Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was early spring of 1979. Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” was playing on the radio, the Afghan War and the Iranian Revolution had just begun, protesters were gathering in the streets — and you, a native Californian, had suddenly taken off on the road. All you had with you was a backpack of clothes, a wallet, your passport, driver’s license, and a credit card. You hadn’t really stopped anywhere; you just kept driving and driving, with no real destination in mind.

The landscapes of California — your home state — gradually gave way to sprawling pine forests. You had been on the road for… honestly, you’d lost track of how many hours. Judging by the fuel gauge, probably around eighteen. Your small white ’60 Beetle wasn’t meant for trips like this, but you didn’t have another car.

You were from San Diego — a sunny seaside city in southern California. After graduating from one of the country’s most prestigious universities, West Coast Tech, with a degree in biology and a master’s in speech therapy, you returned to your hometown, where you had lived until recently. Your skin was sun-kissed, with faint freckles — like a true Californian. Your smile was wide and bright. At first glance, your life seemed perfect.

But here you were, speeding down the roads of Oregon, chewing on a burger from the first fast-food place you’d seen. Your flared jeans hugged your legs, your blouse was wrinkled from the long drive, yet you kept going. Maybe it was time to stop for the night. Maybe…

From the speaker came “Who’ll Stop the Rain.” You allowed yourself to sing along — it was one of your favorite bands.

“Rain”—the word fit perfectly with the weather outside: downpour, mud. Raindrops slid down the windshield, and the storm seemed to echo your mood.

“Rain,” the radio suddenly repeated, and you frowned. No, that was definitely a different verse. “Rain,” it said again, and losing patience, you switched the channel. It didn’t help — a deafening noise burst from the speakers, so loud you briefly let go of the steering wheel. The cacophony grew louder, and the needles on the speedometer and fuel gauge began to twitch wildly.

“Damn it!” you shouted, slamming your fist against the dashboard.

Your manicured knuckles stung from the blow, and you bit your lower lip. There was no choice — you had to kill the engine. You steadied the car as best you could and turned the key. Your Beetle came to a halt in the middle of the forest road, leaving you utterly defenseless.

You needed help, obviously. But you weren’t the type to ask for mercy — especially not at night, in the middle of nowhere. That could be more dangerous than staying put until morning. So you decided: you’d just sleep in the car. By morning, surely some trucker would pass by.

You closed your eyes, trying to relax under the sound of the rain and forget how precarious your situation was. It was around ten p.m., and sleep was already tugging at you. You were humming some tune stuck in your head when suddenly—something hit the window. You cracked one eye open—and screamed as loud as if you were being stabbed.

Outside, staring back at you, was… a floating eyeball. No optic nerve, no wings. They didn’t seem to be trying to get in, just brushing against your poor Beetle. That didn’t stop you from screaming. In two seconds, you had grabbed your things, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and bolted into the woods toward what you hoped was the main road.

You tore through the underbrush, lungs burning, your movements stiff from a full day of driving. Behind you came a sound — “Shhhchhhhhh.” You cried out and ran even faster, tears of fear welling in your eyes. Just get there, you thought, just get there. Your mind struggled to make sense of it all — flying eyes, that awful noise. How could it be possible? Paranormal things didn’t exist… right? Eyes couldn’t fly! It was biologically impossible!

It went against everything you believed, everything you knew — and you ran faster, as if you could outpace the logic breaking behind you. Finally, you burst onto the road. But it was empty. Completely empty. Not a single car.

You held out your hand, hoping to flag someone down, ignoring the terrifying sounds coming from the forest. As you stood there, something began creeping closer through the trees.

You heard rustling — too heavy for an animal. The trees swayed unnaturally though there was no wind. A low hum vibrated through the asphalt beneath your feet. Then — headlights.

A battered orange van screeched to a stop inches from you, spraying gravel and rainwater. The door swung open with a metallic groan.

“Get in,” a voice barked from inside. “And if you value your sanity — or your life — don’t ask about the noise behind us.”

A pair of six-fingered hands gripped the steering wheel, and a young man with thoughtful brown eyes and thick, messy dark hair looked at you over the rims of his glasses, raising one eyebrow.

“...What happened to you?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you answered, deciding to obey. Even if this man was a serial killer, you preferred him to whatever was crawling behind you. You climbed into the van, wiping sweat from your forehead. The door slammed shut just as a gnarled, shadowy limb — too long, with far too many joints — swiped through the air where you had stood. The driver’s knuckles whitened on the wheel.

"Good choice," he muttered, "Though if I was a serial killer, I’d at least have better interior decor." 

A glance in the rearview mirror confirms it: whatever was lurking isn’t giving chase. For now.

He tossed you a crumpled beige coat from the passenger seat.

"Wrap that around yourself before hypothermia sets in—or worse," he added dryly, "before my upholstery gets stained with existential dread."

You obeyed, deciding not to argue with a man who saved your life.

"So." His tone is forced casual as he peeled back onto Route 99 like nothing happened (everything has). "...What’s your name? And more importantly—do you know how to play Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons?"

"You may call me June." you shruged. It isn't your actual name - but without knowing your driver, you prefered not giving him your name. Bunny is your childhood nickname, so, it's safer.

“June?” your driver snorted. “Is that a nickname, or were your parents hippies?”

“Nickname,” you frowned. “From childhood. And my parents are respectable people, both over fifty.”

“Then why not tell me your real name?” he asked, glancing at you briefly. His brown eyes were sharp yet distant, as if he never stopped thinking, not even for a second.

“Only after you,” you said, aware that it was a risky move but deciding to take the gamble. “I let you name yourself first, now it’s your turn.”

“You’re remarkably bold for someone who just escaped from a Hide Behind,” the driver remarked. “Stanford Pines. Satisfied?”

You nodded and told him your name.

“That’s better than June,” Stanford smirked. “Though the nickname has its charm.”

“That’s why I prefer it,” you replied.

“Interesting,” he looked you up and down. “First time I’ve met someone who doesn’t like the sound of their own name.”

“The kids I work with like June better,” you shrugged.

For a moment, it seemed that Stanford was… flustered.

“You… work with children?” he asked.

“I’m a speech therapist,” you said earnestly — and noticed the faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

“That’s… admirable,” he finally managed. “Where did you study?”

“West Coast Tech,” you replied — and something fluttered in your chest at the thought that you could be proud of your alma mater.

Stanford… choked, and his hands (there was definitely something odd about them, though you couldn’t quite tell what) gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“West Coast Tech?” his voice wavered slightly. “And… what was your major?”

“Biology,” you answered immediately. “Minor in linguistics. And a master’s degree in speech pathology.”

“That’s fantastic!” Stanford exclaimed, with slightly exaggerated enthusiasm. “Don’t you see? You could help me communicate with cryptids!”

“Cryptids?” you gasped, shrinking into your seat at the memory of those floating eyes. “No, thank you! Just drop me off at a motel, and I’ll call a tow truck in the morning!”

“You won’t be able to,” Stanford said with a shrug. “It’s Friday night. Every store and motel in Gravity Falls will be closed until Monday. And your car is probably already eaten by Steve.”

“Steve?!” you were completely lost. “What is Steve?”

“Forest giant,” your rescuer replied curtly. “Likes to snack on cars. He ate mine four years ago — this one’s a rental.”

“Forest giant?” you repeated blankly. “What on earth is going on here?!”

Stanford seemed to perk up, as if the topic excited him immensely.

“This — this is what I call the Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness! Gravity Falls is the epicenter of anomalies! I’ve been studying them for four years, and they never end! It’s incredible!”

“It’s horrible,” you said — and if you hadn’t been sitting down, you might’ve fainted. “So… all this supernatural stuff… is real?”

“It’s not supernatural, it’s science!” Stanford argued. “You’re a biologist — you must know about mutations!”

“But I can’t imagine what kind of creature could mutate into flying eyes…” you sighed.

“Flying eyes?” his smile grew almost manic. “With wings?”

“Without?” you mumbled. “I think.”

“Amazing! A new species! I have to study them! And you could help me communicate with certain beings — like Steve, for instance!” Stanford declared.

“Hold on,” you said, trying not to protest too much but unable to stop yourself. “Where am I supposed to stay if all the motels are closed?”
Stanford hesitated, his smile dimming a little.

“I… I’ve got a spare room in my cabin. Guest room. You can stay there for a couple of days if you’d like,” he mumbled almost shyly.

“Really?” you smiled. If this wasn’t a lie… he was unusually kind for someone who had just picked up a strange woman on the side of the road. “Thank you, Mr. Pines.”

“Only if you promise to help me with at least a couple of cryptids,” he chuckled. “And perhaps your skills could come in handy for deciphering, June. By the way, would you satisfy my curiosity and tell me why that nickname?”

“My birthday’s in June,” you admitted, suddenly embarrassed. Maybe it was a little self-centered to have a nickname after your birth month.

“Mine too,” said Stanford. “The fifteenth. And yours?”

“The twenty-ninth,” you replied awkwardly. “Gemini and Cancer, if I remember correctly.”

You thought he flinched at the word Gemini, but decided it was just irritation (especially considering what he said next).

“You… believe in astrology?” Stanford’s voice seemed to drip with distaste. “You’re a woman of science.”

“I don’t, I don’t!” you quickly assured him. “My mom loves it. I don’t. I just know the basics.”

He snorted, relaxing slightly, and tapped the radio. A song started playing — “Doctor Doctor,” but not by Black Sabbath, by some other band.

“That’s UFO,” Stanford explained. “Though I prefer a slightly different sound, they’re not bad. My college buddy used to love them.”

“I see,” you nodded. “Though I prefer Black Sabbath’s version.”

“Black Sabbath are posers,” he said, and you snorted — you hadn’t expected that kind of judgment from someone only a little older than you (if not your age). You grew up on Paranoid!

“Alright, then who isn’t a poser?” you challenged. “I like Fleetwood Mac — are they posers too?”

“No,” Stanford said with a faint smirk. “But I bet you never listen to their B-sides.”

You bristled again. As a true Fleetwood Mac fan — or so you considered yourself — that was an insult.

“I love ‘Beautiful Child.’ It’s my favorite. Second favorite — ‘Brown Eyes.’” you blurted out before realizing that Stanford’s eyes were, in fact, brown.

You thought he swallowed hard. You decided not to say anything either, cursing your tongue for creating awkwardness. You closed your eyes, hoping to nap for a moment, when suddenly… the car stopped.

“Home sweet home,” Stanford commented. “Out you go, June.”

Chapter Text

Honestly, the cabin looked cozy. For a second, you even thought staying here wasn’t such a bad idea. Then again, as if you had a choice. Donna Summer’s voice was still pouring from the car radio when Stanford stepped out onto the muddy ground.
Now you could really take a good look at him — he was of average height, a bit of a stomach, broad shoulders. He wore a brown knitted vest over a pale blue shirt and jeans. His dark, fluffy hair looked soft, his thick eyebrows framed a pair of brown eyes behind glasses that kept sliding down a prominent nose.
Unbelievable — he was actually pleasant-looking, and, surprisingly for a hermit scientist, he didn’t smell bad!

“You’re staring,” he remarked. “Do I have a cycloptopus on my face?”

“A what?” Your eyes widened. “Actually— never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Stanford snorted softly.
“Come on. You must be tired and freezing. I’d rather not have you getting sick; I’d end up taking care of you instead of doing research.”

You scoffed and followed him toward the porch. Friendly, huh? Then again, he had saved your life. Maybe that counted as enough mercy for one night.

“I’ve got snacks — chips, chocolate. Jelly beans are off-limits, I like those myself. No tea in this house, so you’ll have to choose between water and coffee.”

He said it casually, and you decided to take the unexpected kindness at face value. You smiled.
“I’ll take water and a chocolate bar, if that’s okay.”

Stanford unlocked the door and grunted.
“Yeah, you’re definitely better company than the gnomes. They’ve tried to sacrifice me to their queen three times already.”

“Gnomes? Queen of the gnomes?!” you gasped. “You still haven’t explained how that’s even possible! And— and what happened to my car?”

“We’ll discuss that over coffee,” Stanford cut you off. “I haven’t had any since morning. And you look like you’re about to collapse.”

He opened the door, and before your eyes appeared a small, cluttered room. Honestly? Utterly un-cozy. A mermaid skeleton in a tank stared at you with empty sockets, while beneath it sat a skull with three eye sockets. A tiny, high window (there went your escape route), drawers filled with what looked like runes, and in the corner— a diving suit. A diving suit? The thing radiated menace. Something twitched under your elbow — you looked down and saw a one-eyed octopus-like creature thrashing inside a floor tank.
This was what Stanford Pines called “a cozy home”?

He calmly lifted his coat from your shoulders and hung it on a hook — at least one normal human gesture in this madhouse. You were surprised by the detached ease of it, as if you were another specimen to be catalogued rather than a woman whose sweet perfume now clung to his coat. Stanford, catching the scent of marshmallow and coconut, grimaced.

“Great. Now every forest cryptid within a mile will know I reek of marshmallow,” he muttered. “Do you wear perfume like that for your work with kids, or is that a personal choice?”

“What’s it to you?” you bristled. You liked that perfume — you’d found it at a flea market back in college and had worn it ever since. Your… boyfriend (even in your thoughts the word came awkwardly) always complimented it.

“It’s to me because now my coat smells like it,” Stanford grumbled, then sighed, apparently deciding not to argue. “Come on. You need food. Unfortunately for your stomach, all I can offer are snacks.”

“I kind of figured that already,” you sighed, following him and trying your best not to look at the mermaid skeleton.

The lighting in the more (normal, you thought to yourself) livable part of the house was dim, but much easier on the eyes. There was even a television set in the corner with a cassette player — and judging by your modest knowledge of electronics, a pretty good one. The walls were decorated to look like stone, a dinosaur skull lay on the table covered with papers and coffee mugs, and the desk by the wall was piled high with notes. Still, there was a rug on the floor and some kind of embroidered tapestry hanging on the wall.

You could only hope there was something edible in the kitchen besides snacks, because so far this looked exactly like the home of a bachelor who lives off takeout.

“I promise the rooms are cleaner,” Stanford said almost sheepishly, trying to wipe dust off a shelf with his elbow. “I… live alone.”

You wanted to say something like “I can tell,” but decided not to torment the poor hermit scientist.

“If you let me listen to BABBA, I’ll stay. And sometimes watch TV,” you smirked. BABBA had just released that great song Disco Girl. You weren’t really into that kind of music, but you couldn’t resist teasing him.

His face twisted in familiar arrogance — the awkwardness was gone (which was exactly what you wanted).

“You listen to that disco filth?” he muttered through his teeth.

You couldn’t help but chuckle.
“No, but for you, I’ll start,” you teased and patted him on the shoulder, leaning over a cage covered with a piece of cloth. “By the way, you promised me something resembling food.”

Stanford didn’t answer, and you glanced at him. He was standing still, his hand absently touching the spot where you’d just patted him. Had no woman ever touched him before?

“Stanford,” you called. “I’m hungry. And tired. Can you show me the room where I can sleep?”

He blinked, as if waking from a trance, and you thought he blushed even more.
“I… I can offer you the guest bedroom. Or, if that’s not too unpleasant for you, I could give you mine. If you don’t mind sleeping in a bed I’ve already used,” he spoke quickly. “And yes, yes, of course I’ll feed you. Unfortunately, all I can offer is canned food and snacks — I mostly eat at Greasy’s Diner. You can go there in the morning.”

“I’ll take the guest room, thank you,” you nodded. “So… can you at least tell me what happened to my car before I go to sleep?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Stanford began, completely forgetting his promise about coffee. He raised one finger and started pacing the room like a professor giving a lecture. And that’s when you noticed what was off about his hands — six fingers. Six.

Poor thing, you thought. The anomaly itself didn’t disgust you — if anything, you felt sorry for him. He’d probably been bullied as a kid. You knew what that was like; you’d been teased for loving books. For a nerd like Stanford, with six fingers no less, it must have been worse.

“So anyway,” he began, oblivious to your gaze, completely carried away by his own explanation. “I suspect the reason your car broke down was a surge in electromagnetic energy. You may have driven right over a buried UFO site, and your vehicle reacted to the anomaly.”

“UFOs?” you exclaimed. “Seriously? UFOs, too? What kind of cursed place is this?”

“Not cursed!” Stanford argued. “Unique! And UFOs are real — I can show you proof!”

“Wonderful,” you sighed, running your hand over your face, trying to process everything you’d learned in the past few hours. “So how do I get out of here then? You said my car was eaten by a forest giant. Are there any buses?”

“If I remember correctly — yes. Rarely. Once every few days, but they do come,” he nodded.

“So I’m stuck here until a bus comes,” you muttered quietly. “Perfect. Can I at least go to bed now?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” he mumbled. “Come on, it’s upstairs.”

He motioned with his six-fingered hand for you to follow.

“If…” he began uncertainly as you climbed the stairs together. “If you don’t have a change of clothes, I could lend you some of mine. You’re soaked through.”

You hesitated. You had spare jeans and a blouse, but something told you that Oregon in early spring was much colder than San Diego.
“If you have a sweater, maybe? And a T-shirt I can sleep in.”

“I… yes, of course, I’ll bring them to you once you’re settled,” Stanford nodded quickly.

You followed him up the stairs as he led you down the hallway. His six-fingered hand pushed open a door, revealing a completely spartan room — just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk.

“Well,” he murmured, “you can stay here until the bus arrives. Not the most luxurious accommodation, but… functional.”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, and you could’ve sworn the tips of his ears turned red again.

“I… I’ll go get you a sweater and a T-shirt,” Stanford mumbled and disappeared so fast it almost seemed like just looking at you made him uncomfortable.

You shrugged and began unpacking your things. The door creaked open again, and through a narrow crack a six-fingered hand slipped in, holding a sweater and a T-shirt. When you took them, your fingers brushed his — and he jerked back as if burned.

“Good night, June,” he muttered.

“Good night, Stanford,” you replied, stifling a yawn.

The door closed, and you quickly peeled off your damp clothes, clinging uncomfortably to your skin, and changed into his oversized T-shirt.

Once you’d finished getting ready for bed, you lay down on the hard mattress, pulling the blanket tightly around yourself. Damn — your California body wasn’t used to Oregon cold.

You were just closing your eyes when suddenly—

BOOM!

Chapter Text

At first, your sleepy mind didn’t even register what had happened — it was too fogged up by the desire to keep sleeping. But then you heard Stanford’s loud yell — “DAMN IT!” — and realized it was time either to save him or save yourself, depending on the level of threat.

Honestly, a normal person would’ve locked themselves in their room and waited. But were you ever normal?

“Stanford!” you shouted. “Should I come down?”

“YES!” he yelled back. “AND BRING THE SHOTGUN!”

“The shotgun?” You really wanted to ask if a shotgun would actually help against whatever had caused that explosion — maybe a baseball bat would do better. “Where is it?”

“IN MY ROOM!” he shouted, voice strained. “TO THE RIGHT OF THE HALLWAY. HURRY, PLEASE!”

You didn’t waste time. Wearing just his T-shirt and socks, you dashed down the hall.

Stanford’s room looked exactly like you’d imagined — a large polished wooden desk, a couch, a cozy rug, and wood-paneled walls without wallpaper. You noticed all that in passing as you grabbed the shotgun leaning against the wall, reloading it on the go.

Your grandpa had been from Oklahoma and could handle a shotgun better than a professional hitman. You’d often stayed with him as a kid…

“STANFORD?!” you yelled while running down the stairs. “ARE YOU ALIVE?”

“YES! HURRY UP!” he barked, his voice tinged with impatience and arrogance.

Shotgun in hand, you descended, hoping not to walk into a trap.

What met you was worse. The cycloptopus — yes, the one from the aquarium — was perched on the table, eyes narrowed with predatory focus. In the next instant, it leapt at you.
Your hand pulled the trigger almost on its own, and the intruder went flying to the floor like a rag doll.

You kept the shotgun trained on it — it was still twitching.

“No!” Stanford darted in front of the creature. “That’s a valuable specimen!”

“That valuable specimen almost killed me!” you shouted.

“It wouldn’t have killed you!” Stanford argued. “With the trajectory of that jump, at worst it would’ve left a few scars!”

“SCARS? ON MY FACE?” You let out a sarcastic laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

He’d clearly lost all patience and snatched the shotgun out of your hands. In one motion of his six-fingered hand, he scooped up the cycloptopus and carried it back to its tank.

You glanced around. The whole workspace was wrecked — papers strewn all over the floor, cracked coffee mugs, and spilled liquid soaking into the notes.

“There, there, my little one,” Stanford murmured soothingly, setting the creature into the tank. “The mean lady with the shotgun won’t hurt you.”

“You’re the mean lady,” you muttered under your breath. Out loud, you asked, “So he’s the one who caused the ‘boom’?”

“Yes,” Stanford replied curtly.

Finally, he turned to you, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and adjusting his glasses.
“Uh… sorry about the noise.”

Was it your imagination, or did his gaze linger on your bare thighs?

“It’s fine,” you sighed. “Let me help you clean up.”

You turned your back to him to start gathering the scattered papers—

“NO!” Stanford hissed, his voice tight. “I-I can handle it myself, thanks for the offer.”

When you looked back at him, his face was red as a tomato. You raised one eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

“Better… better take my shotgun back, okay?” he stammered and awkwardly tossed it toward you. You caught it easily and flipped the safety on. “And I think you should get some sleep.”

“Well… alright,” you said, puzzled, but started up the stairs with the gun tucked under your arm, catching out of the corner of your eye how Stanford carefully avoided looking at you. Just as you lifted your foot onto the first step, his voice — quiet, embarrassed, but tinged with curiosity (a tone you hadn’t heard from him before) — called out behind you.

“June?”

“Yeah?” your hand instinctively moved toward the shotgun.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Stanford blurted out. “I thought guns were banned in California.”

“I had a grandpa in Oklahoma,” you said with a smirk. “A paranoid doomsday prepper. Every summer when I stayed with him for a couple of weeks, he made me go through apocalypse survival training. Go figure.”

“That’s…” Stanford whistled softly. “That’s a level of paranoia beyond normal.”

“You’re putting it mildly,” you smiled. “Alright, I’m off. Good night, Stanford.”

However, even when you finally lay down in bed and pulled the blanket over yourself, you couldn’t fall asleep. Too many things flashed before your eyes — that terrible sound and the long bony hand in the woods, the car breaking down, the cycloctopus attack... It was as if you had been deliberately brought to this town — you just couldn’t shake that feeling.
But why would this town need you, an ordinary speech therapist? There was absolutely nothing special about you… right?

For another half hour, you lay there in silence, listening to the faint sounds of Stanford working downstairs. You could almost hear the scratch of his pen against the paper. But what was he writing at such an hour? Don’t scientists need sleep too?

The next thirty minutes you spent at war with yourself — one part of you insisted you try to sleep… while the other demanded you go find out what your companion was writing.
(Or were you his companion, considering you were sleeping in his bed, wearing his T-shirt?)

In the end, the second part of you won. You knew you’d scold yourself in the morning for giving in to your curiosity… but how could you not want to know:

First — what other creatures lurked in this cursed little town.

Second — what kind of man Stanford really was.

Third — whether he had written anything about you in that journal.
Not that his opinion really mattered to you, of course… But again, there was your damn curiosity — the same one that once led you to discover your boyfriend was cheating on you with your roommate. And, just like back then, you couldn’t resist.

Moving as quietly as you could, you slipped out of bed, opened the door, and crept down the stairs. Fortunately, the layout of the house allowed you to peek into Stanford’s workspace without revealing yourself.

He… had fallen asleep at his desk, and looked utterly adorable with that little dimple on his chin and soft cheeks that made it obvious he wasn’t even thirty yet. You carefully glanced at his notes — and saw something you definitely didn’t expect: a sketch of yourself and a page labeled,

“Subject 413. Codename — June.”

At first, you wanted to be outraged, but you kept reading.

“Today I picked up a lost-looking girl. We barely escaped a Hide Behind before it attacked. She claims her car broke down under strange circumstances — I attribute that to UFO anomalies (see page 30 of this journal).

Skills — speech therapist, meaning she knows everything about speech. I wonder if this could be useful in my work? I offered her a position — she didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic.

Excellent shot — claims her grandfather trained her for the apocalypse. Extremely nervous when facing local anomalies. Concerned about her appearance. Smells like… marshmallows and coconut (my entire coat now reeks of those perfumes).

Body type… [crossed out]. Unknown why she was headed to Gravity Falls (ask her?).

Fan of Fleetwood Mac and Black Sabbath. Judging by her looks, manners, and accent — middle class. California? Most likely.

Had to give her my sweater and shirt, because Californians clearly have no idea how to dress for the weather.

I should probably feed her. Curious how she’ll react to coffee and a frozen sandwich.”

You snorted and quietly slipped away. Nothing interesting after all — just an unflattering description of you.

Fine then, you thought, kicking the bed lightly before climbing back in.

Arrogant, smug scientist.

You still couldn’t fall asleep. Your heart was pounding wildly — and not just from anger. Object 413? Seriously? Apparently, he categorized people in his journal the same way he did monsters! And of course, you smelled like marshmallows and coconut — well, sorry for not smelling like “old books and forest dust.”

But the longer you lay there, the stronger a different feeling grew inside you… not quite anger, but something like curious resentment. Why did he decide to write about you at all? Because he didn’t trust you? Or because… you interested him?

You sighed, rolled onto your other side, and closed your eyes. But just as you were about to drift off, a sound came from downstairs — a chair creaked, something fell.

“...Damn,” came Ford’s muffled voice. It seems, he couldn't sleep too.

Chapter Text

Half an hour later, you finally managed to fall asleep. The dreams that came to you were feverish and fragmented, filled with yellow and triangles. You were right in the middle of a dream where the Pyramid of Cheops was trying to convince you that you desperately needed deer teeth instead of your own.

Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

You mumbled something, squeezing your eyes shut tighter.

Knock-knock.

You barely resisted the urge to throw a pillow at the source of the noise.

“What?” you yelled.

“June?” came Stanford’s voice, soft and almost hesitant. “May I come in?”

Your brain took a few seconds to process that. The first thought — Why would he need to do that. The second — I’m definitely doomed. The third — Oh crap, he’ll see me wearing his shirt!

But what choice did you have? Shout “NO”?

“Come in,” you sighed.

He entered immediately, and the moment your brain processed what he was wearing, your face flushed bright red. Stanford was wearing a tight white tank top and green (very short!) shorts. And beneath the tank top, his thick chest hair was clearly visible. Even though you had seen naked men before, this was completely different. You never imagined that such a decent, proper scholar like him would be so… hairy.

“I…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m going for a run. Would you like to come with me?”

You glanced at the clock hanging over the door… Four in the morning???

“At four a.m.?”

“Uh…” he blushed a little. “Yes. I always go at this time. The sun makes my skin burn, and that’s really unpleasant.”

You thought about it — you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again anyway, and after such strange dreams you didn’t really want to. But you also had zero desire to go running at four in the morning.

“I… don’t have anything to run in,” you tried to decline politely.

“I’ll give you my shorts!” Stanford beamed, completely missing the fact that you were trying to refuse. He darted into his room and returned a few seconds later with red shorts and a hoodie. You barely held back a laugh imagining yourself in that outfit. But Stanford was looking at you with such bright eagerness that you realized you couldn’t say no.

“Could you at least step out?” you sighed, resigning yourself to the fact that you were going to be running at four in the morning.

“Oh.” Stanford flushed. “Yes, of course. I’ll wait downstairs.”

You changed into his clothes (they were too big on you), tied your hair into a ponytail, and went downstairs.

Stanford was waiting for you near the stairs.

“Hungry?” he asked, though his eyes widened and a blush spread across his cheeks and even the tips of his ears when he saw you.

“Actually, yeah,” you replied, and your stomach growled in agreement.

“I have…” He ran a hand through his soft, chestnut hair. “Sandwiches and coffee. Will that work?”

At home, you were used to a more substantial breakfast, but after a moment’s thought, you decided that would do.

“Yes,” you nodded. “Lead the way.”

Stanford led you into the kitchen, passing his workspace and casually closing the journal that you now knew had drawings of you in it. Judging by the page he had left open, he had been writing about you again — though you could have sworn you saw a couple of new notes. About you?

“What do you write in your journals?” you asked. Of course, you didn’t need to ask — but a small part of you was still a bit offended about the whole “Object 413” thing.

He flushed an even deeper red, and you thought to yourself that perhaps embarrassed pink was just his natural skin tone.

“Uh! Nothing!” Stanford blurted. “Well, not ‘nothing’ — mostly just the anomalies around here. There are so many anomalies, you should see them!”

“I don’t want to see them,” you muttered, remembering what he had called the “Hider Behind”.

Stanford said nothing, occupied with pouring coffee into two mugs. You sat down at the rough wooden table by the window, and a six-fingered hand handed you your cup. It was black, strong coffee — just from the smell. You grimaced — in San Diego you were used to lattes or cappuccinos, and strong black coffee always made your stomach churn. But there wasn’t much choice, and without that life-giving caffeine you would be completely useless. So you screwed your eyes shut and took a sip, burning your tongue on the bitter liquid and nearly coughing.

“Sandwich?” Stanford asked sympathetically, opening the fridge.

Chapter Text

You were still trying to catch your breath from the climb when the quiet of the dawn forest was shattered by a crack.

Too loud. Too heavy — definitely not a deer.

In a split second, Stanford stopped being the shy scholar. His face tightened, and his voice turned low and sharp:

“Don’t move. And don’t look behind you.”

His hand landed on your shoulder — hot and firm. You felt your heart slam against your ribs.

Which is exactly why you turned around.

Something was moving in the fog between the fir trees.

At first — just a smeared shadow. Then — a shape. A person? No. The figure was too tall, too narrow, its arms hanging almost to the ground.

The fog seemed to cling to it, making short, jagged leaps — like it was fast-forwarding through space.

You blinked — it was closer. Blink again — even closer.

Cold washed through you as if someone had drained the air from your lungs.

Stanford stepped between you and the creature.

"Stanford...what's that?" You whisper.

"I don't know. But don't look on it." he whispered back.

But you stared at the anomaly, not daring to breathe.

It's “face”… or where a face should be… writhed, smoke twisting into an expression of hunger.

“June,” Stanford said quietly, without turning. “Give me your hand."

You looked at your hand — sun-tanned skin, pink nails...And put it to Stanford's six fingered hand. And fear hit so suddenly it stole your breath.

“On the count of three we run,” he whispered. “And we do not close our eyes. Understand?”

You nodded — barely. The mosnter lurched forward, fog whipping around it like wings.

“One…” Stanford stepped back slowly.

“Two…” The monster stretched its hand — fingers long like branches.

“THREE!”

You bolted down the trail, stumbling over roots, hearing colors vanish behind you.

The creature’s hand reached for you, and you felt ghostly fingers brush the tips of your hair.
You could almost hear the strands losing their color.
Panic surged through you — you sprinted faster, overtaking Stanford.

The entity whispered something after you — a hissed, hungry chant — as it kept lunging to reclaim its prey: the two of you.

Your body started to give out, and somewhere deep inside you had already accepted the thought that your life would end inside that monster’s jaws… when something happened that saved you both.

Sunlight broke through the treetops.

The creature hissed — and slowed.

“Left!” Stanford shouted, yanking your hand.

For once — a very rare once — you didn’t argue.
You ran as fast as your legs could possibly carry you.

Stanford stayed right beside you, guiding the way.
You didn’t care that fir branches scratched your skin, slapped your face, that your sneakers sank into wet grass and dirt.

Every instinct you had screamed one thing:

Run.
Get away.
Survive.

You burst out onto the clearing in front of Stanford’s cabin.
The creature roared, making a few desperate attempts to reach the two of you again — but the moment sunlight kissed its skin, it hissed and finally withdrew.

You couldn’t help it — hysterical laughter erupted from your chest.

“SCREW YOU, MONSTER!” you shouted, laughing even harder.

“June,” Stanford gently set his hands on your shoulders, as if afraid you might shove him away.
“June, please… calm down. You’re safe now.”

“Me? Safe?” you giggled again.
“Just look at my hair, Stanford!”

He carefully took a strand between his fingers — around an inch at the ends had turned stark white.

“Incredible,” he breathed, mesmerized.
“This creature drains the color out of anything it touches. This is… astonishing!”

“Astonishing?” you snapped.
“Part of my hair is gray now, and you call it astonishing?”

“But it is astonishing!” Stanford insisted.
“There’s so much potential for research! And you can just trim the ends.”

You snorted — to be fair, you hadn’t thought of that.
But the fact that a casual morning run had nearly killed you was more than a little upsetting… and made you more than a little angry.

“I almost died!” you grumbled.

“I—!” Stanford started to protest, defensive at first… but then realization hit him like a brick. He had failed you — someone who trusted him — and put you in danger.
“I’m sorry… Did you get hurt anywhere?”

“A little,” you muttered, not having expected him to give in that easily. Your left knee did sting, but at least he apologized.
Your ex… he never apologized.

“I’m sorry,” Stanford repeated, wincing as he rubbed the back of his neck, making his already fluffy hair even messier.
“Come on, I’ll get you a band-aid.”

Even though you were still a bit mad at this crazy scientist (just a little, if you were honest), you obediently followed him inside the cabin, already dreaming of collapsing into bed and burying yourself under blankets to make up for the sleep Stanford robbed you of.

He, meanwhile, guided you into his room — and you tried your best not to combust from the sudden realization that a man who was basically a stranger was about to touch you.

“I can do it myself!” you blurted when his six-fingered hand hovered over your knee with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

“June…” Stanford sighed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think this is the first time something out there attacked me? I’ve patched up my knees more times than I can count, and I can definitely handle this better than you. So how about you let me help you, okay?”

“Fine,” you huffed, sticking your knee out so he could treat the scrape.

Stanford’s movements were careful, like he was tending to a wounded animal. He was so gentle that, if not for the anger still simmering under your skin, you might have forgiven him right then and there.

“June…” he said quietly as he smoothed the band-aid in place.
“I know you’ll probably tell me to go to hell, but… my duty as a scientist requires me to ask. While we were running, that monster made sounds — like words. I memorized them perfectly. Could you… help me interpret what they mean? As June, I failed you. But maybe you can help me as a colleague — a scientist and speech therapist?”

A chill ran through your body at the memory of that creature, and your first instinct was to shout NO and bolt out of the room.
But once the rush of fear ebbed, logic crept back in — that thing wasn’t going anywhere. And if you helped decode its language, maybe there would be a way to defend yourselves… against the “Shade,” as you had named it in your head.

“…Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll help you. But can I please go to sleep first?”

“What?” Stanford blushed as if he hadn’t expected you to agree so quickly.
“Yes! Yes, of course — go! I’m done.”

At first, when a shiver ran through your body at the memory of the creature, you wanted to shout “NO!” and run away. But once the initial fear faded, logic settled in — that monster wasn’t going anywhere. If you helped understand it now, there was a chance you could find a way to protect yourselves from the thing you’d dubbed “the Shade.”

“…Alright,” you sighed. “I’ll help you. But can I please go to sleep now?”

“What?” Stanford flushed, clearly not expecting such quick agreement.
“Yes! Yes, of course — go ahead. I’m done.”

You got up and hurried out, thinking only of how quickly you could reach a bed and sleep — chasing away the nightmare of that morning run. In the guest room, you collapsed onto the mattress without even undressing, and sleep swallowed you immediately, offering merciful oblivion.

Stanford — or Ford, as he thought of himself — exhaled as the door closed behind you.
Honestly, Ford had never known how to communicate with women. The last girl he tried to flirt with splashed punch in his face at a school dance. Before that, there was Caitie Kresnau — a pretty girl in elementary school who once screamed louder than if she had seen a spider just because she’d been told to hold his hand.

And now, there was you.
Your nickname suited you perfectly — your skin was as fresh as June leaves, your freckles like scattered sunbeams, and your smile as calm and warm as a summer lake. You had clearly noticed his six fingers — yet said nothing about it. And you were so kind, so brave… you didn’t reject him, even though the unimaginable had chased you through the forest.

Stanford's hand involuntarily reached down his pants, though his brain begged him to stop. But he didn't want to

Chapter Text

The sleep did not bring the desired oblivion.
You tossed in a thin, anxious half-dream where overly long shadows bled through the fog, and a hungry whisper stalked you both from behind.

You awoke with a sharp gasp, your heart pounding violently in your chest, and the sheets tangled into a tight knot around your legs. Outside the cabin’s living room window, the sun was already sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in orange and violet tones. You two had slept practically the entire day.

The scent of strong coffee and something burnt filled the air.
Getting out of the room turned out to be much harder than collapsing into it had been. Every muscle in your body protested, and the neat band-aid on your knee reminded you that the morning had not been a nightmare.

Stanford was sitting at his cluttered desk, staring at an open journal. His posture was tense, his gaze — focused yet distant. Beside him rested a mug of steaming coffee and a plate with two charred pieces of toast. He didn’t notice you at first, fully consumed by his thoughts.

You cleared your throat, and he flinched, whipping around.
Something flickered across his face — guilt? Embarrassment? — but he quickly masked it, slipping back into his usual scholarly composure.

“Ah, June. You’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”
His voice sounded deliberately calm.

“Like I got hit by a truck and then it backed up just to make sure,” you muttered, dropping heavily onto the couch. “And you, Stanford?”

“Me? I’m fine. I’ve… been working.” He gestured toward the journal, his six fingers curling slightly.
“I wrote down those sounds. The… chant it kept repeating.”

A cold shiver raced down your spine. Thinking about it was the last thing you wanted — but there was no turning back now.

“And?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Stanford ran a hand down his face. He looked exhausted.

“It’s not just meaningless noise, June. There’s structure to it. Phonemes I’ve never heard, but they form something… repetitive. I tried transcribing it with the IPA but…”
He pushed the journal closer so you could see. The page was covered in complex symbols and notes.
“My knowledge of linguistics isn’t enough. I need your professional ear.”

You swayed a little as you approached the desk, your legs still weak. Your eyes slid over the maze of markings. Stanford was right — there was a rhythm there. A pattern.

“Can you… pronounce it?” you asked softly.

Stanford nodded. Checking the notes, he produced a series of guttural, hissing sounds. They were devoid of warmth — cold and hollow like the mist the creature had emerged from. The sounds scraped across your eardrums, yet they held a disturbing logic.

You closed your eyes, letting the noises echo through your memory. Your speech therapy training kicked in automatically, analyzing articulation, air flow, possible points of sound formation.

“Stop,” you interrupted.
“That guttural stop… it’s not at the beginning of the syllable. It feels more like… like an assertion. A cruel punctuation mark.”

Stanford stared at you with a fresh, ravenous curiosity.
All his earlier fear and guilt seemed to melt away — replaced by pure, insatiable fascination.

“You hear that on the first try, June? Remarkable!” he breathed, full of awe.
“I’ve been struggling with that for hours!”

“It’s my job, Stanford,” you gently reminded him.
“I help people learn to form sounds again. And this… this is just another set. Horrifying and monstrous, yes — but still a system.”

You both fell silent, staring at the journal.
The symbols no longer looked like meaningless scribbles. Now they were a key.
A first crack in the door hiding something incomprehensible.

“It wasn’t just chasing us, June,” Stanford said quietly. “It was saying something. Speaking to us. And if we can understand what exactly…”

He didn’t finish — but the conclusion hung in the air, heavy and undeniable:

We will learn what it wants.
We have to.

Stanford adjusted his glasses — a small, nervous gesture that betrayed more than he wanted.
The journal lay open between you, the symbols sharp and alien under the desk lamp’s glow.
Outside, dusk thickened into night. The forest swallowed the last of the colors.

Inside the cabin, only the two of you remained awake.

“You said that sound… at the end,” Stanford murmured, leaning forward slightly,
“was like a… finality marker. A command.”

His voice was low — not the flustered awkwardness from before, but something steadier.
Focused. Intense.

He was still Stanford — but the fear had been replaced by determination.

You swallowed, trying to ignore how close he was sitting now.
His shoulder almost brushed yours.

“Yes,” you answered, forcing your voice to stay even.
“It wasn’t random. It had intent.”

Stanford’s eyes flicked toward you — amber in the lamplight.
There was gratitude there… and something warmer, quieter.

He tapped the page with a long finger — the middle one, slightly longer because of the sixth beside it.

“So this,” he said, pointing to a jagged symbol,
“Feels like… a subject marker?”

You leaned in, following his notes.
The scent of his coffee and campfire soap drifted to you — grounding but distracting.

“Maybe,” you murmured, your brow furrowing.
“But the front vowel there… that’s a modifier.
It changes depending on the listener. I think…”
You hesitated — the memory prickling cold across your skin.
“—I think it was talking to me.”

Silence.

Stanford looked up sharply.
His pupils widened — protective instinct flaring.

“To you?”
His voice dropped even lower.
“June… why you?”

You forced a breath out.

“Probably because I stared at it first,” you tried to joke.
It wasn’t funny.
Your laugh came out thin and brittle.

Stanford’s jaw clenched — guilt returning, heavier this time.

“I shouldn’t have let you turn around,” he muttered.
“You trusted me. I failed you.”

Before you could respond, he reached — hesitated — and then gently tucked one of your white-tipped strands behind your ear.
His fingertips brushed your skin, barely there.

Warmth shot through you.
Ridiculous — after everything, this made your breath catch?

He pulled his hand back as if burned.

“S-sorry,” he stammered.
“I just— it was—”

“It’s fine,” you whispered.

You both pretended not to notice the silence after.
Not to notice how it changed things.

You refocused on the page — safer territory.
“Listen,” you said, pointing to a cluster of sounds,
“This part repeated. Three times.”

Stanford leaned close, so close his shoulder finally brushed yours.

He whispered the sounds, breath soft against your cheek — an imitation so precise it sent a shudder down your spine.
The room seemed to shrink around the two of you — around that voice.

You grabbed the pencil to steady yourself — and translated:

“Come back.
Come back.
Come back.”

Stanford went very still.

You both stared at the words.

The room felt suddenly colder.

“…It wants us,” you breathed.
“Not food. Not prey. Us. Specifically.”

Stanford’s voice was barely a whisper:

“June… I think this monster knows your name.”