Chapter Text
Have you ever felt like an outsider in your own skin?
It's not every day that one answers the door to find a half-naked wildman standing there on the porch. But as far as weird events go, it's not like Dipper could say this cracked the top 10. Maybe a solid 12, if he was feeling generous.
The man on the porch looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a hedge for half a mile, cuts and mud stains all over his bare chest. A few twigs stuck haphazardly up in his blond hair, and the man's brown eyes - so dark they were almost black - looked absolutely crazed.
“Oh thank the stars,” the man babbled. “Finally some civilization! I'm so sick of stupid nature!”
It took Dipper all of three seconds to slam the door again in the man's face. For a brief moment, it was blissfully silent, then the previous knocking resumed in intensity, nearly rattling the window out of its pane. Dipper took a cautious step backwards.
“Uhhh… Stan? There's a Tarzan guy on the porch…” he called feebly.
“A what?!” came the shocked reply.
Dipper nearly screamed at the sight of the stranger's face suddenly pressed against the window and peering blearily into the shop. The boy took a moment to be thankful that there had been no customers that morning. The last thing the Mystery Shack needed was to catch a public indecency charge.
He nearly screamed again when he felt Stan’s large, calloused hand come down on his shoulder. “Woah, woah, easy Poindexter 2.0. What's got you so rattled? Something about Tarzan?”
Dipper could only glance from the stranger to his grunkle, then point. Stan's eyes followed the path of his nephew's arm, then blurted out an expletive that would have potentially raised the rating of this fic from T to M. “Who is that?!”
“Heck if I know! He just showed up!”
At the sight of Dipper’s visible distress, Stan shucked off his suit jacket and handed it to him. “Hold this, kid. I don't wanna get blood on my nice things.”
Dipper accepted the jacket with a grim nod as Stan yanked open the door. The man peering through its window nearly pitched forward onto the floor, having to pinwheel his scrawny arms to stay upright. “Alright, buster, you've got five seconds to tell me who you are and what you want before I make myself a new necklace outta your teeth!”
“Niiiice one Grunkle Stan,” Dipper muttered under his breath.
The man on the porch squeaked in fright and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Wait, wait, wait! I'm just as confused as you are!” he babbled.
Stan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What?”
The strange man took that as permission to continue.
“Well, I- I don't really know what's going on or where I am. I’ve been lost in the woods…” He took a shuddering breath. “...for three days .” His voice cracked on the last word. “Your house is the first I’ve seen since then, and I could really use some help right now.”
Dipper peered around Stan's legs to get a better look at the poor guy. Now that the initial shock had died down, he could see just how badly this stranger looked.
He was skinny, his stomach curved inwards a bit. His khaki shorts had definitely seen better days and his cheap flip flops looked like they would fall apart any moment. His lips were cracked from dehydration. Before Dipper could chime in, there came the rapid thumpthumpthump of Mabel running down the stairs. “Dip! Wanna see how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth? I bet I can beat last year's record and-”
She skidded to a stop at the sight of the stranger. Her bag of marshmallows dropped to the ground as she whispered, “...rugged wildman…” with wide eyes.
The “wild man” scrunched his face in clear distaste at her comment. Mabel’s own face split into a wide grin as she giggles behind her hands. “Dipper, who's your friend?”
“Seriously, Mabel? This isn't the best time for your boy-craziness.”
“Agreed,” Stan huffed. “Guy looks like he's about to drop dead any second.”
“I… I think I might be, actually,” the stranger said with an unsteady wobble.
Stan sighed and stood aside, gesturing for the man to come in. “Yeah, well, I don't wanna have to explain to Sheriff Blubs why there's a corpse on my property, so I guess you can come in.” he sighed. “Just don't touch anything. I’m gonna get my brother and see if we can help you.”
The man's responding smile was one of profound relief as he limped over the threshold. Mabel squealed in excitement and the stranger gave her a wide berth before plopping himself down on the couch. Despite that, Mabel popped up from behind the couch, dangling over the backrest and kicking her legs.
“Sooooo what's your name, stranger?” she giggled.
“Uh…” The man shifted uncomfortably. “I don't know, actually.”
“What do you mean you don't know?” Dipper asked.
The stranger looked visibly annoyed and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Stan returning with a glass of water and a first aid kit. The stranger snatched the water and drank greedily. Ford trailed close behind Stan, looking equal parts concerned and miffed at having his work interrupted. When his eyes fell on the stranger seated atop this couch, all the frustration fled from his face at the sight of someone clearly in distress.
“Oh God, Stan. You weren't kidding. He looks pretty bad,” he said.
“Yeah. I know. So help me get him patched up so we can get him outta here,” Stan replied.
Ford felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced down at Dipper. “Yes, what is it?”
“He says he doesn't remember his name,” Dipper whispered.
The stranger yelped when Stan plucked a particularly nasty splinter from his arm and Ford winced in sympathy. His time spent hopping dimensions had given Ford a healthy dose of skepticism, but from what he could see, the stranger's confusion appeared to be genuine. Ford awkwardly cleared his throat.
“So, uh, how did you get lost in the woods? Are you visiting for the summer?” he asked.
The stranger gave an outraged squeak as Mabel yanked a twig from his hair, taking a good-sized tuft with it.
“No!” he snapped. “I… I don't know what's going on! I just woke up in the middle of nowhere!”
“And before that?” Ford asked. “What were you doing? Were you with someone?”
“I don't know!” The stranger looked close to tears now. “When I say I can't remember anything, I mean I can't remember anything. Everything before three days ago is just…”
He made a whooshing noise and spread his fingers apart in front of his face, pantomiming his memories being blown away in the wind. He steadfastly ignored Mabel's mimicry of his woosh. Ford's brow furrowed and even Stan seemed perturbed at that. He'd had his fair share of nights that he couldn't remember the next morning, but a whole lifetime? That had to be from some kind of serious brain damage. Despite the somewhat childish behavior, the stranger looked to be at least in his late twenties to early thirties. That was a lot of time to lose. Everyone assembled immediately leapt to their own theories ranging from alien abduction (Dipper) to drug smuggling bust gone wrong (Stan). Thankfully they all knew better than to say as much. Ford brought them all back to the present by clearing his throat again.
“Well, uh, stranger… Do you happen to have at least an inkling about who you are? Even a name that sounds vaguely familiar?” he asked.
The stranger's face scrunched in pain as Stan carefully dabbed at a cut above his eyebrow with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
“Well, there's the, uh, the shape of one in my head. Dunno how to describe it other than that,” the stranger said with a shrug. “I think it started with a W?”
“Wilford!” Mabel practically screeched into his ear.
“Walburton,” Dipper chimed in.
“Walt?” Stan added with a chuckle as he rooted in the first aid kit for a bandage. “Knew a guy named Walt back in Colombia. Little jerk still owes me thirty bucks…”
“William?” Ford suggested. The stranger jolted at that and everyone turned to look at Ford, who simply shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “What? It's a nice name. That’s the name of my favorite constellation.”
As Stan began wrapping up a nasty scrape on their guest's shin, the stranger hummed thoughtfully.
“Or, wait, maybe it was a B?” he muttered.
Once again the room erupted into name guesses.
“Blueford!”
“Beatrice?”
“Brandon?”
“Bartholomew?”
“...Bill...” When the stranger uttered that name, he was completely oblivious to the way everyone else in the room froze in place. “Yeah… something about that name… so familiar…. Bill…. Bill…”
“Stan. Kids. Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a moment?” Ford asked, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice.
The younger set of twins nodded and bolted for the relative security of the kitchen with Ford following close behind them. Stan, having finished his ministrations, clapped the first aid kid closed and rose to his feet. He jabbed an accusing finger at the amnesiac on his sofa. “Don't. Move. I'm gonna… talk to my family and then I'll, I dunno, bring you some food or something. You like chips?”
The stranger nodded meekly and Stan used that to dismiss himself to the kitchen. When he arrived, he did so to the sight of Dipper and Mabel sitting at the table, looking haunted, and Ford leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
“You aren't thinking what I’m thinking, are you?” Mabel asked her brother.
“I think I am. Grunkle Ford? That guy out there can't really be…?”
“I'm afraid so,” Ford intoned gravely. “It's clear that he's another victim of Bill's insane machinations.”
“Yeesh, poor guy,” Stan grimaced, reaching into the cupboard for the promised chips. “No wonder he looks so bad. Must have just escaped or something.”
“But Bill's dead!” Dipper exclaimed. “Remember, Grunkle Stan? You punched him to pieces last year.”
“Yeah, it was pretty awesome,” Stan chuckled at his own clever ruse.
“Now calm down, kids, I never said that Bill was still alive,” said Ford. “I'm saying that perhaps we weren't the only ones to catch Bill's ire. Stan's probably right that this man may have only just now managed to find a way out of whatever prison Bill kept him in.”
“Guy could also just be absolutely bonkers,” Stan pointed out. “I feel like a year in captivity is something you would remember.”
Ford didn't have the heart to point out that everyone reacted to trauma differently. If this poor nameless soul had suppressed all memories of his imprisonment, it must have been some truly gruesome torture he endured. Instead of objecting, however, Ford chose to lean into Stan's suggestion. “You also make a good point. He's just as likely to be someone with mental or neurological difficulties who got separated from his family or caretakers. In which case, we're lucky to have found him. They're probably worried sick.”
“Sounds like we have another summer of mystery on our hands,” Dipper declared triumphantly.
“Indeed so,” Ford conceded.
“So what are we gonna do about him?” Mabel asked, casting a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the living room. The stranger remained where he had been instructed to, but now has his knees drawn up to his chest as if to make himself smaller. He kept looking around at the interior of the shack in a mixture of confusion and wonder.
Ford pushed himself off the counter. “Well, first we're gonna get him fed and cleaned and maybe some fresh clothes. Then, Dipper and I will go into town and inquire about any missing persons cases currently active. Stan, you and Mabel stay here and make sure he's okay in the meantime.”
Mabel gasped in delight. “A makeover! I know just the outfit for him. Grunkle Ford, can I borrow one of your sweaters?”
“What are we gonna call him in the meantime?” Stan interrupted.
“He's not a pet, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper muttered in reply.
Ford took the bag of chips from Stan's hand and exited the kitchen. “Here, let me talk to him about that.” When he returned to the living room, he didn't miss the way the stranger's eyes hungrily tracked the swaying of the bag. Ford handed it over and had to snatch his hand back like he'd just fed a starving wild animal. The way their guest tore into the bag of tortilla chips certainly reminded him of one. He took a steadying breath and lowered himself down to sit beside the guest. The man clutched the bag protectively to his chest and glared, but didn't protest. “Alright, ah… young man. Since you can't remember your name, is it alright if we call you William?”
“Boooo! I like Blueford!” Mabel yelled from the kitchen.
The guest shifted uncomfortably.
“I… it doesn't sound right… but… but I guess it's better than nothing. Okay. William. I'll get used to it,” he finally said after a tense moment.
Ford's answering smile was kind as he gently patted the other's knee. “I'm glad to hear it. My niece, Mabel, and my brother, Stanley, will help get you cleaned up. My nephew Dipper and I will head into town and see if we can't find your family.”
The newly christened William hugged the bag of tortilla chips to his chest like a stuffed animal.
“I don't think I have a family,” he said, barely loud enough for Ford to hear.
“Don’t think like that, William,” Ford chided gently. “I bet they're looking for you right now. Just stay here and rest up; we'll take care of you.”
William gave him a wobbly smile of gratitude and Ford could have sworn that, for a split second, the young man's teeth were sharper than they should have been. But surely it was just a trick of the light. Ford rose from the couch and called for his nephew. “Dipper, let's go! We've got a case to crack.”
“Woohoo!!”
The teen skidded out of the kitchen and beat his grunkle to the door, throwing it open to bound outside and towards the car. Ford grabbed the keys from Stan's now-abandoned suit jacket. Before he left, he spared a moment for one last glance at William. The man was now sitting cross-legged on the couch, and inspecting his snack. He held a tortilla chip aloft and turned the small, triangular thing over as if he were trying to determine its secrets of salty, corny goodness. Ford barely noticed that he'd been gripping the doorframe until he pried his stiffening fingers away from it.
Bill, if you've hurt someone else like you did to me and my family, I’m taking a crowbar to your stupid little statue…