out to him. He turned back to you before he opened the door, most likely still not used to you saying his name. You paused, trying to find the right words for a moment. But you chose to offer an apology instead. “Umm, I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized for almost hitting me, you don’t have to keep doing it, I’m fine,” he shrugged, almost letting out a chuckle.

“No, no, I wanted to apologize, um,” it was difficult to muster up what you felt you should say to him. You still had that heavy feeling buried in your chest and knew it wouldn’t go away if you didn’t say what you felt you needed to. You didn’t even know if it was the right choice to bring it up again, but you didn’t want to avoid it forever. “For staring earlier. It was really rude of me.”

“Oh,” you saw that same ashamed expression on his face, he glanced down, hiding his hands in the pockets of his coat. He looked back up to you, his expression shifting. He seemed like he was considering whether he should talk about it, the same look he got when he was about to explain a subject to you. But he simply mumbled back, in unwavering earnestness, “It’s quite all right.” 

It clearly wasn’t alright, him still tensing up at a mention or glance at his hands, but you figured you’d done enough humiliating for the day. You nodded, giving a half-hearted smile.

“Okay”

He nodded back, pulling a set of keys from his vast coat pocket, unlocking his door, and stepping into his house. Not the best way you wanted to end your car ride, but you could feel that troublsome weight in your chest begin to lift. 

Too many things were on your mind as you shifted gears, and you almost couldn’t pick out which you should think about more. Like if Ford would ever acknowledge his hands around you, tell you why he negatively reacted to the attention on his fingers. Or how he could afford a cabin that was so nice when his job didn’t seem to be that glitzy. Or maybe that he’d given his number for you to hang onto, to call him again. You wanted to stop and think that over for a moment. But, like most of your thoughts over the past week, it all came back to Mothman. Specifically, Ford’s approach to the creature.

You couldn’t wait a month, hell, you couldn’t wait another week to know more about the Mothman. It had become a fascination, a fixation you couldn’t begin to shake from your mind. A shot of excitement was injected into your life with this investigation, and you weren’t going to let it fizzle out so quickly. Maybe it was time to take that adventure you admired about Ford’s life and apply it to your own. After all, what did you have to lose?

When your tires hit the dirt road, you knew what you ought to do, and an idea began to form in your obsession-warped mind. Impulsively, you planned one more errand for the day. A pit stop on your way home seemed to be in order. A trip to the hardware store. 

You needed lamps. A lot of lamps.