That first day they entered the gift shop and took their place behind the register he spent a cursory period monitoring the new employee’s behavior. Just a perfectly normal hour or so watching their blurry form on the live stream from the camera in an attempt to discern any ill intent. No suspicious behavior was exhibited so he eventually turned away, with a mental note to do the same over the next few days. Something of a probationary period for this interloper. He gave little further thought to them until many hours later.

He was deep in his work- linguistic study of the strange emoji-like hieroglyphs of dimension :-P- when he heard thumps and yells trickling down from the stairwell. His head snapped to the camera, frustrated at the break in concentration as well as confused. It takes quite a bit of ruckus to make its way down to his study. It was the new employee, alone in the gift shop, mop in hand. His eyes bounced to the timestamp in the bottom right corner of the small CRT screen: 7:08 pm. They must have offered to stay late to clean, a gesture of kindness or a symptom of nothing better to do. They turned in their spot and he could see their mouth open wide, face screwed up in fervor. They were singing along with a song they were blasting over the speakers. And dancing, too. Both were clumsy but compelling. He watched them two step and wiggle and swivel around the mop as their lips formed lyrics that obviously meant something to them. The distant voice he could hear wasn’t sweet, far from pitch perfect, but he didn't dislike it. His eyes remained on them for the duration of the song, until it was over, transitioning to the next one in the queue. He watched them sigh heavily, roll their shoulders, and begin mopping again in earnest, reducing their previous ardor to a hum and a head bob. His eyes lingered on the camera for a few moments before wrenching them away.

Back to his work.

+++

He watched this new addition do a lot of things over the next few days. He watched them joke with Mabel, talk enthusiastically with Dipper, roll their eyes at customers with Wendy. He caught himself staring at the blurry little form of them with a fair frequency. This was normal, he told himself. He doesn’t know this individual, and it seems like they’re already getting close to the rest of the family. Of course he’d want to learn more about them. Sure, it’s been several days and he hasn’t met them in person yet. But that’s normal too. He likes to spend the Shack’s working hours away from all the hubbub, down in his basement, surrounded by his books and experiments and many scientific instruments of highly specific purpose. The chance for an encounter just hasn't occurred yet.

When he installed microphones on the cameras he told himself it was simply for further security.

+++

The first thing he heard from them was a laugh. Stan had gotten them with some corny pun and drawn out a peal of laughter despite themselves. It was a nice laugh, he thought, a small and wily consideration that slipped his notice.

The second thing he heard from them was a conversation with Dipper. It was about history. They were surprisingly knowledgeable about the topic at hand, and their dialogue with Dipper was animated, enthusiastic. Dipper parroted a common misconception of the subject, and he found himself muttering under his breath the exact same correction as them. He chuckled to himself. A joke he couldn’t share.

The third thing he heard was their name. Melody called it from the kitchen, urging them to take a lunch break. As they perked up and walked out of the scope of the camera, Ford said the name to himself, just twice. Once to commit it to memory, again to let it roll around on his tongue. To savor it. Though he wouldn’t call it that himself. No, of course not. He just wanted to ensure he got it right. That’s all.

+++

It’s one thing interacting with someone face to face, seeing the parts of themselves they put on when they know they’re being perceived directly. Even those who claim to be the least bothered by societal convention act differently when in the presence of another person. It’s an entirely new ballgame to observe someone when they assume they are unobserved.

He watched how they chewed on their fingers when they thought no one was looking. How they could never seem to stand still, always shifting their weight, often swaying side to side to alleviate the ache in their knees. He saw them bend at the waist and lean over the counter as the crowd thinned, elbow on counter, chin in hand, lazily swaying their left leg back and forth on the toe of their shoe, the sunlight filtering through the windows and lighting the curve of their back. He saw all of this and he started to know them in ways most others never would.

He still couldn’t see them very well, though. The camera feed was grainy and the monitors were small. They were little more than a handful of pixels to him, though an admittedly compelling handful. Still, he was frustrated by the lack of clarity and he resolved that early the next morning he’d upgrade the cameras. Just another safety measure.

+++

That evening he went upstairs long after the crowd at the shop had been extricated to seek some leftovers from the fridge. Stan had gotten decent at cooking since caring for the twins and having to get creative with mealtime on a boat hundreds of miles out to sea, and fortunately for Ford, he always cooked far too much. He always left the remains in the fridge, free for his brother to come up and forage. Stan happened to be washing the dishes as Ford approached. He turned to face him.

“Oh good, you’ve decided to come up outta your hole. I got a favor I need'ta ask.”

Ford suppressed a smirk. Stanley couldn’t help himself from coming up with both new exhibition ideas, ideas that would sometimes require Ford’s technical prowess to complete. Ford didn't really mind- he had to admit they could be fun projects to work on. Stan removed his hands from the soapy water and dried them on his pants so he could properly gesticulate to convey his vision. He had just gotten to the part where the Sascrotch would be an animatronic that would throw bananas at the crowd when they were interrupted.

“Hey, don’t freak out, it’s just me, I forgot someth-”

They turned the corner and froze in the doorway when they registered the presence of two men. Two nearly identical men. Their eyebrows shot up, then their head tilted, then a disbelieving grin carved up the right half of their face. Their eyes fixed on Ford.

Handful of pixels became flesh, sharp and crisp, all too real, almost shocking. He watched their eyes dart from Stan’s, to Ford's, down Ford’s body, and then back up again. Ford was frozen. He felt like he’d been caught by something as he stared in the face of what he’d previously had to use his imagination to fill in the blanks of thanks to the poor quality cameras. His assumptions were paltry compared to the real thing breathing and smiling and crinkling their eyes in front of him.

It's overwhelming. And now here he stands, feeling like a trapped animal, desperate to act causal.

“I didn’t know there were two of you.”

Ford doesn’t see Stan regard him with a small confused look before answering.

“What, you haven’t met Sixer yet?”

Their smile widens.

“Sixer? No, I can’t say I have.”

Ford hastily pulls himself together with a clearing of his throat and adjustment of his posture.

“Yes, well, I am usually kept busy with my work. Our paths just haven’t crossed yet.”

“Oh, where do you work?”

“The basement.”

They snort, thinking it’s a joke.

“Nah, he’s being real. He works in the basement here. You know that vending machine in the gift shop? That’s actually the door. It’s a whole thing.”

“Yes, it is indeed a ‘whole thing’. But regardless, it's nice to meet you,” he says, and appends the sentence with their name. His gut seizes as he realizes the mistake and they cock their head even further; again, he misses the glance Stan throws at him.

“How did you know my name?”

Wheels sputter in his brain. He keeps his response brief.

“The kids have made mention of you before.” They smile, obviously pleased at the answer. His relief in this moment is immeasurable.

“That’s very sweet of them. I’d heard them mention a Grunkle Ford, but I just assumed you weren’t around.”

“Hell, he barely is. Who knows whatever nerd stuff he gets up to down there. Might as well be in Cabo Wabo.”

They snort again. “Well, it's nice to meet you too...” They step forward and reach their hand out to him. A handshake. Skin to skin contact. This is almost too much. Just a few minutes ago his perception of them had been little more than a tinny voice and a one-inch tall figure on a CRT screen, and now he was about to touch them?

"Do you prefer a first name basis, or do you want me to call you mister?"

Thanks to his intense self-discipline, Ford pretends he is not bothered by this situation in any way, and gives the reaction he knows is expected of him: a grasping of their hand followed by a sentence confirming how he'd like to be referred to. He swallows a stutter as they touch. He almost expected to feel the ambient fuzz of the CRT screen as he gripped their flesh, but it's far more pleasant that that, their hand is soft and warm and smaller compared to his and he can just about feel the blood flowing in their fingers and-

Again, he exhibits mastery over himself and cuts off the train of thought. They make firm eye contact the entire time- if they notice his extra finger, they don't show it.

"Ford is sufficient. Mister wouldn't be entirely appropriate anyways, it'd have to be 'doctor'."

Their eyes widen slightly- they dart to Stan, and he knows his brother is rolling his eyes right now. To his relief they give him a smile devoid of irony. "Well, nice to meet you, Doctor Ford. And y'know, if you ever wanna talk about your nerd stuff, I’d love to listen. I’m definitely not a doctor, but I am something of a nerd myself.”

Ford manages something along the lines of “sure, sometime” before releasing their hand. They let their gaze and their smile linger on him for another chest-piercing moment before breaking them both, quickly grabbing their sweater off the back of a chair at the kitchen table, and making their leave. Before they vanish beyond the door frame, they wave to both twins and say jokingly, “If there’s actually three of you, you better tell me.”

Stan laughs and reassures them it's just the two. Ford remains rigid. He's counting in his head.