All For You

by Zoe_Nightshade27

Summary:

What would Stanley have done if he'd been left with the second journal instead of the first one after pushing Ford into the portal? What if Bill was a little more evil than Disney would allow? What if Ford stopped being an asshole and grew up thirty years faster? They love each other, they're both just idiots.

This fic is basically six in a trench coat but I refuse to split it up now because It would screw up the comments from before I realized. Oops.

Getting Ford back: 1-26
Getting Stan back: 27-37
Getting our heads out of our asses: 38-50
Tying up loose ends: 51-61
Talking is hard: 62-68
That's a wrap: 69-70

Also! I'm doing all the proof reading myself so please ignore any spelling mistakes. I'm doing my best.

Notes:

I literally have so many feelings about these two brothers. Like, they're both absolute morons! But I love them. And I just couldn't get this idea out of my head, so enjoy! And I'm sorry in advance.

Chapter 1: Mistakes

It had been ridiculous to think that Stan could have anything nice in his life. He hadn’t had anything nice since the summer Ford and he had turned seventeen.

Everything had seemed so hopeful in those days. They’d spent at least half the summer working on the Stan of War, getting it ship shape for the following summer when they were due to graduate. It was supposed to be adventures, treasure, and babes for both of them.

Or at least that’s what they’d said. Although Stan had always secretly known it would be difficult to see Ford flirting with other people. Not that he thought he would, since Ford had flirted with a total of one person.

The resulting punch-covered suit had not gone over well with pops.

The point was that everything had turned into a complete shitstorm from the start of senior year. Ford had very slowly pulled away more and more. Throwing himself into his studies until the only time they really spent together was when they worked on homework. It was ridiculous that he eventually started looking forward to that hour each day where they’d sit together on the floor and he’d mostly just copy Ford’s work, changing a few things so it wasn’t as obvious. At least Ford had given him that. If they hadn’t shared a room, he was sure he’d have flunked out much earlier in the year.

They struggled along anyway, Stan valiantly fighting tooth and nail to draw Ford back out like things had been the summer before. But it never felt like enough. He caught glimpses. Sometimes a joke would land just right and he’d get a real genuine smile, but by spring even those were gone.

Then there was the science fair and everything really blew up from there.

It was ridiculous to think he’d complained before about losing Ford. Then he’d gone and screwed everything up a million times worse. It was easily the worst thing he’d ever done and there hadn’t been any way to take it back.

Or he couldn’t have seen it like that back then. Now the answer was obvious. He should have told Ford. Maybe he could have fixed it in time. Maybe then he could have at least still had some sort of relationship with his other half.

Instead, his life had become one long joke caused by his own horrible choices. One long life of scams, crimes, and prison stays. Dozens of high-speed chases, several close calls with death, and he’d stooped to all-time lows just to have something to eat and somewhere to stay. Even if more often than not it was just his car with some gas so it wasn’t freezing cold.

He was tired, beyond tired, of how hard it all was.

Ever since that summer, everything in his life had been an uphill battle. School. Ford. Family. Food. Shelter. Everything.

So, it had seemed like a no-brainer to pack up and run to Oregon when he’d gotten the postcard. It was a beacon of light and hope in the otherwise dark life of Stanley Pines. Hope that despite everything maybe Ford did still care about him even all these years later.

He’d hoped, against all odds, that maybe they could fix things. If he went, they could somehow talk things out and make things right. This was his chance to make things easier on himself and get life back on track. His past and money troubles would be more bearable if he could at least call and talk with Ford every once in a while.

He didn’t let himself hope for anything more than that. They’d patch things up, he’d do whatever favor Ford called him there for in the first place, and then occasionally maybe they’d talk. A Christmas card, maybe an exchange of terrible birthday presents in the mail. Something.

But then he’d gone and screwed that up too.

He hadn’t been able to keep his own damn mouth under control for once. Yes, Ford had asked some pretty crazy things of him, but he’d already known from the crossbow Ford wasn’t exactly all there.

And he’d gone and antagonized him, resulting in the fight. The newest worst thing he’d ever done.

He’d thought he’d already lost his brother, but now there was this undeniable feeling in his chest that Ford was gone and he was too stupid to bring him back.

Ford was a fucking genius! He was a high school dropout who had started copying his math homework somewhere around middle school. How was he supposed to fix that stupid portal and get his brother back?

The simple answer was he couldn’t. It wasn’t going to happen.

He could chew his way out of a car, get the shit beat out of him twice a week, and sell his body for quick cash. But Ford was the brains and he was the bronze. That’s how they worked. It worked perfectly for seventeen God damn years.

But now that dynamic was broken and it was up to him to bring Ford back.

His brother was doomed.

He’d tried, really tried, for two whole days down in the basement messing with switches and wires, just trying anything the two of them might have screwed up during their fight. But nothing had worked. No combination produced more than some sad sparks.

The thing was truly busted and between his lack of education, the missing journals, and low funds he didn’t see any way forward from here.

Still. He was nothing if not stubborn, even when everything felt hopeless. He searched the whole house top to bottom, reading every stupid scrap of paper over the next week out of hopes one of them would hold the key to making everything right.

Damn, Ford kept a lot of stupid and incoherent notes.

Ford’s deteriorated mental state was clearer the more and more notes he read.

It also became clear that something much more sinister was going on here in Ford’s house than he’d originally thought.

He knew his brother hadn’t been sleeping and the seemingly endless cups of coffee all around the house only solidified that theory. But the more he read the more he started to doubt Ford had just gone cuckoo.

Yes, he’d been acting nuts, but what solidified it was a videotape he found lost under the couch.

That man on screen was not his brother. It was something putting on a very realistic show of being Ford, at least physically, but Ford would never throw himself off a roof for fun. And that voice, that laugh, those eyes. That wasn’t Ford either.

So maybe the journal Ford had given him wasn’t a complete wash after all. He was able to learn who had been possessing his brother.

A demon named Bill.

He didn’t know how long this demon had been tormenting his twin, but it was long enough for him to have asked him for help as a last resort.

Surely, he could find something, anything, in this shack that could help.

After turning the whole place upside down the only two things that stood out to him was a conveniently tied piece of rope he’d found in Ford’s room, (He didn’t let himself dwell on why Ford had a noose in his closet. It was just too upsetting to think about what would have happened if he’d blindly taken the book and left. Or worse, if he hadn’t come here at all) Or the page about how to summon Bill in the journal he’d been left.

Neither of them seemed like particularly good choices.

On one hand, he could get his sorry excuse for a life over with.

But on the other, he was the only person who knew Ford was gone in the first place. He was the only person who could bring Ford back. And he just couldn’t live (or not live) with that.

That just left him, Bill.

The same demon that had driven his brother mad. Throwing him off roofs, nails through his hands, almost gouging out his eyes, and who knows what else.

It hurt to think about how parallel their lives had turned out despite being separated for so long.

Bill had in essence given Ford a lot of the knowledge to get the portal working in the first place. Surely, he could do it again even if with a much stupider host.

Still. There were warnings in the book and all around the shack. Evidence of just how bad it was to let Bill into your mind and life.

He’d cleaned up all Ford’s messes, marveling at how much of a slob he’d turned into since high school, and thought it over.

He was still thinking it over now sitting in the kitchen with the journal laid out in front of him.

The house was clean, some basic and cheap groceries in the fridge thanks to Ford’s wallet, and he had even showered and done laundry for the first time in who knows how long.

He knew he could do it, that he’d give anything to just make things right, and that this was truly the only way out. The only way forward. It still wasn’t a good decision, but he didn’t have any of those now.

He finished the glass of whiskey he’d been nursing and got up to pace the kitchen.

There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change any of the past huge fuck ups. But he could make this right. If he could just get Ford back, he could do it. He’d finish the portal, get Ford back, and then-

Then what?

What about the demon he’d be letting into his head?

He’d still be there, waiting for him to sleep and let him in.

Okay, so maybe this story didn’t have a happy ending for him. That was okay. He already knew that. His life was shit pretty much from start to finish. But maybe if he could just help Ford with this one thing, save him from himself, he could at least say he wasn’t good for nothing. He’d done one thing right.

He could do it. Bring Ford back and then end his sorry story.

Maybe he’d need to lie a little about how he did it. Definitely.

Ford would kill him for summoning Bill. And not in the way he wanted.

No, he’d fib, say he got it from his notes or something. Then leave. He could do that. Just leave and never come back. He had that gun in the glove box. There had to be a nice little viewpoint somewhere in this town. He’d find it and take care of that stupid geometric demon once and for all.

“You can do this. Just do it for him.” Just like everything else. Ironic that doing everything for Ford would result in him here about to sell his soul and probably his life. This should have been just what he expected when he got that postcard.

He didn’t know how this worked, not in detail. He’d probably have some control over his body on occasion. But he wasn’t taking any chances.

He found a mostly empty notebook upstairs in a closet and wrote out three letters. One for mom, dad, and Ford.

He kept the ones to his parents’ brief. Dad's was barely three sentences long, Mom's ended up just over a page and a half, and Ford’s was almost ten pages.

He’d never written so much, starting over almost a dozen times because he wasn’t going to screw this up. He had a lot to say and apologize for. Ten pages still didn’t feel like enough, but his hand started cramping and he couldn’t actually bring himself to sign it.

It felt too much like the end. And it was, but then it was another goodbye.

He was sick of saying goodbye to Ford. So, he left it unsigned with the bottom of the last page blank. It made this all a little bit easier to stomach.

He found envelopes in a drawer and wrote the names on the front before scouring the house for somewhere to hide them. He didn’t know if he’d still be enough of himself later to pull them out again, so it had to be somewhere Ford would find them but not somewhere obvious.

He settled on taping them to the back of the sailboat painting hanging above Ford’s bed. It was nice and felt like a full circle moment for his last words to his brother to be found hanging on their dream.

Even if that dream had died a long time ago.

Chapter 2: Sealed Fate

Summoning Bill wasn’t hard. Setting up the circle and the candles in the living room with the furniture pushed out of the way was easy. Even reading the incantation only took a few tries to get right.

It wasn’t until after he’d done it and the world went grey scale that he began to regret his decision. At least that hadn’t changed.

Bill was pretty much exactly what he expected. A big floating triangle with an ego just as big as Ford (no wonder they had probably been friends at some point), and just as stupid too. Maybe not smart stupid, but cocky. That’s how you really know if you’re talking to a moron.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Thing Two! Can’t say I’m surprised to see you. You humans always are so sentimental.” The stupid floating triangle looked smug if a shape could have such an expression.

“Can it, you equilateral interdimensional triangle! I brought you here to make a damn deal. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it?”  He held up a hand and waved it at him as if he could intimidate the demon.

“Oh, I know all about deals. Been making them since before this universe was born kid. Let me guess, you want your brother back safe in your arms? Is that it?”

Stan was not an easily flustered man because he was damn good at hiding how he felt. At least those skills came in handy for something. He’d thought out his words carefully, just in case Bill worked like a genie, and one wrong word could result in this somehow making things worse. “I want you to fix the portal and bring my brother back, alive, to this dimension, alone.” It covered all the bases. Brother. Alive. Without some dangerous alien with him. Maybe not crazy would be nice too, but that seemed too much to ask when Bill had caused that in the first place.

Bill sat down in the chair in the living room pushed off to one wall and conjured himself a glass of tea while he pretended to think about it. “Hmm. That’s awfully specific. And a lot of work on my end for someone with such an empty head. What’s in it for me? What could a loser like you possibly have to offer me?”

He didn’t let Bill see how his words stabbed at his chest. He already knew he was worthless so the pain of reality really should have numbed to this particular information ages ago. Why did he have to care so damn much? He wished in this aspect he could be more like Ford. No heart.

Guess the universe cursed him with enough heart for both of them.

But Bill was still right. What did he have to offer him? He didn’t have any knowledge, nothing more than his car to his name, and certainly no leverage either. “What do you want? If you already know what I want then it should be obvious I’d give up anything at this point.”

He knew better than to show his hand, but there wasn’t a point when your opponent had already seen it. There had to be something he could give Bill that he just couldn’t think of.

Bill took a sip of his tea with his eye momentarily disappearing and being replaced by some very sharp-looking teeth while he sipped. Then his eye came back into view, staring at him in consideration. “You know what? Maybe this could be fun. Ford was a little too important for me to do too many experiments with his body. But you? I’d just need to make sure not to kill you until the deals up. Which would still take me months. You think you could withstand a little bit of torture in the meantime?” He laughed, that same laugh from the video but much more sinister, and it made Stan’s skin crawl.

This seemed too easy. Pain, he could take. He’d already been taking it for a decade straight, what was a few more months? Nothing at all. He could handle some torture for Ford.

“What’s the catch? You get to screw with my body short of killing me and I get Ford back? That’s it?” He didn’t fully understand why Ford and Bill had built the portal in the first place, but for such a simple request there had to be more to it that he wasn’t seeing.

Maybe Ford and Bill actually had some sort of real relationship at some point. Before whatever the fuck had been going on recently. Maybe he wasn’t the only person who wanted Ford back.

“That’s it. Short and simple. You let me into your mind and I’ll handle the rest. What do you say?” It felt like Stan blinked and Bill was floating in front of him with an outstretched hand shrouded in blue flames.

With every terrible decision he’d ever made he’d never stopped to think about it first. It was always out of impulse and always went bad.

He’d been sitting and thinking about this for three days now, pacing and debating while Ford was off who knows where. He refused to think he was dead. He was just. Somewhere. Far away.

He thought this through and even though he had a bad feeling in his gut about this, knowing he’d regret it, he also knew it was the only option.

Maybe it was possible to do it on his own. If he buckled down. But that would take years at least. Maybe decades. He’d already spent one decade apart from Ford. He wasn’t going to be the reason for it again. This was the best and fastest way.

He took in and let out a deep breath before raising his hand and shaking Bills enveloping both of theirs in fire for a moment. It surprisingly didn’t hurt, probably because it wasn’t real.

"It's a deal then, Stanley Pines."

It felt like he blinked again and the room was back in color. The candles had blown out and he was collapsed on the floor where he’d been standing. He still felt okay, nothing was damaged.

Yet, his mind helpfully supplied.

He’d just agreed to be an alien demon’s lab rat for torture. This was going to suck. Probably hurt worse than anything.

Nah. It couldn’t be that bad. And besides, he’d do anything for Ford.

Chapter 3: Just a Taste

Having his body possessed was just as unpleasant as he expected. Watching Bill walking around as him unable to do anything more than float around and watch like some sort of ghost.

He wondered if this was how Ford had felt when he was possessed. Or maybe this was just what it was like when you were awake. That home video had been taken at night, so Ford probably hadn’t been conscious to watch all that.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was it worked.

God damn it, it worked.

Down in the basement, Bill went straight to work, straightening out some of Ford’s old notes and making new ones on spare paper. That was all he did for three days, writing and annotating math equations that he couldn’t have figured out even with all of Ford’s physics and math textbooks upstairs.

It gave him hope, despite everything, that maybe things would work out. At least in the short term of getting Ford back. That’s all he was really focused on. Everything after that was a big question mark.

Okay, maybe he had a loose plan to kill himself, but anything could happen between now and then. Maybe-

No sense in getting hopes too high. He had to remember what happened last time.

Three days of note-taking and seemingly aimless wandering around the lab without a break to sleep. But he tried to stay awake, prolong the inevitable. Bill was going to be unsupervised in his body eventually, but he wanted to try and see some progress before then.

Nothing actually got done on the portal, other than some big nerd math, but the stack of papers was enough to relent. Bill passed him back his body just long enough to trudge upstairs to bed.

Okay. It can’t possibly be that bad. How much worse can it get than throwing Ford off the roof?

It can’t get worse than eating his way out of a trunk and spending the last decade alone.

It took only a few minutes to drift off from exhaustion.

*

He thought waking up to whatever pain his body had been put through wouldn’t be so bad. That he could take it and then some. No problem.

He was getting sick of being dead wrong.

The first thing he noticed was his head hurt. His blood was rushing in his ears and the idea of sitting up made him nauseous to think about.

The damn demon had given him a pretty bad concussion to start. Not too bad. It could have been worse, right?

Nope. He was also laying outside butt naked in the snow.

When he did manage to sit up, throwing up in the snow right next to himself, he noticed that his entire body was bright red.

Some sections of skin were covered in deep blue and black bruises like someone had punched or kicked him almost bad enough to break something.

But he was freezing too, shivering even. Was he wet?

A quick hand through his hair confirmed that at some point he’d gotten soaking wet. And that his head was bleeding from somewhere.

It took a good minute or two to get up onto his knees but then he got stuck there while the world spun. This was the worst concussion he’d gotten in his life which was saying something after the last ten years.

Being cold and on the edge of hypothermia probably didn’t help either.

He needed to get up, get back inside, and find some way to warm up. And maybe find something to patch up the bleeding on his skull too.

He tried to stand and failed, ending up back on the ground three separate times.

It had to have been another ten minutes and staying lying in the snow was getting more and more inviting as his eyesight got dizzier.

That had to be the cold talking. Or the concussion. Whatever.

He settled on slowly crawling his way across the yard, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

It took far too long to get to the stairs and even longer to get up onto the porch.

Every movement tempted him to just lie down and die.

There wasn’t any pain in death as far as he knew. And dying by just going to sleep in the cold had to be up there as one of the best ways to go.

But he’d be damned if the stupid triangle got the better of him on the first night. He wasn’t about to give up now when they’d barely just gotten started.

So, he forced himself to crawl into the house and settled on collapsing on top of a heated vent in the kitchen. It wasn’t a warm bath, but it was good enough for now that he probably wouldn’t die for lying here a little while.

*

When he woke up again, he was still lying in the kitchen on the floor. He wasn’t as cold as before, even if he had a mark on his side now from the hot air, but his head still throbbed.

You weren’t supposed to sleep with a concussion, but what else was he supposed to do?

He forced himself up and crawled to the bathroom on the main floor, settling on a hot shower since that didn’t involve standing up.

“Fucking hell.” He muttered to himself, not even able to reach up for the soap to wash up. Whatever, the shower was more to get some feeling back in his body anyway.

He sat there on the floor until the shower ran lukewarm and then turned it off.

Alright. Up. Up. Up.

He had to muffle a scream when he grabbed onto the handle for the shower and forced himself vertical.

It felt like someone had stuck a knife right down the center of his skull. He leaned heavily against the wall for a minute before shuffling out and grabbing a towel to dry off.

Everything took forever because any sudden movements made him want to vomit again. But he did eventually get dry and pulled on Ford’s robe for now until he found his clothes again.

He went over to the mirror to check out what was causing the bleeding on the top of his head.

The whole area was tender and he had to get a hand mirror to see the cause of the problem. It made his blood run cold.

Just there at the top, once soft spot, on the back of his head was a sewing needle sticking over hallway into his skull. Just barely far enough out to grab.

That explained the headache then. He was reluctant to touch it or pull it out, not sure if doing so would kill him or not.

Hadn’t Bill said he wouldn’t do anything that would kill him before Ford was back? Yes, he’d made that very clear. So, this must not be fatal. Just a bitch.

Okay. He just had to pull it out then and bandage it up. He could do that.

Except he then proceeded to spend ten minutes just sitting on the vanity and looking at it in the mirror. As if that would make it just go away and disappear.

But it didn’t.

The needle wasn’t going to go away on its own. And he was too far away from the kitchen to think about getting drunk for this either.

Just. Pull it out.

Stop being such a-

He yanked it out, actually screaming this time as the whole bathroom went black. Somehow, he ended up on the floor again. He must have fallen and briefly passed out from the pain.

On the end of the needle was a tiny little piece of something pink when he looked.

He had to turn over and vomit on the floor even if all that came up was stomach acid.

It took half an hour to get up the courage to move again. He was terrified he wouldn’t be able to, or he’d have a seizure. But the back of the robe and floor were getting covered in a large amount of blood.

He needed to patch it up. So, he once again went through the difficult process of getting up. The needle went into the garbage and he decided not to look at the tiny piece of his brain speared on. He couldn’t handle it.

He found a first aid kit under the sink and used a large amount of gauze and medical tape to pack the wound. Then he had to clean up the vomit and blood all over the bathroom and the puddle in the kitchen from earlier.

It would be impossible to do later if he put it off.

He ended up discarding the robe into the washer along with the towels he’d used to clean up the mess, faintly aware that if anything stained it would be another thing for Ford to complain about when he came back.

Thank God Ford only owned dark towels. Maybe he wouldn’t notice any stains.

He’d warmed up enough he wasn’t going to die, and taken care of the head wound, that just left the dozens of bruises across his body.

He didn’t know what had caused them and after the needle didn’t want to know either. Instead, he just went to the living room and laid down on the couch, glancing at the clock as he got settled with his head elevated to keep from lying on the injury.

Four AM.

Bill had only had his body for six hours and done this much damage?

No. Less than that. Because he'd fallen asleep at least once since first waking up.

“Your nothing if not damn efficient.” He said out loud into the living room like Bill was listening even if the only answer he got back was air blowing from the vents and the wind blowing outside.

Chapter 4: Squared Away

The next two days were pretty much an incoherent blur. He hardly got up from the couch of his own volition. At night he ended up right back in his spot on the couch while by day Bill took his body down into the basement.

At least the demon was thoughtful enough not to torture him before he’d had a chance to recover from the first round.

Thoughtful enough not to kill him, but not enough to feed his body.

But he was used to going without food. Sure, he had bought some groceries in town in preparation for not leaving the house, but he still wanted to spend as little of Ford’s money as possible.

If fixing the portal was going to take months, he had to make the hundred and some odd dollars in cash he’d found between the wallet and other places around the house last.

As long as he didn’t buy anything expensive it seemed possible. And maybe skipping a few meals here and there wouldn’t hurt either.

After he’d recovered enough to stand without the room spinning, he took some time to think about how he was going to pay Ford’s bills.

He couldn’t help but be pissed to find out Ford had plenty of money in the bank. Here he was, living out of his car and Ford was living it up in his fancy house.

Being haunted by a demon, yes, but that had been his own fault. He could have lived the high life without Bill if Ford wasn’t such an idiot.

A couple more phone calls and some snooping through Ford’s mail at least gave him a list of places he’d need to call once a month to keep the house in working order.

It was a relief to not have to worry about money at least for now. He still didn’t want to put himself in any more debt with his brother than he already was, so he’d scrimp and save on food and keep the lights on for now. Ford would have been paying for that anyway.

He could still do this. Sure, things had gotten off to a bumpy start, but other than some more scars on his body nothing was really wrong.

Bills were paid, the portal was getting worked on, and he had a nice warm place to sleep without running from someone.

This was almost nice. Almost.

Thinking about missing a piece of his brain still made bile rise in his throat though.

Instead, he tried to think about anything else.

Walking around the house was too much, so instead he went upstairs and just sat on Ford’s bed, looking around in the lamplight.

This room didn’t look like it got much use, probably because of poor sleeping habits, but he could still see little personal touches that made it stand out from a guest room.

There was the obvious sailboat painting above the bed, which made his chest ache. Had Ford bought that out of nostalgia? Maybe to have a piece of better times here?

Wishful thinking to hope Ford had ever wanted to sail around the world with him in the first place. It had probably been a pipe dream the whole time.

He forced himself up to look around the rest of the room even if he was still a little unsteady on his feet.

On the dresser was a small framed picture that admittedly made him tear up.

It was the same one he had of both of them standing in front of the Stan O’ War when they were kids. The picture looked like it had been torn apart at one point and then carefully taped back together.

Maybe Ford did have a little bit of a heart after all.

There was no other evidence, beyond this picture, that Ford had any family. No pictures of Mom and Dad, and certainly no family pictures of everyone. But he kept this one even if he almost didn’t at one time or another.

It wasn’t hung up in any place of importance, unlike the dozen diplomas hung up on the opposite bedroom wall, but right here on the dresser was enough.

Enough to know he was doing the right thing.

Maybe Ford wouldn’t have done this for him-

Scratch that. He definitely would not have.

But at the same time, Ford also wouldn’t have pushed him into the portal in the first place.  

At least he hoped not.

He held the picture for a little while silently crying. Then he pocketed the frame to bring downstairs and put it on the coffee table where he could see it.

Moving on from the dresser brought him to the closet which was the only other personalized part of the room. Clothes spilled out in baskets full of clean but not put-away clothes. Most of the hangers were empty.

He took the time, despite it being painful, to hang up and refill the closet. Some of the nicer dress shirts he opted to wash again since they were so wrinkled but everything else was easy enough to put away.

There, now it looked almost exactly like a guest room with the closet closed. Although the floor needed to be vacuumed.

He didn’t have the energy for that right now. He barely had the energy to change over the robe and towels from a few days ago and start one with the dress shirts and the small amount of laundry from the dirty basket.

Ford couldn’t possibly be too mad at him if he brought him back and his house was in better condition than when he’d left it. Surely.

He set the picture of them both facing the couch and laid back down. It was probably best to get some more rest before morning when Bill would need his body for work again.

He drifted off to sleep imagining that they were back on the beach, exploring as kids again.

It was a much nicer reality than being tortured by a demon because he was otherwise too stupid to save his brother.

*

For a little while things were nice. Bill used his body during the day, working on notes downstairs, using some tools to open up a couple of the mechanisms to fix stuff, and also going out to get parts once.

He didn’t want to know where he got them and Bill didn’t offer for him to come with anyway.

At night, for about eight hours a day, he was given time to sleep or rest. Sometimes he did, because his body needed it, but other times he didn’t.

Slowly he worked on doing a more thorough clean of Ford’s house. One room at a time so he didn’t get too overwhelmed.

He’d never been good at cleaning, but he was easily able to go pick up a book or two on that from the library. There was a stack that needed to be returned anyway. He made a note of which ones they were so he could check them back out before Ford came home.

Having a space, even if only temporarily, to call his own was nice too.

He’d gotten so used to being alone that it wasn’t even unsettling having the house so quiet. But Ford also had a record player he could put on, leaving it to fill the house with a quiet lull of music.

This was the closest thing he’d had to a home in ten years. It wasn’t a bad way to spend his last few months if this really was it either.

The next round of torture would likely be worse (whatever is classified as worse than taking out a chunk of his brain) but at least for now, he was kinda close to happy.

Even if sometimes his feet were still unsteady if he moved his head too fast.

That had to be due to repeated movements done by Bill during the day as he moved around. Pain didn’t seem to slow him down at all as he worked. He didn’t have a reference for if it improved his work, but considering how much of a sick fuck he was it might have.

Whatever. As long as it got Ford home he could just deal.

But having all this time to think, instead of having to run for his life or spend his waking hours scamming people, he did a lot of thinking about what would be next.

If he did survive all this and the portal worked, bringing Ford back, what the hell would happen then?

Would Bill be able to go back to possessing Ford? Or could he only have a deal involving possession with one person at a time? Hopefully. That would mean Ford was safe. Especially after he was gone.

There was also the concern over if Bill might trick him. It was likely, but his deal had been very specific. No one else could come through the portal with Ford or he didn’t have to hold up his end of the deal anymore.

Not that it would matter if it was Bill that came through the portal.

So, maybe he needed a solution for that, just in case.

How does one defeat a giant floating triangle with the powers and knowledge of a God?

Ford didn’t even have an answer anywhere in the house. Maybe in the other journals, but there wasn’t a fat chance in hell he’d find those. It would be a waste of energy.

It was part of why he watched Bill work during the day, to try and gain some basic knowledge about how the stupid machine worked. Maybe he couldn’t understand math, but basic mechanics similar to driving a car were easier. Too bad Bill wasn’t working on the controls yet.

 What hope did he have to come up with a defense if Ford didn’t even have one? His solution had more or less been to avoid the problem by just not sleeping.

But if Bill came through into their dimension in his real form, he wouldn’t have any need to possess either of them. He’d have all his powers and there would be nothing they could do to stop him.

Which in retrospect was probably the reason Ford had disposed of his journals so that no one could build and restart it. Other than the original people involved on the project.

It was pure dumb luck Ford had given him Bill’s interdimensional phone number. Maybe if he went into town to do research online, he’d have a better chance of finding something, anything.

It was better than doing nothing at all, right?

He ended up back on the couch, where he’d taken to sleeping, after making himself some eggs and toast to eat.

It had been a full week and a half since he summoned Bill and a week since he’d woken up outside. That seemed like enough time for Bill to hurt him again sometime soon, maybe tonight.

He ate his food slowly looking between the pages of the journal and the photo on the coffee table.

It was as close as he’d get to sharing a meal with Ford with just the company of his picture and handwriting. He didn’t expect or even dare hope they’d ever really get to talk again.

As soon as Ford came out of that portal shutting it off was priority number one. Number two was getting as far away from this place as possible. Assuming Ford didn’t need aid from any sort of injury. That could be considered priority one point five should it happen.

Could Bill even follow him if he left Gravity Falls? Or was he tied to this town with all the other weird crap Ford wrote about?

Maybe. Ford would know, but it probably wasn’t a good idea to stick around and find out while Bill could still possess him.

Bill could hurt Ford using his body, couldn’t he?

He hadn’t considered that before now. Fuck. Yeah. Getting out of here was priority number two, big time. Maybe even above helping Ford if he didn’t look severely injured.

He took the time to wash his dishes, just to put off sleep, before returning to the couch. No use trying to hide or put it off any longer. Sleep and the coming pain were inevitable. It was his end of the deal and he had to hold it up.

“Do me a favor? Just don’t crash my car. We kinda need that for supplies.” He felt ridiculous talking out loud to himself. And it was pretty fucking sad that he valued his car over his own physical health.

He forced himself to drift off anyway, relishing in the semi-okay body he still had.

Chapter 5: The Foot

Notes:

Heyyyyy, Sorry about this guys. Well, sorry but not sorry. This one is painful. Also, trigger warning if you're afraid of heights. XD

Despite waking up outside again, just like last time, the cold wasn’t the first thing that woke him up like before. His head hurt still, but no worse than before. Thanks, Bill.

No, it was the shooting throbbing pain in his foot that woke him up, like someone had stabbed him straight through his shoe and all.

He opened his eyes and instantly began to regret ever making this deal. Nevermind.

Instead of lying in the snow butt naked like before he was instead mostly dressed and sitting very very high up in a tree. He snapped his eyes shut and took in a cold shuddered breath.

Ford, if somehow, we both survive this, I’m gonna kill you myself.

The glance he’d gotten down in the general direction of the ground brought back memories of their father dragging him on the Ferris wheel on the boardwalk. He’d gotten a pretty bad beating for crying and that had been the only time they’d gone as a family.

And he’d ruined it.

He kept his body tucked against the trunk of the tree and refused to look down. He didn’t want to know how high up he was and he didn’t want to know what the fuck was wrong with his foot either.

He tried to ignore it for a while but the throbbing was insistent. He had to look. Just a quick one.

Death would be kinder than this. No wonder Bill had picked torture.

The several nearest rows of branches on this tree had been cut off, leaving about a seven-foot drop between the branch he was sitting on and the next closest one.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck

He didn’t even look at his foot, because what could be worse than this? Being stuck up in a tree without a way down. Other than dropping the seven feet and hoping he didn’t miss the branches.

As it turns out, there was one thing almost as bad as being stuck up here in the tree. It appeared that Bill had stabbed a kitchen knife into his foot.

Not all the way through, thank God, but still, most of the way through and definitely through the bone. Every time he shifted his foot it caused a shooting pain up his leg and there was a small amount of blood dripping down into the darkness below.

It being dark made this a million times worse because he couldn’t fully see where he needed to land below. Not to mention landing on his foot would make the pain a million times worse. Could he maybe hook his arms around the branch on the way down instead? Maybe.

The alternative was pulling out the knife, but depending on how bad it was doing that could make him bleed out before he could get back to the house. Where even was he? He couldn’t see the shack from here.

The knife had to stay in, for now, no question. So, no landing on his feet. “Jesus Christ.” It felt like Bill was cheating trying to kill him indirectly. What did he get out of him being dead? Not a working portal, that’s for sure.

He needed a puppet to use, so this had to be survivable. Somehow.

The cold began to sink into his skin through his shirt due to not wearing a jacket and he knew if he didn’t do something he’d probably just freeze to death up here. He needed to move.

Dropping down onto the nearest branch and trying to hook an arm was probably the best option even if it might break his arm. A broken arm was still better than falling all the way down.

Okay. He could do this. It's just a short little drop and then he’d be home free.

He didn’t move, even as he got colder. The moment dragged on and he couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip on the tree. If he fell all the way he’d be a dead man for sure.

That thought gave him pause. Yes, falling from up here would be a shitty way to die, but wasn’t that the point?

He was going to die anyway, one way or another, so why was he so damn upset about it? If he died from something Bill did at least he could say he’d tried his best to save Ford. Right?

Before he could lose his nerve, he shifted away from the trunk and began to carefully lower himself off the branch so he was hanging by his hands. No turning back now, he was too cold and tired to lift himself back up.

Three. Two.

He dropped early so that he couldn’t try and drag this out.

It went as well as a fall could with his good foot landing on a lower branch and one arm hooking a higher one in the dark. He let out a puff of air in relief and after making sure he was secure looked down again.

He was going to actually kill Ford. For real. Not joking.

There was another section of tree branches cut off and discarded leaving something closer to a ten-foot drop into the darkness below the section of branches he was in.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, damn triangle!” He yelled out into the woods as a way to try and keep his breathing under control.

Anything else, other than heights, wouldn’t have been a problem. Which was probably why he’d picked this method.

He got another flashback of memories, a long-forgotten road trip with their grandparents. He’d barely been six? And on that trip, Ford had convinced him to go on a very large roller-coaster. Or it had seemed large at such a young age.

He’d cried through that one too, but instead of getting yelled at Ford had pulled him over into a hug and comforted him through it until they got off, letting him hide his face in his side so all he could feel was the wind.

He relaxed, just a little, thinking of Ford.

He could do this.

He lowered himself down again so he was sitting on the lowest branch but still couldn’t see the ground very well even with his eyes having adjusted. Maybe if he could see he could at least try and aim for a snowbank.

He lowered himself down again as far as he could and then just let himself fall. His stomach jumped up into his mouth and this time his feet missed and only one arm hooked over the branch. It caused a searing pain across his shoulder and arm and he had to scramble to grab hold with his other arm.

He’d just dislocated his shoulder all on his own and now only had one arm to climb down with. After settling on a branch, he turned to face the tree with the arm he’d just dislocated. Stan tried, several times, to get it back in the socket, but here in the dark without any real leverage that wasn’t happening.

“Screw it then.” He looked close enough to the ground now to manage the rest. Bill had only made two very nasty tricks this time.

He just took it slow using only his good foot and not limp arm to slink down the rest of the way. It was only after arriving on the ground that he was able to spot the remaining horror. Driven into the ground all around this tree were spears. Most of them were barely a foot apart in all directions.

If he’d fallen, he would have ended up impaled on at least four of them no matter where he landed. It gave him goosebumps that weren’t just because of the cold. The scene before him was something right out of his worst nightmares.

It made his already cold body feel even colder, covering him in a fresh layer of goosebumps and freezing him in place for a second. Long enough to consider how it would have felt to-

It was okay. He was fine. Not impaled on a spear, just sore and limping. Not too bad for his second night. Or that’s what he decided to tell himself. If it only continued to get worse from here, he wasn’t sure how Bill could keep walking the line between fear and death so spectacularly.

Now that he was on the ground, he was able to press his shoulder up against the base of the tree and lean all his weight into it until his arm popped back into place. It pulled a quiet groan from him but other than the psychological torture this wasn’t as bad as last time.

He took the time to dig up one of the spears and used it as a walking stick as he slowly began hobbling his way back to the shack. Probably. He didn’t know where he was heading. The only hint he had was his old foottracks that lead through the woods from when Bill had dragged him out here.

Luck was on his side and the tracks did lead back to the shack. It was a long walk, but at least there weren’t any detours. Just a straight shot through the trees to the porch.

He avoided looking at his foot again, no matter how much it hurt, until he’d gotten inside and could see.

It was pretty bad. He seriously thought for a minute about digging out Ford’s insurance card from somewhere and driving himself to the hospital. The knife went straight through the top of the shoe, ruining it, and limiting any view of the rest of the damage.

It was essentially a huge gamble to remove the knife since he couldn’t see the whole wound. He didn’t want to leave behind a trail of medical bills for Ford to clean up, but he also didn’t want to bleed out here in the bathroom either.

He decided to get himself a bucket, the first aid kit, and the house phone set up in the bathroom sitting on the closed toilet. He’d try and pull it out himself and if things went bad, he’d call for help. An ambulance was more expensive than an ER visit, but maybe with any luck a hospital wouldn’t be necessary.

At the very least he was going to need new shoes. Maybe he could just wear some of Ford’s?

He set the hydrogen peroxide on the counter with the jar of white petroleum. He was probably going to need to buy more first aid supplies with the extent of these injuries. Whatever. Better to get this over with.

This was easy compared to the tree and he yanked the knife out in one quick pull, causing his foot to light up with heat and pain again. The blood-covered knife ended up in the sink and he quickly yanked his shoe off to see the damage.

He needed stitches. No way around it. The wound was gaping like the knife had been wiggled at some point, but at least it wasn’t bleeding too much. Just enough to have a steady trickle into the bucket.

At this rate, Bill was going to give all the drug lords and people he’d fought a run for their money on scars.

He dug around in the first aid kit and found what looked like thread but no needle. Fuck. He’d just pulled a knife out of his foot (which was currently on fire) and he didn’t have a way nearby to stitch it up. The needle was missing from the kit-

Oh, you sick motherfucker.

Bill had used the needle from the first aid kit already and it was currently still sitting in the garbage, speared with a piece of brain matter and bone. He felt like throwing up just thinking about it.

But it was the only option without getting up and digging around through the rest of the house.

He had to steal himself before reaching into the garbage with shaky fingers and pulling it out. He wadded up a piece of toilet paper and had to look away while wiping it off and dropping the toilet paper into the garbage.

There was still blood smeared on the needle so he did have to get up, dizzy, and clean it with rubbing alcohol in the sink.

If Ford already had a needle in the first aid kit how many times had he had to stitch himself up just like this? Countless, probably. Fucking demon.

He could do this. If Ford could do it, he could do it twice over. No problem.

That confidence died when he sat back down and looked at the wound again. It was still bleeding, probably contributing to him being unsteady, and it hurt to look at.

He grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and removed the lid, pouring some over the wound. Doing anything to his foot was going to hurt, but it still made him yelp despite this being the nicest part of the whole process.

He then used a bottle of water to rinse out the wound. There. All clean. Now the hardest part.

It took him far too long to thread and tie off the needle. He had to stop, empty the bucket, and put some gaze on the wound to help stop the bleeding in the middle of trying.

Maybe next time he went into town he should pick up some books on first aid just so he’d be better prepared for whatever part of his body Bill fucked with next.

With the needle thread, he lifted his foot onto his lap and removed the gauze. The bleeding had mostly stopped by now even if the pain was awful. A hot shooting pain that traveled up to his knee with every throb.

It made him tired and he wished he could just sleep.

After.

Okay. Just, do it. The longer it's open the more likely it gets fucking infection and then you’ll lose your whole goddamn foot-

He’d never sewn anything in his life, sucked at it in home ec, so it was no surprise that he sucked at this. Every press of the needle felt like he was getting stabbed all over again as he slowly and sloppily stitched the wound closed.

Blood ran out of it and by the time he was done he couldn’t hold the needle anymore. He felt dizzy and he passed out sitting on the toilet with the needle still in hand unable to tie it off.

*

When he woke up, he felt cold, his sweat had dried and cooled while he slept but otherwise little else had changed in the bathroom. The blood dripping from his foot into the bucket had dried while he was out.

At least he’d stopped bleeding.

Before he could lose the nerve, he tightened the last stitch and tied it off, cutting the thread and finishing the painful work. But that’s about all the energy he had for a long while.

When he was able to get up, he used his energy to clean up his foot and empty the blood from the bucket again. Putting the kit back together took a long time and the whole time he was dizzy in front of the mirror.

He almost dropped the needle down the drain twice cleaning off the blood with more rubbing alcohol. He should use the rest of his time in this body to eat. He needed to eat something after all this, but the couch was closer from the bathroom.

He used the spear from the woods as a walking stick again to get to the couch without leaning on his bad foot too much.

The couch wasn’t overly comfortable but after the night he’d had it felt like a cloud. He’d done it, made it through another fucking night. Round two passed.

For now, he allowed himself to relax as he pulled the blanket back over himself, glancing at the picture in the dark. It wasn’t visible without a lamp on, but just knowing it was there helped calm him down.

This was the life Ford had lived for who knows how long before he’d invited him here. Even though he hadn’t said it, he’d been secretly asking for help, right?

The noose upstairs made that clear.

Ford had been desperate, trying to find a way out. Maybe pushing him through the portal had been a blessing. A break from this crazy demon so he could get ahold of himself. At least he hoped so while he tried to drift back to sleep despite his burning screaming foot.

It was always easier to hold out hope than be faced with the reality of the world.

Chapter 6: Parallel World

Sleep didn’t come easy but by now he was used to going to bed hungry and in pain. Sleep had long been an escape from his terrible reality and he didn’t expect that to change.

He woke up in his car this time with the heat blasting and a strong sense of déjà vu came over him sitting up in the back seat. Hadn’t he just been on the couch?

Was all of that a dream? Those were pretty damn vivid dreams if that was the case.

He sat up and pulled his boots on before getting out of the car. It was early in the morning and he was still pulled over on the side of the road where he’d decided to stop and sleep for the night.

He had driven almost two days straight to get here, avoiding the states he was banned in, and had crashed this morning so he’d be at least a little coherent seeing Ford.

He climbed back in the front of the car and put it in drive while buckling his seatbelt to continue his journey to the shack. Compared to the two days before the last stretch went by fast.

“Okay, it's just your brother, he’s not gonna- “

More déjà vu. What the hell? He paused on the porch, beyond just hesitation to knock.

He remembered this, vividly, which meant the next part would be Ford opening the door with a crossbow to his throat, right?

There was no way he was getting a do-over, Bill couldn’t do that.

Ahh. Bill. Nightmare. Got it.

Now he had another reason not to open the door. But the longer he stood there the more uneasy he got, like something was watching him from out in the trees.

Fine. You want to haunt my dreams too? Go ahead.

He knocked on the door and everything felt like it sped up on fast forward for a minute.

The door got thrown open and he saw the crossbow, but then he missed a few seconds and he was back off the porch, lying in the snow like Ford had tackled him instead of just threatening him.

He tried to take a breath in which was when his mind caught up with the dream. He couldn’t breathe, not without coughing up some blood, because there was currently an arrow lodged in his neck and throat.

It hurt like hell, a million times worse than the knife to his foot, and when he tried to move his head, he felt a thick gush of blood leak out around the arrow down his front and behind him into the snow.

“Stanley! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Hold on, hang on. Just breathe for me, I’ll. I- I’ll call someone. Just hold on!” To make matters worse he could see Ford as he came into view over him. He didn’t look as tired as he had before, slightly smaller bags, but just as much a mess. His hair seriously needed a wash.

He choked, coughing again, as more blood filled his throat. He tried to lift a hand up to feel how bad it was but found he couldn’t move it. Or his legs. Fuck.

Ford ran off, back into the shack, leaving him alone in the snow to die. Wasn’t that just in character? He was here lying on his back, choking to death because he couldn’t sit up, and Ford didn’t even notice.

Maybe he couldn’t move, but that didn’t stop him from feeling the pain, the burn in his throat and lungs. He could feel it dripping down his throat. Some of it into his lungs to choke him further and the rest into his stomach. He had to swallow, which felt like what he imagined getting shot felt like, to keep from choking.

Even if this was a dream, a very vivid one, it felt so fucking real. “Ford.” He choked out, even though he was alone in the yard just looking up at the cloudy sky. He couldn’t even die underneath the stars in the dark like he’d always expected.

Amazingly, Ford came back into view. He looked even more distressed this time. “The phones, they aren’t working. Fuck.” He got to watch Ford tangle a hand in his hair and pull on it like some sort of nervous tick. That was new. Probably a touch from Bill.

He took in a labored deep breath, feeling his lungs wheeze, so he could speak, “Sit me up, you idiot.” Maybe he’d be able to breathe a little better if he had gravity to help the choking.

Ford’s hands twitched like he was scared to touch him, but picked up the pace hearing Stan start to choke on a mouthful of blood. He didn’t know what else to do.

It hurt worse sitting up and he swore he could feel the blood that had collected in his lungs while Ford left him even if he shouldn’t be able to. Now the throbbing pain of the arrow radiated to his head and the back of his neck. Had it gone through and hit his brain stem?

He coughed up the mouthful of blood and briefly closed his eyes. Just a second.

“Stan? Stanley! Lee! Don’t you dare go to sleep on me! Stay awake!” Ford was screaming and it echoed across the clearing surrounding the house to the trees and back.

He’d never heard Ford scream like this before. Never heard him sound so desperate and scared. It sounded real. He forced his eyes back open, even if it was hard, and regretted ever sitting up.

Ford was holding him up, his head secured in place by the arrow keeping his head from slumping forward against his chest and looking at him. His twin was sobbing, tear tracks down his face and everything.

He was a sick individual to find joy in knowing Ford, even if just in his dream, would be so upset by his death. If he hadn’t known it was a dream before, he would now. Other than the pain it didn’t make for a very good or convincing nightmare.

He could do little more than struggle to breathe and watch while Ford leaned over to look at the damage up close.

The arrow had gone right through Stan’s neck, stopping aimed downward and lodged partway through the brainstem at the bottom of his neck. Not killing him instantly, but a death sentence all the same. “Oh, Lee. I’m so sorry. Please. Just- “

Ford sounded so hopeless and his chest ached hearing it. The satisfaction at Ford's caring was replaced by dread. He’d known something bad would happen knocking, but he’d done it anyway.

He choked again and then forced himself to talk before he lost the ability to muster the strength, “This ain't nothing. Bill’s gonna have to try harder.” He choked again on the last two words and his head got dizzy, making it harder and harder to focus by the second.

“Bill? Stan, what are you talking about?” Ford almost gave him a hard shake but remembered the injury and thought better of it. “Tell me! What is he doing to you!”

None of this fit the narrative of what Bill would have come up with for a nightmare. Or even one of his own nightmares either. What the hell was this?

“Stan? Stan!”

He couldn’t open his eyes again, all that he could feel was the pain and the hot drizzle of blood down his throat.

“You didn’t let him in, did you? Please say you didn’t? Wake up! Talk to me!”

His head was still really starting to hurt. When would this end? Shouldn’t he be dead by now?

He could feel his hand now, cold in the snow without gloves on. In what world did that make sense that he could feel one hand but nothing else?

The dream dragged, lasting forever, and he continued to choke. In real life, he should have run out of blood and lung space for it by now. All the while Ford just kept him upright, half hugging him while sobbing.

It took him far too long to realize why he could feel his hand. Maybe this dream was put together by Bill. Because he was supposed to pull the arrow out, wasn’t he?

Fuck.

Could he stomach that? Just thinking about that made him want to throw up.

It’s fine. Just a dream. A really vivid and nasty dream. Just another part of the deal. No big deal.

He lifted his hand shakily and found the energy to open his eyes again after getting in a tiny breath. There was too much blood in his lungs for anything more than sips of air.

Just touching the end of the arrow sent a searing pain down his back and made him see spots in his vision. He’d need to pull as hard as he could. Just get it out in one try and then it would be over.

“Stan, what are you doing?”

Shit. No time to delay then.

He screamed, louder than he ever had before. Even if he didn’t have the air, his body made air for it. And the pain. God, it felt like someone took a shotgun to his neck and fired off two rounds.

But he did it, the arrow was out and, in his hand, and now he couldn’t breathe at all. He couldn’t talk either and all he could do was look, seeing Ford’s horrified face as spurts of blood gushed out.

In his brother's shock, he dropped him and he didn’t feel the impact when his head hit the ground even if it resulted in a loud wet sound against the snow.

Even though he couldn’t breathe this moment felt like it went on forever with his eyes open just looking up, unable to focus on anything other than the slowly growing black spots.

“Stanley!”

*

He sat bolted upright on the couch with both hands jumping up to his throat. His heart was beating a million miles an hour and he was covered in a thin layer of sweat. For a few seconds, the pain remained, like it had been real, but he could breathe and when he pulled a shaky hand away there wasn’t any blood.

He collapsed back onto the couch with one hand still wrapped around his throat just as some reassurance for the first few minutes he was awake.

Sunlight came in through the windows, bouncing off the snow outside and into the living room. There wasn’t any blood on the floor either.

Slowly he came back to himself, body relaxing little by little as he took in deep breath after deep breath.

His throat was fine. It was just a nightmare. The only pain he felt was still his foot and his head.

Time to get up again. It was early and he needed to eat and finish bandaging his foot, the real injury, before Bill showed up.

He forced himself up and off the couch and moved as fast as he could to clean up the blood from the night before so it wouldn’t stain the wood.

Breakfast cooked while he bandaged up his foot at the kitchen table and drank a cup of coffee.

He'd made sure to take some pain meds and even took some antibiotics from in the medicine cabinet just in case he got an infection.

It was a little easier to understand why Ford hadn’t been willing to sleep much if those kinds of dreams were what he had to look forward to every night.

Nightmares or being possessed. Both were unpleasant.

Did that count as round three? Sure, why not? He marked it on the calendar in the kitchen anyway. Just two to three months of this.

At this point, it didn’t matter if he could do it. He had to.

Chapter 7: Grasping at Straws

The only reason he even knew what day it was most of the time was because of that damn calendar.

He also realized he should have appreciated that week of rest after getting a needle driven into the back of his head more. Because since that night up in the tree he hadn’t been given much peaceful rest.

By day his body was working down in the basement with no regard for his injuries. Which meant the pain from his foot was worse every time he took back over, making it harder to do anything.

And his dreams, those had only gotten worse over time.

Sometimes it was obvious that Bill had designed them.

Like the one where Bill had possessed Ford, tell tail by the eyes, and jumped off a cliff down into the Gravity Falls Lake. The ice hadn’t broken and the thickening thwack his body had made, accompanied by the large mess of blood, still haunted him during his waking hours.

In another Ford was possessed and had him tied down on what looked like the dining table. That one had been the most unpleasant, feeling Ford cut him open and rummage around in his body. No one was ever supposed to feel their organs being rearranged and removed.

Other times they just didn’t make any sense, like the one in the yard.

In one of the worst of them, he had his handgun pressed to his head and was standing on the edge of the roof upstairs while Ford tried to talk him down into coming inside. And he hadn’t been able to do a damn thing like his body was possessed but his mind was present. It had ended with him pulling the trigger and waking up with just Ford’s shocked and heartbroken face as the last thing he saw.

He couldn’t work out what those kinds of dreams meant. Was it his subconscious trying to give him false hope that Ford cared in some twisted way? Motivation to keep patching himself up in the morning instead of just letting himself bleed out one of these days?

Maybe. But he probably wasn’t ever going to figure it out. Not in this lifetime.

It was just better to only think of them as another nightmare dream no matter how real all of them felt. So real. Like it was his body. And he always woke up with fantom pains in whatever area he’d been hurt in with it going away the longer he was awake.

*

It had been almost three weeks since he’d first let Bill in and his body wasn’t exactly in good shape. He’d been out of groceries for a few days now but had waited until Bill had finished the latest project for the portal before borrowing his body to go into town.

His head had mostly recovered but he wondered if he would always get a little dizzy turning too fast from lasting nerve damage. His foot was mostly better with it not hurting nearly as much as it used to. There had been a brace upstairs in Ford’s closet that he took to wearing all the time. It seemed to help.

There were new injuries though. His arm was wrapped up tight after Bill had stuck it into a fire on the stove. It was probably only a second-degree burn so he’d taken to putting ointment and wrapping it each morning.

The worst one so far, even worse than his foot or head, had been his eye.

He’d woken up one morning to find one of his eyes hanging out of its socket. Resulting in him throwing up all over the kitchen floor. After a long time just looking at it in the bathroom, he’d eventually managed to gather the courage to put it back in its socket.

It was still attached, thank God, but since then it had been blurry. He just told himself to be grateful he still had the eye at all. The damn demon probably had some sort of fetish about it.

Now he gathered up Ford’s wallet and the two small lists he’d made into his coat pocket, putting a real shoe on instead of the brace, and heading out into the snow.

The spear he’d been using as a walking stick got left behind and he only limped a little across the yard and into his car. At least all the blood from before had been covered up by fresh layers of snow.

When he had the energy, he made it a point to go outside to shovel and clear off both cars. Occasionally he’d even start them up just to run them making sure the battery didn’t sit too long. He hesitated and then pulled out Ford’s keys, taking his car into town instead of his own. If he was playing this part, might as well commit to it.

He tried his best not to act jumpy when he got to the store, keeping to himself as he went down the list of things he needed. It was unavoidable for him to flinch occasionally when someone dropped something in another aisle, just came into eyesight, and especially when he noticed someone behind him who hadn’t been there before.

It was easier to think that all the torture wasn’t affecting him, making him paranoid like Ford, but he’d be lying to himself. He religiously kept all the windows and doors locked, checking them before bed had become part of the nighttime routine.

Locked windows and doors did nothing to keep Bill out, but the lock he’d put on the hatch to the roof at least limited the high-up places his body could go.

It didn’t seem like Bill bothered with his mind much. It had to be possible, to look at Stan’s thoughts and memories, but the demon seemed to think him so useless not to bother. Which was good. It worked in his favor not having his thoughts gone through.

Sometimes being, or seeming, stupid came in handy. It made people underestimate you on all fronts instead of just the things you genuinely sucked at.

He managed to get through grocery shopping without having a panic attack. His silence when the cashier tried to make small talk was uncomfortable and tense. Then he paid, got his change, and left back out to the car.

Ford’s car was only a little cleaner than his own and after putting the groceries in the back seat he made a mental note to try and clean it out at some point. If he had the time or the energy.

Halfway done. Just one more stop and then he could go home. The journal was still tucked into the coat of Ford’s he’d borrowed as he put the car back in drive and made his way to the library.

It made him feel good that despite how much time had passed he and Ford still looked similar enough to pass as each other. The librarian didn’t even glance twice as he returned the books he’d gotten on cleaning before heading into the library to find some on first aid.

Managing his injuries had only gotten more challenging as time went on but it was hard to find just a handful of books that covered everything from burns to neurological issues. He settled on three. The first was on wounds, amputations, and stitches. The second was about different types of burns from fire to acid. Did Ford have acid in the house? Hopefully not. The last one covered ears, eyes, throat, and nose issues but there were a couple chapters with basic information about the brain and its different sections which seemed beneficial.

He didn’t think Bill would try anything else with his head, other than another concussion maybe, but he just never knew. It hadn’t even been a month and if his dreams were any hint. Bill was holding back.

By the time this was all over he’d probably be missing a leg or something.

With the three books in hand, he went back downstairs until he found the small computer section of the library near the back. For a small town, it was amazing they had any computers, much less three.

None of them were being used so he sat down at the one most in the corner with a shelf and wall to one side so no one could sneak up on him here. He could see anyone approaching this section of the library and it allowed him to relax a little.

Just a little.

He waited for the computer to start up before pulling out the journal and flipping through it to the few pages Ford had written about Bill. Finding information about him in a physical book would take too much time. The quickest method was the internet.

Too bad the internet was still so damn slow. It only took a minute to type in Bill’s name but it took ten for the results to load.

Nothing.

How the hell could there be nothing on the entire internet about that interdimensional weasel?

And if there was nothing online about him how had Ford even learned about him?

He cleared the browser history and turned the computer off, just sitting there with the journal and his books. So, this was it. There wasn’t anything he could do to try and stop Bill from hurting both of them even after Ford got back.

This was probably something he should have figured out before summoning the stupid demon. “Shut up.” He muttered to himself, at least sane enough to realize talking to himself wasn’t normal.

This, right here, must have been how Ford felt. Helplessly looking for a solution with nothing but his journal to go off of. And for all he knew it had been made infinitely worse tying Bill to him.

Progress was being made on the portal, slowly, but as time dragged on, he felt more and more sure he shouldn’t have done this. He should have tried to do it on his own and found another way.

“We tried that!” He jumped at his own words in the otherwise quiet library. Time to go, before he got kicked out.

The journal went back into his coat pocket and he gathered up his books before slowly making his way to the front. He used up some of his precious energy to give the librarian one of his winning smiles with apology seeping into it. “Sorry miss, won’t happen again. Just these and I’ll be out of your hair.”

He was used to this kind of mask, putting on a show of smiles believable enough to make a woman flush. It worked and she scanned the books quickly. Second stop done. Now he just needed to head home.

When he got out to the car, he opened the rear passenger door to shove the books in one of the grocery bags, and when he came back out of the car he physically jumped seeing a man standing near the car.

Thus far people mostly tended to ignore him. Sometimes he got strange looks but he figured it was just because he didn’t make a perfect match as his brother. He couldn’t bring himself to wear his glasses for one, but his hair was also longer.

He should shave his head before Bill got any idea about messing with it.

But this guy was looking at him almost expectantly like Ford knew him and was waiting for him to say something. Sucks for this guy. But he could fake this too, couldn’t he? Ford didn’t have any close friends, not that he could tell, so just an acquaintance.

“Oh, hey, long time no, see?” He leaned back against the car and closed the still-open door with a slam.

A long silence followed his words and as it dragged, he became more and more sure he was going to get called out. Maybe Ford did have friends and this guy was on to him-

Fiddleford brought his arms up to cross over his chest and seemed to look just as uncomfortable and hesitant as Stan felt worried. But he still broke the silence, “I- I figured I’d run into you eventually. I’ve got a box of your stuff to give back.” Then he turned, heading further down the street towards his car.

Stuff? That was good. Meant he was pulling this off. But why did this guy have some of Ford’s things?

Only one way to find out.

He followed the guy further down the street, a little slow, and by the time he caught up the trunk was open and the guy motioned to a large brown box. Safe to assume that was his/Ford’s and he was supposed to take it back.

Not a partner, the guy had a wedding ring, but an ex-friend then. There were a lot of people in Ford’s address book so he had no way of knowing which person this guy was.

Whatever, it didn’t matter. He gathered up the box out of the trunk, “Hey, thanks. Sorry, I didn’t come pick it up.” Apologizing seemed like something Ford wouldn’t do, but maybe it would ease that sad look on the guy's face a little.

He stepped back up onto the sidewalk and balanced the heavy box on the hip of his good leg. The apology earned him a funny look before Fiddleford just shook his head and slammed the trunk closed. “Right. Well. I guess I’ll see you around. Take care of yourself.”

Fiddleford’s tone was detached and a little angry despite his polite words. A falling out then. He wasn’t sure how to feel to know that this happened a lot to his brother.

Maybe Ford was the problem. There was no question he loved his brother, but he was also a know-it-all asshole who didn’t seem to have the will to give a little for the sake of diplomacy. He was just like dad. This was probably Ford’s fault, somehow.

He didn’t delay standing there, starting to walk back to his car with the box in hand. “See you.” He threw over his shoulder, still avoiding the name he didn’t know.

Fiddleford watched him walk away, frowning a little at the slight limp his left leg had. Ford looked terrible. His hair was much longer than it had been the last time they spoke, his bags were worse than before, and that limp. Had something happened in the lab in his absence? Not to mention he was missing his glasses.

Only after Ford had gotten halfway back to his car did Fiddleford finally look away and climb into his car, driving away with his own collection of library books on the passenger seat.

*

Getting everything into the house was tricky. He’d bought a lot of crap (most of it for injuries) and he had to make four trips across the yard leaving him exhausted by the time the bags were sitting on the kitchen table and the box was tossed into the corner of the living room for now.

He took a break, swapping his shoe for a slipper of Ford’s and the brace again. The foot was already slow to heal and spending so much time in a normal shoe was only going to make it even slower.

With the brace on he took the time to get the frozen food put away first followed by the pantry items. He struggled to find space in the bathroom for all the medical supplies he’d bought so he left some of the gauze and bandages on the counter. He’d use that stuff up first the next time he needed it.

It had been a few days of nightmares instead of physical torture. He’d need it very soon.

The library books got tossed onto the coffee table with the journal next to the picture frame and then he pulled over the box that the guy had given him to look through.

He’d already gone through everything else Ford owned, what was one more thing? It was probably just a bunch of science stuff. The guy had worn glasses, just like Ford, so they were probably nerd friends. Or used to be.

The box was pretty much exactly what he’d expected. Lots of stuff he didn’t recognize. Collections of wires and circuit boards from a project Ford would probably understand. Maybe a couple of projects since the vast majority of the box was just wires, tools, and other science junk.

Garbage to him then.

Still, he dug everything out and checked the whole box. At the bottom, there was a layer of books like they’d been laid down at the bottom before all the wires got tossed in on top. He began carefully pulling them out through the wires, setting them in a stack on the coffee table.

The first four along the bottom were just various science books on topics he hadn’t even heard of. What was Dendrology anyway? A glance at the cover suggested something to do with trees. No wonder Ford had forgotten about such boring books.

The fifth and sixth books, the last two, made him pause and do a double take. They looked just like the journal Ford had left him with. Or almost.

They were both bound in black instead of red and they were missing the signature handprint in the middle. A quick flip through them both revealed they were empty. Maybe these had been prototypes for the actual journal but Ford had changed his mind about the color or something.

That guy and Ford had been friends for a long time then, before whatever fallout had occurred, if he had the original prototype in this box. And despite whatever had happened that guy had still held onto Ford’s crap to return later.

It seemed to be a running theme for Ford to screw up any good relationships he had. This guy, whoever he was, was kind.

Maybe Ford deserved to be haunted by a demon. He’d probably brought it upon himself.

He looked around at the living room, the picture frame, and the box on the floor. Okay, so maybe his brother did deserve it. But he was still his brother and he’d get him out of this somehow.

How? He was a moron who couldn’t even do math, much less save them and the world.

There wasn’t anything online, nothing here in the house, nothing at all.

Except maybe there was something. That guy, he’d known about Ford’s research. Maybe he even knew about the portal and Bill. If they’d been friends for a long time, up until recently, maybe there was something there.

That was more than nothing. A new string to follow.

Except he didn’t know who ‘that guy’ even was!

He pushed all the books, except the defective journals, into the box and pushed it back into the corner of the living room. Was this small little thread worth wasting some of Bill’s time in the body to track him down?

He could go wait around town, since he lived nearby, and then follow him. Talking to him was impossible. He wasn’t a good enough liar to fake his way through making up with a guy he didn’t know.

Alternatively. Maybe the guy had a lab, like Ford did in the basement. Breaking in somewhere, that he could do.

It wasn’t a very good plan, but it was something more than doing nothing. Okay, after he finished recovering from whatever the next night of torture was he’d head into town in his car instead of Ford's to try and find the guy.

The two unused journals went down onto the shelf of the coffee table for him to deal with later, then he grabbed one of the books he’d picked up to get some reading done while he still had his body.

It felt good to have some hope, something to hold on to, no matter how small.

Chapter 8: The Saddle

Notes:

I once again feel the need to apologize for this, even though I know anyone who's gotten this far must love the pain. Still. Sorry but not sorry. More trigger warnings about heights.

Was it possible for the human mind to get used to waking up in a state of panic? Their fight or flight initiated by the mere presence of reality? If it could, he wished he could just get there already so he could stop feeling so damn scared and angry all the time.

He was constantly torn between fearing for his life and wanting to punch something so hard that his hand would break. This time it was fear. Cold and hard fear just like the air outside.

The first thing he felt this time was the cold air and snow cutting into his face.

That was however the most pleasant sensation going on.

Panic kicked up when he realized he couldn’t feel his hands.

And when his eyes opened, he screamed. The noise traveled far and wide, muffled only by the distance it traveled without echoing back.

He’d been to a lot of high-up places. In fact, Bill clearly relished in exposing him to these spots. But this was unlike that night in the tree. Or even watching Ford jump off a cliff.

Both wrists were locked into a set of handcuffs with one hand on either side of the railing. Only that small piece of metal was keeping him from plummeting all the way down to the ground far below.

He froze in panic and his chest got too tight. If he was much older, he would have thought the shock of it all had given him a heart attack. He couldn’t breathe and for a split second the dream of choking on his own blood in the yard clouded his memory appearing so vividly behind his eyelids he had to open them to see anything else.

The panic won out this time, throwing him into a full-grown fit of sobs with his head thrown back as he screwed his eyes shut again so he wasn’t looking at the ground or the rest of the visible valley.

To high up. Too much all at once. He can’t do this. He can’t pull himself up. His hands are numb from hanging here too long.

Every creak of the wood sends another spike of panic through him like the banister is going to give way at any second under his weight.

It could.

It will.

He’s trapped in the throws of panic for who knows how long, crying with tears trailing down his cheeks, drying quickly and painfully in the wind. He cries until he can’t anymore and his breath catches in panicked hiccups.

Calming down isn’t how he’d describe it. He’s still freaking out internally. But his body can’t do the whole outward panic anymore.

He stays frozen for a little while longer before he looks up at his hands.  The cuffs are digging into his jacket sleeves taking some of the brunt of the metal cuffs. That doesn’t stop his hands from appearing purple.

He needs to move. Now. The longer he stays like this the more likely the wood gives. The more likely his hands won’t recover. He needs those. Bill needs those.

How long has he been up here? How long had he continued to sleep here like this?

He needs to move!

But how? There is nothing for him to steady his feet on. The only way up is by pulling himself up.

He can’t do that. His hands are too numb and his arms are strained and exhausted from how long he’s already been here. What’s the alternative?

Dropping. That’s the only other option.

Wait till the cuffs or wood eventually give and just-

NO.

Up it is then.

He closes his eyes again and focuses on his breathing.

In and out.

Over and over and over.

Until he’s steady.

His chest still hurts but his breath isn’t coming in short sips again. The images of Ford’s terrified face from right after he’d pulled out the arrow fades and he can actually see the water tower, the wood in front of him, and the stars above peaking through the clouds.

Just one pull-up. He could do that. One pull-up with hands he can’t feel and arms just short of dislocating.

He looks up and tries to move his hands. They don’t respond.

If he had it in him to cry again he would. He’d slump and cry like the baby he is right now and just give up.

But he’s out of energy to cry. He’s out of energy period.

No hands then. He can’t grab the banister. But the cuffs are still there. He can still use his arm strength to pull.

He’ll just be risking putting more strain on the wood keeping him alive. No big deal.

The first attempt hurts like hell and he’s worried he accidentally cut one of his wrists open somehow from the shooting pain it causes down both arms. But there isn’t any blood and his sleeves aren’t wet.

This is the first time he’s woken up outside the house fully dressed and he’s thankful for that if nothing else.

He lets himself hang for a while longer, shifting his weight between arms a little as if that’ll make it easier. Maybe it does because he gets up a little further even if only half a foot.

It's too exhausting. He can’t do it. He’s just gonna stay here until he dies from the cold, falls, or someone finds him hanging here. Then his hands will get amputated and everything will have been for fucking nothing-

No.

Fuck no.

He hasn’t gone through almost a full month in hell for nothing in return.

He looks around again, breath still shaking, and takes a better stalk of his options.

Still, nothing for his feet to support himself with until he gets back up on the platform.

But the only way up onto the platform is by lifting himself up. Right?

Unless he swings.

The idea makes him screw his eyes shut again. That would put so much strain on the wood.

Too much.

But it's still the best option he’s got. He’s a dead man anyway at this rate if he doesn’t get up.

It still takes him a minute to commit to it even if it seems like it might work. It’ll either work or he’ll break the wood and end his misery faster.

Okay. He can do this. Maybe.

He settles his legs together straight down and slowly begins to rock back and forth to gain some momentum. He has to keep his eyes open so he can see when he’s swung far enough.

Looking down at the white snow while he swings makes him dizzy and he swears he can see blood down in the shape of a body on the ground. It’s just his mind playing tricks. It's just Bill.

It feels like it takes forever, maybe it does, and every creak makes his chest tighter and tighter.

But finally, finally, he’s got enough momentum to swing one leg up onto the platform.

The second leg follows moments after. His front half is still hanging out under the banister for mere seconds. Now that he has leverage, he shoves himself as far away as he can with his hands bound.

Too far, because when he jerks back to sit against the water tower the piece of wood he’s handcuffed over snaps and follows him.

Wind whistling past even seems to stop as he stares at the piece of wood between the handcuffs in his lap.

He’s lived close before. But he was seconds away.

This moment and the terror still running through him as his mind processes what just happened makes being stuck in a tree surrounded by spikes look like a fun fair ride.

It throws him into another fit of hysterics that’s a mix of panic and relief at being alive.

He cries without tears and then at some point, it turns into a panicked laughter that gets lost in the wind.

He’s lost it now.

He’s gone insane.

He sounds like Bill.

Just like when he’s in the middle of cutting him apart and he’s laughing loud enough to be heard over Stan’s screams.

He turns over and vomits in the thin layer of snow on the platform, puking up the small dinner he’d eaten and then a lot of stomach acid until he’s got nothing but dry heaves to give.

Hunching over the vomit has thus far been the most fun part of the night.

He was a fool to ever think he could do this. If Ford had been living like this it was no surprise that he had been planning on killing himself.

He can’t do this. It's too much. Nothing is worth this amount of physical and psychological pain.

Unable to do anything else he just stays still for a long time, not moving except for his hair with the wind. It's freezing and his hands are starting to hurt.

The pain grounds him from the fear heavy in his chest. Focus on the pain.

It’s the only way to keep from standing up and throwing himself through the gap in the balcony anyway.

Sitting up he looks down at his hands which are still pretty purple but some feeling is starting to creep back in now that his full body weight isn’t pulling on the cuffs.

Good. That’s good. His hands might be okay.

The next issue appeared to be how to get them off but that’s an easy answer. He’s been keeping a handcuff key on him for years now. Assuming Bill didn’t toss it. And if he did, he could always just jam them. Maybe they aren’t even locked.

He closes his eyes and sits in the cold wind focusing on the pain in most of his hands as more and more feeling returns to them. Rubbing them would probably help so he tries to do what he can despite the cuffs.

His watch says it’s a little past five in the morning. It takes ten minutes for his hands to get a little bit of color and most of their feeling back. They still feel half asleep but it's enough to pull out the key without worry of dropping it.

He uses the bottom of his shirt to try jamming them first. No dice. They’re locked. Of course.

Under the shirt, he’s got a small belly button piercing that has the key attached. It takes a while to screw it off the stud but after it's off he’s able to put it in his mouth and unlock the cuffs to free both wrists.

For a second, he just stays sitting with his hands-free and the key still in his mouth. Relief washes over him but the tears and sobs don’t come again. Must have finally run out.

He screws the key back onto the piercing and pockets the cuffs to bring home. It can never hurt to have a pair and these feel genuine. Did Bill get him in trouble with the cops tonight? Fuck. Perfect.

Looking around he spots the exposed ladder that leads down to the ground and he forces himself up and over to it, bringing the piece of wood with him. If he’s gonna suffer he’s gonna have a memento to show he lived at least.

It takes until he gets to the bottom to realize his head also hurts. Not nearly as bad as it did the first time. This is a hangover headache in the making. Probably best to get home before it hits full force.

The distance from the bottom of the water tower to the car isn’t long and he’s able to climb into Ford’s car and crank the heat. At least the demon could listen to directions about staying away from his car.

Did Bill even know how to drive? The lack of damage to the car suggested yes but-

He didn’t want to know. He also wasn’t going to think about the fact Bill had been driving drunk.

With the car in drive, he slowly began making his way back to the shack being extra careful not to break any laws now that he knew Bill might have been running from them earlier.

However, it was unnecessary since the town was still asleep and the drive home was completely uneventful. The shack was calm and warm once he got inside.

He collapsed right in the entryway of the building and just sat on the floor against the door as he curled up in a ball.

Sure, he’d survived this time, but what about next time? He probably wouldn’t be so lucky next time. One of these days one of those dreams about dissecting and investigating his insides was going to become real.

It was his inability to speak at the moment that kept him from trying to call out for Bill to cancel the deal. Could he even do that? He didn’t know. Maybe not.

Half an hour later he got up and changed his shoes over to a slipper and brace before trudging to the bathroom to do his usual self-inspection in the mirror.

Other than being severally traumatized and wearing a wild crazy glint in his eyes mirroring Ford, he looked okay.

His hair was a mess because of the wind, he was slightly red from the cold, and his hands were both still working on getting back to a normal color. But that was it. No other mortal wounds anywhere threatening his life.

For the first time in a week, he decided to have a proper shower. He’d been putting it off to avoid wasting water but he also hadn’t been able to while the burn on his arm healed. It was annoying having to keep that whole arm dry so he’d just waited.

It was now healed enough to be washed but it was going to leave a huge scar from wrist to elbow in ugly pink splotches. Whatever. He’d spin it as a cool story. Saving a kid from a burning building.

The clothes he’d been wearing went into the wash and he brought a set of pajamas in with him before getting into the nice hot shower.

He gets an unexpected surprise when the water on his shoulder causes a huge amount of pain like he’d been burned on his left shoulder last night. It makes him pause and gets out of the shower to look in the mirror.

Despite trafficking drugs, dealing drugs, and doing a whole lot of criminal activity he had thus far managed to go without getting any sort of tattoos. His usual excuse was for religious reasons which most people didn’t seem to think twice about.

But the truth? He didn’t want to stop matching Ford. Yes, it was very likely and possible his brother had gotten some in their time apart. He knew that. But. Growing up he’d always wanted them to get a matching one together first.

He didn’t particularly care what, just as long as it was together. Ford could even pick something nerdy and he’d have done it.

He knew and had probably always known, that was just never going to happen. Ford didn’t care, like most things, and by the time they were old enough he would have sooner stopped reading first.

Now, looking at his shoulder, the realization sunk in that any of those hopes and dreams had been taken away from him. Bill had beaten them to it.

On his left shoulder, across from the burn mark on the right, was a big black L made out of a hand with six fingers. He had to count them twice to be sure.

The message couldn't have been more clear. 'You are a loser - Ford' and it hurt. It fucking hurt.

He didn’t even want to think about what it had cost or where Bill had gotten the money for this. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he just sunk onto the floor of the bathroom, still wet and naked, and found the energy to sob again.

Chapter 9: Erroneous Fury

He desperately needed to hit something. After he’d gotten over the physical and emotional pain his mind and body had become flooded with anger.

At Bill. Himself. Ford.

Even his damn father because none of this would have happened if he hadn’t kicked him out over a dumb mistake. He’d just been a kid back then, no matter how grown up he thought he was at the time.

As soon as nine AM hit, he left the house dressed in some of his clothes, and hair up before heading into town. He was looking for a gym and found one off Main Street that didn’t look super busy this morning.

Good. Because if he didn’t find a punching bag to hit soon, he was going to break a lot of stuff in Ford’s house.

He went up to the front desk and paid for a day pass not even caring about the money. He just shrugged off the jacket he was wearing, wrapping his hands as he walked through the gym looking for the punching bags.

They were in a separate room near the back of the gym that didn’t look like it was used very often and he took full advantage of it. His jacket got hung up with the rest of the roll of tape.

It felt good, cathartic, to just hit the punching bag over and over as hard and as much as he wanted.

He pretended it was Bill, slamming his hand into that demon’s stupid big eye/mouth over and over, beating him to a bloody pulp. Too bad you can’t punch a demon to death or he’d be able to swing that twice over.

Ford too, slamming a fist into his stomach and punching the air out of him, making him puke from how hard he hit him. Never, in all their time together, had he hit Ford. Not before their fight in the basement anyway. (Other than the usual sibling shoves during fights) That one punch didn’t feel like enough.

He wanted to break Ford’s nose for putting him through this, snap his damn glasses, and throw him into the nearest wall the next time he saw him. Breathes came heavy between punches and he kept his mouth firmly shut so he didn’t end up screaming out his frustration in public.

His hands were starting to hurt, but he wasn’t done. He wanted to kick pops in the nuts and scream in his face about what a shitty father he was. How everything would have been fine if he hadn’t made such a massive divide between him and Ford. It was his fault Ford thought he was better than everyone. His fault Ford hadn’t talked to him in ten years.

All.

His-

He collapsed down on the floor on his knees and curled in on himself. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it but he couldn’t loosen it and stay quiet.

It wasn't though. Not really. Yeah, he contributed. But everyone helped. No one thing was completely to blame. No one thing other than him. He was the common denominator, wasn't he?

He clenched his fists again at his side.

In another instant he was back up onto his feet, resuming the steady slam of his hands into the punching bag, making it swing back aggressively with each consecutive hit.

He’d destroyed Ford’s project, costing him an amazing opportunity.

He’d been the one who left town on pride instead of begging to come home.

He’d been the one to stay away for so long.

To get involved with the wrong people.

He’d known, but he hadn’t given enough of a shit about himself without Ford around to care.

He’d missed ten birthdays together. Ten Christmas’. Ten New Years. Ten Halloweens. Ten Fourth of July’s. Their favorite holiday.

Those were things he could never get back now.

He deserved every ounce of torture and pain. Maybe three months of this would be enough penance to pay his dues. Maybe.

When he couldn’t swing his hands anymore and standing made him dizzy, he leaned against the cold wall of the room as the adrenaline faded. Now that the anger passed all he was left with was disappointment in himself and sadness.

At least he felt better. He didn’t want to climb back up the water tower and throw himself off anymore. He still wasn’t happy, not by a long shot, but the pain was tolerable again.

The portal wasn’t even halfway done and he still had a long way to go. That was good because he still needed to work out what the plan was for Bill at the end.

That demon was going to pay for fucking with Ford, for trying to bring about the end of the world. And most of all for that damn tattoo on his back. He’d find a damn way, somehow.

There was still a sliver of hope that maybe he could live, get through this with both of them alive somehow. He let himself hold onto that with his anger. It gave him strength to keep going, keep on fighting.

Chapter 10: Missed Connections

Every time he was sure he’d made it home he got to be proven wrong all over again.

He’s not even sure what’s going on anymore.

When he first went through the portal there was some rhythm or reason to the space, the nightmare realm.

He’d been captured by Bill in his true form which explained a lot about why Fid’s had been so pissed at him.

Seeing Bill like this…. It made any of the remaining feelings on his end evaporate and all that was left was resentment, hatred, and anger.

He could admit openly now, accompanied by a sick feeling of guilt, that he’d been a fiddle for Bill to play and he knew just which strings to pluck to make Ford play his tune. He’d known that for a while now, ever since Bill revealed his true colors.

He owed Fid’s an apology if he ever made it home.

For now, he was trapped in some sort of hell.

A special sort of hell where the only common theme was Stanley.

It was theoretically possible Bill was dropping him in real dimensions where he was dead to slot into old Stanford’s place. Two different ‘dimensions’ had evidence of that where he’d found his own corpse in the shack even.

(Those could have also been hallucinated though because he couldn’t work up the nerve to touch them. Would that destroy the universe he was dropped in?)

It could also just as easily all be in his head and he was just being suspended and manipulated mentally to have such horrible nightmares over and over.

He wanted to be sure, but he just wasn’t. Couldn’t be in here. Wherever here was.

Sometimes it felt more like he was just an observer, watching himself hurt Stanley without being able to talk or stop. Those felt less real even if the sounds Stan made were bone-chilling and heart-shattering.

Other times he knew the body was his.

Like the reality where he’d fired the crossbow into Stan’s neck.

He’d been extra jumpy after finding his own body hanging from the rafters upstairs. He’d panicked, looking for Bill, and still sleep-deprived, but what he did was a million times worse than finding Bill would have been.

That had also been the first dimension. (He’d just call them that for sanity’s sake.)

And it had only been a small taste of what was to come. He’d have stretches in dimensions, never the same one twice, alone for some time. Sometimes days at a time. But one way or another Stan always showed up and one of them always ended up dead.

It was like they were cursed to do this song and dance for eternity.

And okay, maybe he deserved to suffer a little.

He was the one who sent the postcard to Stan to bring him to Oregon in the first place.

He never should have sent that postcard.

He should have just continued with the plan to disassemble the portal, disposed of the last journal himself, and then killed himself before Bill got the satisfaction.

It was a moment of weakness he’d get to relive and regret for the rest of his life.

However long Bill decided that would be.

Who knows, maybe everyone was immortal in the nightmare realm and this was just a glimpse of it.

The only good part of all this was his ability to get some sleep. It was surprisingly dreamless compared to his nightmare-laced reality on the daily. That was another small indicator that he was traveling between dimensions because why would Bill let him sleep? He wouldn’t need to if he was just asleep already in the nightmare realm.

The puzzle remained, how and when, was he shifting between dimensions then? The portals had all been in various stages of deactivation thus far and Bill couldn’t access his mind in any dimension other than his home one and the nightmare realm. As far as he knew at least.

There was probably no point in trying to figure the details out. Right now, his life made no sense and there was no hope of getting out of this loop. The only thing he could do was try and make things less awful for Stan when possible.

No matter how much he wanted to believe Stan deserved these deaths (he was the one to push him into the portal after all) they were still brothers. He still cared about Stan on a basic level if only that.

So, he would continue to try and talk to him, as they’d been trying to do their whole lives, and the result would always be the same.

Ten long miles between them with their voices both going completely unheard.

*

When he woke up the first thing, he noticed was that this shack was vastly different from the dozens of others he’d been inside of. None of the decorations were the same. Yes, the furniture was similar, but the whole place seemed happier when he woke up in bed.

His bedroom was more cluttered with shelves on the walls with dozens of random trinkets. His laundry was put away here unlike at home and he didn’t see any of the usual degrees on the walls.

Instead of the picture of him and Stan being on the dresser, cut up and creased, it was-

That wasn’t right.

A new and different picture was in place, one much more recent than the one taken when they were on the crest of middle school. They were adults in this picture frame and on a real boat. Not the original Stan O’ War, but a boat nonetheless. They were both smiling with arms around their shoulders.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing Stan so happy, certainly not since they were kids.

Maybe Stan had found this kind of happiness away over the last ten years, he didn’t know and it made his chest ache. He’d never know. Because he was trapped an infinite distance away.

Maybe if he didn’t get out of bed they wouldn’t have to die. This whole room gave off a much happier reality than his own. One where they weren’t just on speaking terms, but close.

Friends. Family again.

He seriously considered trying to barricade the door to protect this Stan, if it was an alternative reality, from him. He only brought death and pain wherever Bill dropped him.

Stan deserved to be happy even if it was without him.

Then again, if he was here, that probably meant this Ford was dead. Maybe this was the only good room in the house. He wouldn’t know unless he checked.

Despite his worries, he got up and out of bed to check out the front window if Stan’s car was there. It wasn’t. Okay. He was home alone for now then. Good.

He felt a little better about leaving the room then since typically he got a few hours in the new house before things went south.

The light feeling of the bedroom carried into the hallway. This was the first shack he’d been dropped in where everything wasn’t doom and gloom. It made him uneasy, of course, but it also made him curious.

What would a happy home look like with Stan?

This was where his degrees were, lining one side of the wall between his room and the next furthest down. Wait.

This was for the right school. The wrong one.

These PHD’s were for West Coast Tech. He was completely baffled looking at all twelve of them lining the wall. Was this the reality where Stan hadn’t selfishly destroyed his project? Anger reared its head and he glared at the frames for taunting him.

Oddly enough they weren’t the focal point of the wall, pushed and hung off to the side to make room for dozens of picture frames. Family photos.

Them together on that same boat, them with Dad and Shermie on their boat, and Christmas downstairs in the living room with a big tree and Stan handing out presents from under it.

He didn’t recognize everyone, especially from younger pictures. Was that them at college graduation? But Stan was wearing a graduation gown on Dad’s other side.

A more in-depth glance around the hallway revealed not one but two more degrees tucked over near the door across the hall accompanied by more photos. Upon closer inspection, he could see-

Stan’s name on two bachelor's degrees. One in business and the other in advertising.

He stood in the middle of the hallway with his mouth dropped open.

There was a world in which Stan went to school at West Coast Tech with him.

Stan graduated, with honors, with two degrees.

He had to lean heavily against the wall because the implications that those things had been possible shocked him too much. It made him angrier though. This could have been their lives. It was all Stan’s fault.

What about this universe made these things possible? Nothing here fit the mold of the Stanley he knew and grew up with.  This wasn’t the brother he knew. All this felt like a dream but in a universe with endless alternative realities maybe this had happened somewhere.

He wanted to see more, even if it was just going to hurt more when it all ended. It would end, just like all the other realities he’d been dropped in. But maybe he could enjoy it for a little while. At least figure out how things had turned out so…perfect.

The door into Stan’s room, the room next to the two degrees, opened easily and it was even more cluttered than his. A smile came across his face looking at dirty clothes thrown across the floor. Stan had always been the messier one.

Shelves overflowing with trinkets, some sea-related and others- Were those Boxing metals? Stepping closer to the shelf his assumptions were proven right. They took up a whole shelf, trophies on top and medals hanging beneath. Were these from high school or college?

He couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. There was a picture hanging under the medals with Stan and dad hugging with a boxing ring in the background. Stan looked practically radiant here, grinning enough to split skin.

He had to look away because it made his chest ache. In the corner of the room was a computer set up on a desk and he was drawn to it, starting it up to see what was on it. While he waited, he flipped through the books next to the computer.

Science textbooks.

What kind of world was this and was it possible for him to stay?

That made him feel guilty. What kind of brother was he to want to stay here instead of going home?

Yes, Stan had pushed him through the portal on purpose, but-

But what? This was the second time, forming a pattern, that Stan had ruined his life.

It didn’t matter if he himself deserved to suffer for getting tricked by Bill. He could accept that mistake. But this was all Stan’s. Why shouldn’t he stay?

It pulled a bitter laugh from his throat. As if Bill would allow that.

No, all this was building up a tragic and more painful ending than usual. Wasn’t it?

Textbooks on science and some focusing on marine life. When the computer started up several websites were bookmarked and it opened up automatically to West Coasts Tech’s online program. Marine Biology based on his courses. Stan was working on another degree.

The house and its happiness felt suffocating and he had to turn off the computer and leave the room. He didn’t delay in the hallway to look at more pictures and took the stairs two at a time downstairs to get away from it all.

But it followed him like hot air on a desert. The living room was set up with a large TV and two different game systems. The ColecoVision and the Atari 5200 are both tucked away under the TV in a glass cabinet. A record player with shelves of records set up in the corner with hundreds of different options to choose from.

More pictures decorated the walls too. Pictures with their parents, Shermie, and Shermie’s son occasionally balanced on one of their shoulders depending on the occasion. Stan continued, in vain, to carry the boy around as the years passed even shouldering him in the most recent at what looked like ten without breaking a sweat.  

Stan was bigger, probably from boxing, than he had been before. A little taller to accompany the wider shoulders. But he still looked so painfully happy. Was this a new form of torture? To show him how screwed up their life had been compared to other realities?

On the walls in the entryway were even more pictures but these gave him pause.

They froze him in place like the floor was made of ice.

Two pictures stood side by side.

One of them was Ford and their parents. It looked like a recent picture and the photo looked happy. But it was just the three of them.

The second picture was of Stan and Shermie. But otherwise, the picture was wrong. The two people standing with his brothers were strangers.

But he knew, could understand now, how this dream had been possible.

In this reality, he’d grown up an only child and his two brothers had grown up elsewhere. That explained why there were no pictures of them as kids anywhere. Why the picture on the nightstand showed two grown men instead of boys.

His anger flared and he punched the closest object, a wooden wall, which made his hand crumble. It would bruise. But the pain washed away his anger and a strong sense of dread overwhelmed him.

This wasn’t right. Stan was his twin.

Sure, they didn’t get along, but the idea that they could be separated in another reality from the very beginning? No. That was wrong. This place was wrong.

Like it or not Stan was his other half. A truth he had always shoved away in a closet out of guilt, shame, and hatred for how Stan had turned out.

How Stan had always failed to grow up with him. He’d never been able to understand it.

He couldn’t stay here. This, all of it, was bad. Really bad.

Almost worse than the current reality of being separated forever.

He cherished those memories as kids and they had been the only thing to get him through some days with Bill.

These Stan and Ford didn’t have those memories.

They’d never known what it was like playing on the beach in Jersey searching for adventure, together.

This couldn’t possibly be better than those memories. They were pure and untainted by the realities of adulthood.

Could it?

It just about made him jump out of his skin when he saw the front door open and a pair of shoulders clad in a leather jacket came into view.

He thought he’d have more time to explore, to understand, before this moment. But now it was here too soon. Much too soon.

Stan just stepped inside, closing the door with his foot and holding bags of groceries with both hands as he turned. Seeing Ford frozen in the middle of the entryway looking lost and scared made him pause though.

He’d walked in the door grinning, whistling even, but that turned sour. Was Ford shaking?

“Hey, Sixer, what gives? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” He keeps his voice light, walking past Ford into the kitchen to put the bags down before coming back.

Ford can’t even muster a response. Why isn’t Stan trying to kill him yet? Usually by now Stan’s actively trying to kill either himself or him. Or, alternatively, he loses the ability to control his body and tries to kill Stan.

But he can still move, testing it by flexing his hands nervously at his side. He’s pretty sure he can talk too, but it's difficult enough to swallow when Stan comes back into view.

Abandoning the bags to check on him.

Ford only looks more freaked out when he comes back into view and his soured joy turns into full-blown concern at this point. He moves across the entryway and easily steps into Ford’s personal space.

One hand comes up to cup Ford’s face and the other wraps around his lower back, running back and forth through Ford’s coat and shirt in what’s meant to be a soothing manner. “Hey, seriously. Talk to me Sixer. What happened? I can’t read your mind, you gotta use your words, dork.”

This is suffocating and he can’t breathe.

Stan is much too close, closer than they’ve been in over twelve years, and he’s speaking so openly like this is just another day in paradise for him. Because it probably is.

His chest is tight and it’s gotten to the point where he can’t tell what he’s feeling anymore. Anxiety, fear, anger, longing, love, yearning, or just plain panic.

If he was being honest with himself it's probably a mix of all of them with panic taking up most of the space.

He spirals, mind racing, and he can’t choke out any words with Stan standing so close to him. Their faces are barely half a foot away from each other.

Damn. That bad? It's not uncommon for Ford to have fits sometimes. Nightmares occasionally. Mostly panic attacks though. About what? He’s never been able to get the full truth. Something to do with his childhood but nothing more specific than that.

“Alright hotshot, I know the routine.” He pulls back, letting go of Ford’s face in favor of taking his hand and spinning him around to head back into the living room.

Ford could move, probably, but in his still shocked state of mind, he just lets Stan guide him into the other room and down onto the couch.

Except he doesn’t get pulled onto the couch. Instead, he gets pulled down onto Stan’s lap and then pulled against his chest like a kid again. It makes his face turn bright red against his will and he tries to get up, tries to move away as soon as it happens.

They’re adults, they don’t do this anymore.

Stan isn’t having it and wraps one arm tight around his back while the other holds his hand tight. “Oh no you don’t, no way out of it. We’re gonna cuddle until you feel better. Don’t make me pin you again.” His voice is filled with mischief with an underlying serious tone that makes him give up and just let this Stan arrange him however this usually goes.

This isn’t his Stan, so maybe this is normal.

He feels stupid for it taking this long to make the connection and he wants to slap himself.

He jerks his head back to look at Stan with a look of shock more than anything on his face. His eyes jump down to their hands and he feels like he’s going to pass out.

Stan’s wearing a wedding ring. Worse still, he’s wearing a matching one.

Somehow, he manages to fall out of Stan’s grasp and down onto the floor in his shock.

Why do they have separate rooms then? What the fuck is Bill’s angle here?

It’s been nothing but blood, gore, loneliness, and torture since he was first captured. Never, never, did he get a moment of relief. Was this a relief? He couldn’t decide.

He chokes out words this time and can see the growing concern on Stan’s face. Of course, he’s worried. His husband hasn’t said anything in what feels like ten minutes and is currently sputtering on the floor. “We- Your- Why?”

He didn’t say they were good words. It's still better than nothing when usually he can’t speak freely unless Stan is the one possessed.

He tries again, clearing his throat to keep his voice from shaking. It doesn’t work. “I’m not- I’m not Ford. Your Ford.” He shifts away on the floor on the rug to put some distance between them since he expects Stan to lash out.

This isn’t anything like Ford’s normal panic attacks. They usually involve crying, screaming, sometimes kicking but mostly just a complete shutdown where his body can’t move much on its own. Were his thoughts can’t form anything other than blind panic.

This isn’t that. What is this?

Who is this, is the better question.

For the first time since coming in the door, Stan tenses up but doesn’t move to get up or move away. He’s thinking, staring, before finally speaking. “If yellows the color of Christmas, then what’s the color of July Forth?” It’s a safety phrase he and Ford came up with for situations like these.

Gravity Falls is beautiful but it's also equally dangerous. He thought Ford was being ridiculous making him memorize the phrase in case of body snatchers. Now it didn’t seem so silly.

He’d been expecting violence from Stan, maybe disbelief. He figured he’d need to plead his case, but instead Stan just. Believes him. This isn’t even his Ford but he believes him anyway.

The feelings that brings up delay his response, which is sure to be wrong, but he tries anyway. “I don’t know? Blue?”

For a second, he thinks he got it right because Stan’s shoulders relax and then he’s smiling. Laughing even.

“Damn it. You, the other you, sure knows how to pull one over on himself.” He stands up and offers Ford a hand to pull him up off the floor. “I’ll call him honeybuns, he’d hate that, and for now I’ll call you Ford. Makes this whole thing easier. So, tell me, what brings you here and where did you come from?”

When is he going to stop being surprised by how open this Stan is? How smart and understanding?

Regardless of how he feels about their life, he has to admit this Ford is a lucky son of a bitch.

He accepts the hand and he lets out a noise of surprise when Stan effortlessly hauls him up to his feet. It earns him another laugh from Stan and he finds himself smiling back. “I. I don’t fully know. It's all so complicated. I just, woke up here. It's actually a very, very long story.”

Only Ford could come up with a riddle even he couldn’t solve. He is worried, wondering, where his Ford is then. But one thing at a time. He’ll figure that out in time. This guy knows him, at least similarly, and he’s not trying to kill him.

He’s not sure he could fight back with his all if he did.

“Alright, well why don’t we sit down and talk about it then? You tell me the whole story. Start to finish. Then maybe we can work out how to get you and Honeybun home, how about it?” He sits back down on the couch and motions to the spot next to him. “I promise I don’t bite.” He flashes a wide smile of teeth as if that’s reassuring.

More than anything he wants to talk to someone. To talk to Stan without them feeling a million galaxies apart.

So, he agrees and sits down to tell his story.  

Chapter 11: Minding Intuition

It starts to get a little easier. He started giving himself some grace and more stability.

A routine.

It started by letting go of the concern of Ford being pissed at him for spending his money.

He would be, but it’s not like he doesn’t have more than enough to spare.

The odds of him coming out of this safe and sound are slim to none at best. So, he lets himself have some nice things for once. He gets a real gym membership instead of just a day pass. It’s not that much for a six-month pass and it gives him a reason to get out of the house in the morning.

Nightmare. Breakfast. Gym. Portal work.

It’s a good solid routine and gives him an outlet for his emotions. He can run until his legs burn and his foot is killing him. Or beat the punching bag until his knuckles bleed.

Food is easier to come by when he stops himself from thinking about what Ford would think. He actually eats instead of getting by on scraps. He still won’t let himself spend much, but it's enough. It makes things easier.

Nightmares of killing Ford still wake him up with tears and sobs, but afterward, he’s able to go punch something until he doesn’t have any more tears left.

The first few weeks of basically starving himself had caused a drastic loss in weight (he had to remind himself not to be happy about it) but now the more he went into town every morning the more he put back.

You don’t notice a change in muscle mass in a week, which was about as long as he’d been going, but it felt better anyway.

Bill probably didn’t realize it, but that tattoo wasn’t a complete curse.

Yes, it hurt every time he cleaned it so it would heal properly.

Yes, it was a constant reminder of how little Ford thought of him.

But it was also a taunt.

A challenge.

That fucker was going to live to regret ever screwing with Stanley Pines.

*

That newfound goal was what brought him into town, sitting in his car, and just people watching. He still didn’t know anyone in town by name but he was getting more familiar with faces at least.

The lady with blue eyeshadow at the local dinner, the local car salesman, and there were a lot of kids in this town too. Especially from the family with red hair. One girl and two boys under seven looked like a handful.

He found a spot with an overview of main street where he didn’t have to pay to park and got comfortable with the radio down low and those first aid kit books to skim while keeping half an eye on the area.

He’d made sure to wear a big sweatshirt and sunglasses so hopefully no one would recognize him while he basically gambled his day away on seeing that guy.

Okay, so the day wasn’t a total waste. He did get a lot of reading done until it got dark.

He was about to give up for the day and go back to the shack to face sleep when the guy’s car drove past him. After throwing the car in drive he pulled out behind the car and followed him a good distance back so it wasn’t too suspicious.

They ended up in a small residential neighborhood and the car parked in the driveway. Definitely the right guy. Stan watched as he got out of the car with a briefcase and headed up inside the house. He stayed only long enough to write down the address before leaving and heading home to do more research using the phone book and Ford’s address book.

*

Fiddleford McGucket is just about the most ridiculous name he’d ever heard when he reads it in Ford’s contact book by the phone.

It fits the guy, but it still gave him a good laugh. It’s the first laugh he’s had in a long time too, so he almost feels bad about planning on breaking into the guy’s house.

Almost.

He was still going to. But first, he went through more of Ford’s things to get a better understanding of their relationship and just how involved they’d been.

His jackpot came when he found a box shoved in a closet up in the attic filled with stuff from college. Pictures of them both, acting like fools, old research papers, and lots of notes.

What were they, thirteen?

Passing notes in class was so something Ford would do.

That made him laugh too, made his chest a little lighter. He swapped this box for the one Fiddleford had given him. He could use something to make him smile and laugh after a bad nightmare.

If that happened to be at his brothers’ expense? To damn bad.

He was getting a little better at allowing himself a few nice things.

It took three days of watching their house from the wooded backyard to get a general sense of the family’s routine. They had a son who Fiddleford’s wife usually brought to school in the morning and then did not come back until after five.

The tricky part was that Fiddleford was seemingly always home. It solidified the belief that he was a scientist like Ford and worked from home but that just made it a lot more difficult to figure out how and when to break in.

He didn’t have a huge amount of spare time, unless he wanted to delay the portal even more, to sit around and figure out if the guy had a poker night or something. So, he did what he could, figuring out that they had a spare key hidden on the back of the doormat for the front door.

The boy had used it one afternoon after walking home from school. That gave him a way into the house, now he just needed a good opportunity. Even a small one.

*

It’s a Friday night, a full two weeks after the water tower incident, when he gets a lucky break.

He’d taken a chance forgoing sleep tonight with some coffee to go sit on the house again. After almost freezing to death in the shacks yard it wasn’t anything at all to hike out into the woods and sit for hours at a time with some binoculars.

Right around seven PM, he watched as Fiddleford and his family all went out and climbed into the car. The two parents dressed up a little (a date night probably) and their son carrying a bag. He suspected it was filled with toys for when he was at the babysitter's.

It took everything in him not to jump the gun. He waited fifteen minutes after the car left before getting up and casually walking around to the front. Acting like he belonged and totally wasn’t breaking into this poor guy’s house.

It wasn’t just for Ford anymore.

Yes, at first it had been, but now he was doing this for himself too.

He was going to get Bill. He just hoped that this guy had something that could help with the job.

How do you erase a god and its powers? He couldn’t think of anything.

That’s why he was here, to see if anything in the lab sparked an idea.

He didn’t delay in getting the key and unlocking the door. The house was dark but he left the lights off so no one would know he was in there.

A flashlight might as well of screamed ‘Someone’s broken in’ to the neighbors. Better to rummage around in the dark until his eyes adjusted.

The first floor had nothing of note. Family pictures on the walls, hobby supplies on the dining room table, and kids' toys were strewn about the living room floor. The second floor was much the same with just two bedrooms and a bathroom between them.

Which just left the basement. How fitting that both Ford and Fiddleford-

He laughs to himself in the dark after thinking about both names together. It’s a childish joke, but he’s alone. Who’s hear to judge him for it?

Focus. He’s still giggling to himself as he turns on the basement light and makes his way down the stairs. The first room is a laundry room with a bathroom off it but there’s one more room down here that is easy to spot as the guy’s office.

It's just as messy as the shack was, if not worse. Piles of papers on every surface only interrupted by books. The bookshelf in the room was overflowing onto the floor and the big whiteboard in the middle of the far wall was a bunch of mathematical nonsense. “Definitely the right guy.”

Just being in here allowed the level of hope he had to rise.

If this guy was on the same level of genius as Ford then maybe, just maybe, things could be alright.

There was a TV with a built-in VCR on one table in the corner of the room and it was surrounded by various tapes with different dates and titles. He picked up the most recently dated one from yesterday and turned on the TV to watch it.

He hadn’t seen anything that screamed ‘can kill a god’ but looking at the papers covered in math would knowingly be a waste of time. Might as well start with the video logs of whatever Fiddleford (he laughed again, unable to unhear the joke) was working on.

The video starts as static but gradually comes into focus as the room he’s standing in with the whiteboard in the background. A glance around the rooms reveals a bulky camera sticking out of the closet on a tripod as what he’d used to make these tapes.

“Log entry 52, It's hard to believe it’s already been just over a month since I founded the Society of the blind eye. The renovations in the basement of the history museum are finally approved. It’ll be a huge step in the right direction to have a safe space to help people forget- “

Something about forgetting. That sounds promising, but he needs all the details from the beginning.

Stan pauses the tape and makes sure to rewind it so it won’t be obvious he watched it. Then he dug around until he found the first tape with the earliest date.

He keeps thinking he’s found the first one but he counts forty-eight. Where are the remaining four? The first four, probably. He digs through the closet of the room and finds a safe in the very back hidden behind a nerdy science poster.

It looks promising but he doesn’t have a clue what the combination could be. He may know how to pick locks but most things are easier to get into if he has a key, or in this case, the code.

Looking around the room nothing screams out at him either. Lots of math jargon but nothing short enough or coherent to him. Maybe it’s a birthday? But the only one they both know is Ford’s.

He pauses, and then decides to try it anyway. They were roommates in college and moved to this town together to study the weird and unusual. Weirder things had happened since arriving in town.

Another laugh bubbles up when the code works and the door unlocks and clicks open.

Maybe the two of them were a lot closer than he thought just from the notes.

Sure, the guy was married, but not all married people were faithful.

And he was learning more and more that Ford wasn't exactly a stand-up guy either

A breakup would explain why things had been so awkward outside the library.

Inside the safe are the four tapes, a shoe box with what looks like a weird gun in it, and lots of different files. They kinda look like the research papers Ford had in the box of college memories.

Leaving the safe open for now he puts the first tape into the player while checking his watch. It’s only been twenty minutes but he wants to be long gone before anyone gets home in a couple hours.

He’s done his best not to move things around but Ford would have noticed the small differences anyway. Fid’s probably will too.

“Log entry 1, My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket and I wish to unsee what I have seen. For the past year, I have been working as an assistant for a visiting researcher. He has been cataloging his findings about Gravity Falls in a series of journals. I helped him build a machine that he believed had the potential to benefit all mankind but something went wrong.”

He felt almost giddy.

Maybe he wasn’t as smart as Ford, but his instincts on what to do to keep himself alive hadn’t steered him wrong yet.

“I decided to quit the project, but I lie awake at night, haunted by the thoughts of what I’ve done. I believe I have invented a machine that can permanently erase these memories from my mind. Test subject one, Fiddleford.”

That’s the same gun from in the shoe box in the safe, is he going to-

He flinches watching the man use it on himself to delete whatever terrible thing had gone wrong between him and Ford. What had his brother done to this man to drive him to invent a mind-wiping device?

It’s a conflicting range of emotions welling up in his chest.

He’s happy, beyond glad, because this is exactly what he needs. But he also feels terrible that Ford drove this man, his friend, to such an extent to forget.

Despite not knowing all the details of how the gun works he gets the idea. It can erase human memories. What about a god? Maybe. Maybe not. But Bill can surely possess someone even in his true form, can’t he?

What if-

The tape had continued running with Fids just staring at the screen blankly but the loud sound of static plays now and he quickly shuts it off.

What if he could get Bill to possess him in his true form, somehow, and then- but then he wouldn’t be able to erase his own mind because Bill would be in control.

He’s going to need help, at least one other person, and he can’t trust that person to be Ford either.

Fids it is then.

The tape goes back in the safe with the others and he looks at the gun in there longingly.

It’s a giant, huge, gamble to leave it here. If he tries to talk to Fids and he won’t help it’ll be a million times harder to get the gun. But if he takes it that means Fids will be turning up on his doorstep unannounced sometime very soon.

No, he needs to be in control of his body when Fid comes over to talk.

Just talk, he could talk a drowning man into buying water. This should be easy.

He leaves the gun, reluctantly, and locks the safe back up before carefully making his way back out of the basement. Making sure to close doors and shut off lights as he goes.

The key goes back under the mat and he walks the long two blocks back to his car before heading home.

He’s hopeful that maybe the end of the long dark tunnel is coming into view.

He’s got a plan, a sketchy and unfinished one, but a plan nonetheless. All he’s gotta do is convince Fids to help, a demon god to possess him, and then get his memory erased along with the god.

Compared to the nightmares and torture, those things don’t sound too hard.

Chapter 12: A Tale of Two Stans

Ford sits down one seat over on the third cushion so that there’s space between them while they talk. He’s in the middle of trying to think of where to start when Stan holds up a hand and gets back onto his feet.

“Hold that thought. Or rather, walk and talk. I’ve got frozen stuff that needs to be put away.” Before he can say anything Stan’s rushing out of the room, almost knocking his shoulder on the doorway in his rush.

He tenses, because in the kitchen there are knives, but after a minute of silence he stands and hesitantly follows into the kitchen.

He still can’t believe this is real.

There exists a world where they grew up apart, became college sweethearts, and then got married. It raises so many questions because by all logic having different parents should make them different people.

The first words out of his mouth aren’t anything related to his story, “I’m sorry if this is weird, but in my dimension you and I are brothers. Twins. Can you explain all this to me, please?”

Stan stops in the middle of opening the fridge to put a gallon of milk away and his shoulders tense up. He’d already had this conversation once before and he doesn’t want to have it again.

“Should have figured. That itself is a long story and one you’ll want to be sitting down for. Just give me a minute and I’ll meet you in the living room.” Stan’s smile and mischievous tone are gone again and replaced with a somber air as he continues putting stuff away in the fridge and freezer.

This is a little closer to his Stan, except his Stan would likely refuse to answer these questions. He goes back into the living room to his spot and waits, impatiently.

What kind of explanation could be given to excuse incest? It was wrong, plain and simple, which was why he and Stan had stopped being so touchy as they entered high school.

All it had taken was one awful joke from a bully and he’d almost fully stopped touching Stan. No more handholding on adventures, limited high sixes, and he supposed mentally he started to distance himself too.

Now? This Stan had most definitely done a lot more than they had as children. It made his face red again thinking about it and he got up to put a record on just so he didn’t have to listen to the silence.

Stan wasn’t afraid to admit he was dragging his feet putting groceries away to avoid facing this new Ford. It was obvious now that this guy was different.

The same crazy glint in both eyes, but these eyes were cold instead of alive with emotion. There was no love visible there. Not much of anything at all. Maybe ending up in another dimension was tough, but enough to look so dead inside?

It made his chest ache and he just wanted to fix it even if this Stanford wasn’t his to help and fix.

No more avoiding it. Time to talk.

It never got any easier, no matter how many times they did it, but he knew it had to be done.

No way around it.

He walked back into the living room to find Ford had put on a record with the volume low and his smile came back for a minute while he sat down. This dimension or not, Ford’s music taste never changed.

That made this easier, turning to face him on the couch while he took a breath in and out.

“Alright. Let’s start at the beginning then. We met in college. You were there on a full-ride scholarship, genius you are, and I had gotten a partial scholarship and used the money I earned working over the summer to pay the difference.”

He kept things simple because he didn’t know what details mattered, what was different.

“Anyway. We got on like a house on fire. It was like this connection I’d never had. You worked at the tutoring center and helped me with my Spanish classes. I flirted with you and I guess you liked how bold I was. We went out and were glued at the hip throughout college. I made you sleep when you were sick, and we’d study together all the time, even if I never really understood most of what you were working on back then.” He takes it that based on the enthralled look on Ford’s face he isn’t entirely put off. Just blushing a lot.

“There were rough patches, like when your parents found out you were seeing a man.” He winces, “Your mom was great and did eventually get Filbrick to start talking to you again. Although I think he only ever broke his silence because he found out I took partial ownership of my dad’s crab fishing boat up in Alaska. That’s where I grew up with Shermie while you were raised in Jersey. Your old man is a little bit money-obsessed.” He laughs nervously and looks away for the first time as he gets closer to the rough part.

“Wait. So., we met by complete chance then?” Kismet their mother would call it.

He nodded, “Yeah. I know, it sounds hard to believe. I don’t know. I think your mom would call it destiny or something, what’s the word? Kismet? Yeah. Guess not even being separated at birth could keep us apart.” He laughs bitterly this time looking down at his lap.

He just stares at Stan. How couldn’t he? Everything he’s saying sounds insane. Like something out of a movie. ‘Separated at birth only to fall in love later in life’ Is probably a daytime soap opera somewhere. And Kismet. It's like Stan can read his mind.

If he wasn’t worried about this all being fake, this being Bill, he might have brushed it off. But it makes him tense up with a flatline mouth as Stan presses on.

“Anyway. We’ve just been living our lives. Doing research here, traveling around to investigate anomalies most summers when the weather is good for our boat, but about two years ago we- well.” It's his turn to flush but he makes himself look back up and across at Ford.

He’s just gotta get it out.

“I’ve always wanted kids, so you insisted we both go in and get one of those fancy genetic tests. To see whose DNA would be better, and if either of us carries any of those diseases and junk. When we got our test results and we discovered we had to be related….”

He took a deep breath in and out.

“We did some digging and my parents were willing to admit I was adopted. Both me and Shermie were. We didn’t dare bring it up to your parents. They didn’t know who I was. But. Well. It was pretty easy to conclude that they didn’t want three kids. I guess they knew right from the start that you were special. Had more potential than me and Shermie. Whatever. So, they got rid of us.”

It was hard, really hard, to act the same around their parents after finding out. But they’d worked through it. That had been a long year and a half of fights and talks before things had leveled out.

“They got rid of you!” Ford surprised himself yelling in the lull. It didn’t matter to his emotions that this wasn’t his Stan. He still had a violent and angry reaction.

Why is Stan laughing? This isn’t funny.

“Jesus, calm down. He and I did this song and dance already a hundred times. Sit back down and listen. I’m not done.” He waits until Ford listens before continuing.

“Yeah, so they did. It sucks. They didn’t see in me what you did when we met in college. But all and all things worked out alright. It's easier, for both of us, if we don’t think about what things would have been like. Yeah, maybe it would have been nice growing up together. Not in Jersey, no offense, but we never would have ended up here in that case. I can at least say it never would have been appropriate for us to date. My husband, other you, had enough of a crisis over it being incest without us knowing when we first met.” Thinking about Ford’s face scrunched up in thought over it pulled another genuine laugh out of him and he relaxed.

“All in all, we decided to keep it a secret. We aren’t hurting anyone. No one but us knows and it’s not like we gotta worry about having an incest baby since we’ll have to use an egg donor anyway. The only thing that changed was you made more of an effort to connect with Shermie and his kid, our nephew. And yeah, I think both of us are a little colder to your folks about it now, but with time I bet that’ll fade too.” At least he hoped so. Things had only recently gotten back to normal between them this last year.

Ford was silent on his end of the couch with his mind spinning and lost in thought. It's all so much to process. Their parents had made one small, rather big, decision that through a roll of the dice landed them here in Gravity Falls together instead of separated for ten years.

Sure, they’d been apart the first eighteen, but now the pair had the rest of their lives together. They sounded so damn happy and the house was a reflection of that.

And Stan, maybe he was better off growing up elsewhere. He looked good. Taller, smarter, stronger, and happy. Stan had never been happy whenever Dad was around.

This Stan had ambitions and goals, something he’d never seen his Stan have beyond the vague daydream. ‘Sail around the world’ or ‘Make a million bucks’ wasn’t much of a plan.

“Hey, none of that now.” Stan gets up and closes the distance of the cushion to pull Ford into a hug. “And don’t make this weird either. Right now, this is a brotherly comfort hug. I ain’t cheating on my Honeybun to make you feel better.”

He didn’t even realize he had started crying over this beautiful and terrible life. Now he’s laughing while Stan hugs him and it's good. He feels good for the first time in a long time. He can’t even remember the last time Stan made him laugh, the last time he let himself laugh at one of his awful jokes.

At some point, he’d gotten it in his thick head that he was above Stan. He was lower, like everyone else, and his childish jokes shouldn’t be funny or bring him joy. Otherwise, it would drag him down too.

But that’s not true. Because Stan isn’t lesser. He’s the one who’s screwed up for thinking that in the first place. “Good, keep it in your pants. My Stan and I aren’t. We aren’t like that.” He coughs and leans back to pull away. Thank God Stan takes the hint and shifts back halfway across the cushion.

Ford’s eyes still look sad, but there’s a little bit of light back in them now and that combined with the joke makes his smile widen back to full force. “Alright, I’ve told you our story, now it's your turn.” He shifts back, putting both hands up behind his big ears and angling them at Ford expectantly.

He laughs louder, leaning against the end of the couch and bringing a hand up to wipe the tears away. They aren’t all caused by sadness anymore.

“Okay, alright. Fair is fair. But be warned. Our story isn’t nearly as happy as yours.” The joy bleeds out of Ford's voice and his smile drops but Stan continues to look at him, waiting.

He hates to be the reason to wipe that smile off his happy face.

*

“Wait, so you’re telling me that you threw away our whole relationship over a fucking science fair project!?” It’s the first time Stan has reacted in a way he expects but he visibly flinches anyway.

He’d gotten used to this softer Stan.

“It was important! I was supposed to go to West Coast Tech, like you both did!” He insists, reacting back like always. “And he did it on purpose! He cost me my dream school!” He stands up too, just like Stan did. It's annoying he’s taller here.

Stan stops and turns away and a silence passes between them.

It's unexpected.

And it drags.

“Stan?”

“Shut up, alright. I need to gather my thoughts so we don’t just end up yelling at each other.”

That’s what they do though.

They yell and scream and nothing gets understood.

But not now.

Stan is trying to understand.

So, he stays silent and waits no matter how weird it feels.

A minute or two goes by and Stan turns back more collected. Still angry, but less so. It's fascinating. He’s never seen Stan step back like this. The longer he’s here the more he starts to think maybe this world isn’t as terrible as he once thought. “Alright. So, tell me exactly what happened then. Did you even ask Stan what happened or did you just yell at him like just now?”

Now it's his turn to be silent and lost in thought. He knows, because he has a perfect memory, but he doesn’t like the logical direction this is headed. “After they passed me up for my busted experiment I found a bag of toffee peanuts on the ground. His favorite, mind you. So, I went home and. Okay, maybe I wasn’t the nicest about it. I did yell, a little. But he didn’t deny it either. Just said it was an accident. Which was a total lie.”

Stan is giving him a disappointed look that just makes him angrier, “You weren’t there! You wouldn’t get it!” He continues to insist, refusing to give that he’s wrong.

Another more tense silence drags and it’s killing him that Stan isn’t breaking it. He’s just looking at him. Why won’t he just say something again? “What!?”

He jumps at how loud that was and Stan does too.

When Ford gets back, he’s gonna be able to tell him all about how lucky it was that they were separated. Maybe it will even be easier to be nice to the in-laws again.

“Stanford,” His voice is level and his anger is gone. Why can’t Stan just be angry? He feels completely out of his depths like this. “You didn’t even listen to him. You knew him better than anyone, but it sounds like you just threw that out the window. How many times did you two get bullied growing up? I know my Ford did, but your Stan, he always stood up for you, didn’t he?” He sits back down with a sigh but doesn’t break the eye contact between them.

“If I know myself, and I certainly do, I love my family. Stan loves his family. And I would never do something like that. I would never, ever, take away such an opportunity. Without even hearing Stan’s side of the story, I can tell you that whatever happened. Whatever story you wouldn’t even let him tell you, it was a real accident. It had to be. And it breaks my heart that you didn’t even care to listen to him. To me.” And it's real. This Stan looks genuinely saddened as he looks at him.

Ford has to look away, look down at the ground and anywhere else. He hates seeing Stan sad, but that’s what he is. It reminds him of how Stan looked right before he’d shut the curtain when he got kicked out.

“Good. You should feel ashamed. You turned your back on the person who would hang the moon for you if they could. Maybe it's not romantic, not like here. But family is the absolute most important thing to me. I’m the only reason we didn’t cut off our parents completely. When you get home, you need to listen to what he has to say. Like I did with you. And then you need to apologize for your part.” He crosses his arms and watches.

This isn’t how things usually are. Neither of them has the emotional intelligence for this, for one. But secondly, he isn’t the one who’s in the wrong.

Stan’s always wrong.

But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?

He forces himself to look back up at Stan and it’s comforting to be pulled into another hug.

This time he hugs back tight.

If this is fake, all a smoke screen, he doesn’t get it. But he hopes it lasts just a little longer.

Just long enough to finish the story at least, because he’s barely started.

Please.

*

Stan listens through the rest of the story, right until they get to the part about Stan pushing him into the portal. “I’d just like to point out here that you’re an asshole. It seems relevant to this story to call you out on it. But that was probably the dickest move I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of dick moves.”

Ford narrows his eyes from where he’s sitting, the cushion back between them, but the glare isn’t at full heat. “Excuse me? I’m the asshole? He pushed me into an interdimensional portal! How does that make me the asshole? And dickest isn’t a word, Stanley.”

This guy is gonna give him a headache. He’s just so much meaner than his Ford and even after listening to his life story, he doesn’t understand why. Yeah, Ford’s dad sucks, but one person can’t be the cause of so much hate, can he?

“That’s not the part I’m talking about. We’ll come back to that bit. I mean you inviting Stan up to your place only to send him away. That’s such a terrible thing. I mean, I get it. Bill and all. You were stressed, beyond stressed. But still. You’re a terrible person. You're just. So damn mean to him.” That makes Ford flinch and he gets defensive again.

“What would you know? You’ve never even dealt with Bill before. He’s awful. And I was trying to- “

Stan interrupts, “You were trying to selfishly save your precious work. Look, I get it. My Ford is compulsive too, wants everything just so, and can’t stand to throw anything out. But come on. It's Bill, who we have dealt with before, mind you.”

He can’t even bring himself to be mad at being insulted when he has questions. “You two dealt with Bill? How and when?” This was a good opportunity to try and find some common ground between dimensions now that he could talk with someone in one of them.

“Don’t try that with me. It doesn’t work. You aren’t changing the subject. I know all your tricks.” Stan grins for a second before getting serious again. “Focus. Why didn’t you just go with Stan? I mean, surely you know Bill can’t get into your mindscape outside Gravity Falls. Dreamscape maybe, but not the mindscape. You could have gone together after dismantling the portal and hidden it somewhere like you always dreamed of. I guess you’d be the ones creating treasure instead of finding it, but the point still stands.”

It's frustrating having his mouth left dry and empty unable to respond whenever this Stan says something so profoundly obvious that he should have considered it.

Maybe he’s the dumb one here. He’s starting to think so the longer they talk.

“And don’t give me the whole ‘we were fighting so he wouldn’t have wanted to go’ because that’s bullshit. I love sailing with you. And I bet your Stan would have jumped through whatever stupid hoops you could come up with just for a chance at it.” His words are bitter and they sting because deep down Ford knows he’s right.

He hates having the roles of right and wrong reversed.

He hates whatever stupid kind of therapy this is.

“You know what. I don’t have much of a defense. Just that I didn’t know, before now, that Bill couldn’t follow me outside this town. With that information, if I could go back, I’d try and do it differently. But I can’t. This is the reality I’m stuck with.” One hand comes up absentmindedly to tug on his hair while looking away from Stan at the floor.

Stan sighs to himself and shifts back across the couch, grabbing Ford’s hand out of his hair and setting it down in his lap. “I keep telling you, doing that is gonna give you a bald spot one of these days. Kick the habit now before it gets worse.”

For a second Stan forgets that this isn’t his Ford, because he’s seen this look on him before. When they were dealing with Bill themselves. It makes him uncomfortable to remember.

“Look. You’ve got a lot of stuff to talk about. And if you're anything to go off of it sounds like both of you are awful at talking. You're gonna need to be the older twin here and take the high road. Don’t overreact to everything or you’ll yell in circles.” He laughs a little to himself and shifts back to his spot on the couch. “Rome wasn’t built in the day. We used to do that too. We just went through a lot of couples therapy. You know, it’s kinda funny, the main reason we both agreed to go was because of that special connection we had. We didn’t want to lose it. Turns out we didn’t have to stay together to do that, because we’re twins. But I’m glad we went anyway. Means usually only one of us loses our cool at once.”

Ford swallows when Stan grabs his hand and redirects it down onto his own lap and it’s accompanied by a red flush, but he doesn’t say anything about it. As usual, he’s right.

At least there is a logical explanation for why Stan is so level-headed.

Maybe therapy isn’t complete hogwash after all.

“Alright. Fair point. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for me to think a little before I act.”

It was like looking in a mirror.

He’d never seen it before, but maybe he and Stan were more similar than he originally thought.

Because Stan has always done exactly that, acting first and thinking later.

And he hated it when he did it. Yet, here he was, doing the exact same thing. A lot, apparently.

“You're only twenty-seven? God. How are you so damn smart?” He looks at him for a real answer and is met with a flushed Stan.

He’s never gonna get used to Ford praising him like that and the effect is the same regardless of which Ford it comes from. “I-I don’t know. Guess I just had a really good teacher? My Ford.” He clears his throat and looks up again. “He’s nicer, than you. He didn’t just help me with my Spanish classes in college. He took time out of his busy and important schedule to help me and made me a priority. And I helped him when I could. We worked together and it made both of us better people.”

Can he please stop getting kicked in the gut here?

The smoke screen or green screen can pull up now and expose Bill with a puppet on his hand, please?

No? Fine.

“I’m happy for you both. Really. And this was good. I guess it was about time I did some self-reflection. But it helps to be able to get Stan’s perspective without actually talking to him.” God, forbid they talked.

If he ever does get home at least he’ll have a better idea what to say to Stan. He looks down at his lap and lets his shoulders slump thinking about home.

It's sad, empty, and full of bad memories.

But it’s still home.

It's where Stan is.

And he’s never gonna get back there.

“So, you still gotta tell me how you ended up here. Because as fun as it is having a guest, I’d like to get my husband back asap.” He’s been patient, and kind, and listened through the whole story. But he’s worried because the longer they talk and the longer Ford’s gone the less likely he comes back.

This Ford is okay, kinda, but not exactly someone he wants to be stuck with long-term.

“See, that’s the hard part. I’m not really sure. The last thing I remember was being in the Nightmare Realm, the space between all dimensions. Then I kept waking up in different versions of this place.” He hesitates to tell him the truth but ultimately decides he needs someone else’s input or he’s actually gonna go insane. “I wake up in the shack, and then eventually you show up. After that, it's always a variation of the same story. You try to kill me. I try to kill you. Or one of us is trying to kill ourselves. It's always bloody and violent. And it feels. So damn real. Like it is real like I’m actually here. But I can’t be sure. I’m not even sure you're real. This could all be an illusion put up by Bill. I might not even really be here. Just talking to myself like I’m crazy- “

Stan shifts over again and puts both hands on his shoulders. “Woah, stop right there. That’s like, seriously heavy.”

Even if this isn’t real, it feels real. God, he wants to believe it's real and that Stan can be like this.

That the world doesn’t have to be so dark and lonely.

Nothing Ford said makes him feel any better about his Ford.

He knows, because of course he does, that he’s real.

And Ford is inside his Ford’s body.

So, he’s real too.

Which means eventually, at least for Ford to move on, someone’s gotta die.

Don’t they?

He doesn’t mention that and just gives Ford a minute to gather himself to continue.

“Sorry. Okay. Anyway. I don’t know how Bill’s doing it. How he’s moving me around. If that is what’s happening. Switching my mind between bodies while keeping my actual body suspended somewhere between worlds? I guess he’s a God and can do anything, but wouldn’t he still need to be able to possess this Ford to do it, at least?” He looks to Stan for answers and the uncertain and shifty gaze he gets back isn’t reassuring.

“Stan?”

Damn it.

“Okay, so about that. It's kinda complicated. You, Ford, really didn’t want to leave Gravity Falls. So, we kinda found a way to bypass being possessed. At least sort of. Clearly, it's not perfect, because you’re here.” It's no surprise when he gets a hard shove to his shoulder and his hands get pushed off. “Why didn’t you say that!? How does it work? Does Ford have papers on it?” He all but jumps up into a standing position off the couch and he’s endlessly annoyed to get dragged back down to sit again.

“We couldn’t stop Ford from being possessed, but we could find a way to make it less dangerous. After we figured out Bill’s tricks, he was really unhappy with us. I imagine even more so since Ford started wearing this bracelet.” He rolls up the long-sleeved shirt to reveal a dark blue metal band around Ford’s wrist with a tiny glass screen on the top currently black as if it's off. “It’s essentially a mental shock collar. It scrambles thoughts until Bill leaves his body. It also leaves Ford a vegetable until then, but after a while, Bill stopped coming around anyway. Got bored of us I guess.”

It's fascinating and he has to agree it's brilliant. Maybe the him in this dimension is a genius after all. He's the idiot Ford. “But if this is supposed to keep Bill out, how am I here?”  

Stan shrugs and leans back, thinking for a while before shrugging a second time. “I mean, I guess it was designed for Bill specifically. Maybe Honeybun didn’t take into account the possibility of other visitors. It was his project, not mine. He just told me all about it using too many math equations.”

Ford stood up again, slower this time, but just as determined. “Can I see his notes? Maybe I could make some adjustments?” Stan doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t know about bringing you down into the lab. I mean, I get your him, but still. He barely lets me down there. I don’t think he’d take kindly to having a copy of himself rummaging through his stuff.” But, then again. How else is his Ford supposed to get home?

Like it or not, Ford is the brains between them. And this is the only Ford he’s got. He should just be glad it’s a Ford and not some random idiot.

“Look, I won’t touch anything without your permission. You can show me around and keep an eye on me while we try to figure this out.” He looks around the living room and sighs. “I must admit. It's nice here. Really nice, especially compared to home. But I can’t stay. And I don’t want anything bad to happen to you or him,” he points at his own chest, “So the sooner I leave the better and safer for everyone.”

Stan stands up and glances at the clock before back at Ford, “Alright. I’ll give you a brief tour. But it's almost time for dinner so we aren’t going to get any work done tonight. I’ll close the Shack up for the day tomorrow so we can sort this out. One day without business in the middle of winter isn’t gonna kill us financially.” He’s joking but it only earns him a confused look in response.

“You mean lock up the house? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Ford inches around the coffee table anyway, slowly edging towards the basement.

“What? Oh. Right. No. I mean my business. You know, the thing I work on all day while you avoid sunlight in the basement?” Although, if they’ve been apart for ten years of course he’s got no idea. The shack probably doesn't exist. “I run a little tourist stop in town a little way down the road. I call it the Mystery Shack. It's mostly pickled specimens you got bored of but I make some of my own junk in my workshop sometimes too. People eat it up and it's really popular in the spring and fall. I bet it would do even better during the summer, but we’re always gone sailing.” He doesn’t miss Ford inching for the basement door and he follows while he talks.

Right. Business and advertising.

Makes sense that Stan owns a business part-time while traveling the world with him.

God. It’s so, perfect.

It hurts to look at, like he’s looking at the sun head-on.

“How do we afford all this though? If the business is only open half the year, how do we even have the money for a boat? I assume grants are funding my research like back home. But that’s not enough to also own a boat.” He watches Stan unlock the door with a key from his pocket.

Stan grins while pocketing the key and opening the door, “You do get a lot of grants, but you aren’t the only one who has money. You know that share I’ve got in my dad’s crab boat? Every spring I get a ten percent cut of their profits. That takes care of the mortgage on my little business for the year and leaves us some more to mess around with. Being adopted ain’t so bad when your adopted parents are rich.” His happy attitude is back as he turns on the light and walks into the hallway and around the corner towards the elevator.

This one has four floors instead of three.

“How much money are you talking about?” He’s curious and maybe he also likes hearing this Stan talk. It's nice, to hear about this wonderful life they lead. After all the pain of traveling around it's nice to have a break.

Stan just leans into it, enjoying talking about their life, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. “It’s usually somewhere between fifteen-thirty thousand. It varies from year to year. They don’t just do the winter season in Alaska, April through summer is spent in Maryland on a smaller ship and in September they take the big tanker out to China for a quick paycheck.”

He blinks at how that’s a ‘small contribution’ compared to his grants. That’s actually about what he gets from his grants. A little less, but it's still a lot. Despite having a part-time job Stan makes about the same amount as him in this world.

Stan clears his throat when the elevator stops and a black screen is prompting him for a password, “Actually. Technically it's my year to pick where we go for vacation this year. But me and my Ford- “He coughs like he’s changed his mind about mentioning it. Too late though. Now he’s gotta finish the thought. “He really wanted to go to Sweden, to see this year's Nobel Prize be awarded in Stockholm. I agreed on the condition that we start looking for a surrogate. Now that we’ve finished recovering from getting our genetic tests back.”

Stan looks incredibly red like he’s been caught stealing something while he punches in the password and he can’t exactly say he’s going any better.

First of all, Stan’s taking him to Stockholm. That’s like, insane on its own.

But secondly, they’re like. Going to have a family. He’s still barely managed to wrap his mind around them being together, but a baby?  

He has no doubt this Stan will make an excellent father and that makes him sad again. Stan had always been great with kids, always wanted them to even if he never said it out loud.

God.

This whole time he never even stopped to think about how Stan must feel, alone back in their dimension. Would he stay at the house? What would he tell their parents?

Would Stan go to jail? No one would believe the truth of what happened.

“Earth to Poindexter, hello? You home?” There is a hand waving in front of his face and it pulls him back.

“Right. Sorry. Lab. I just. Was thinking about Stan. My Stan. I wonder what will happen to him, now that I’m gone. I’ve essentially disappeared and he was the last one to see me.” He’s almost getting lost again when Stan speaks.

“Hey,” a snapping finger in front of his face, “If I know myself, and I definitely do, he’s gonna get you back. I’d bet my life on it. You’ve just gotta wait it out. Preferably after you get my husband back though.”

A frown. Getting him back? That’s impossible. He’s not even sure he could do it. Starting up the portal is dangerous and could destroy the very fabric of reality itself. He’d made that very clear to Stan. Besides, the portal was technically broken before he went through. Stan couldn’t possibly-

“Would you stop that? It's annoying when you just stare at me instead of flapping your trap. I can’t read your mind. Twin telepathy is just a theory. Just trust him. He’ll figure it out. Wouldn’t you do it for him?” The doors close because they’ve been standing here so long but the elevator doesn’t move.

Would he? He could, but would he open the portal, just to get Stan back if the roles were opposite?

Maybe he is an asshole. Because his gut reaction is to say no.

“I don’t know. I mean, it's dangerous. There are a million things that could go wrong. It could let Bill into our reality and bring about the apocalypse- “

Stan grabs his shoulders and gives him a shake to shut him up. Disappointment, anger, sadness, and fear all pass across his face before settling in a hard frown as he lets go.

“Huh. You know. I guess that explains what makes you and my Ford so different. Because I know he would. I’m sure of it and he’d be sure I would. Damn, the risks. Because that’s my other half, my soulmate, my brother. But. You wouldn’t.” He steps back from Ford so he’s standing against the door.

Another sharp punch to the gut, except this time it's worse. He can physically feel this Stan withdraw from him. Like before they were friends and now, they aren’t.

And he’s right. Because he should want to say yes.

If he was a good person he would.

But he’s not.

He’s awful and terrible and this world shows him the ugly reflection like a funhouse mirror.

The silence hurts as it drags on but he can’t bring himself to break it or he’s afraid his voice will crack. He doesn’t have any right to be upset. He’s what’s wrong.

Stan’s shoulders slump finally and it’s followed by a tired sigh like he’s been let down by Ford for the millionth time. “When you get home, not if, you need to be better. Because even I have my limits. And one day, you're gonna push him so far that he won’t come back. No one can keep forgiving someone awful forever.”

He needs to come up with another word for Stan being right. Because he is, again, and hearing what he already knows deep down hurts.

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” The door opens again when Stan presses the button.

Ford hesitantly steps out behind him while Stan hits the lights.

Chapter 13: Wrong Hands

Notes:

Small Issue: The other chapter I said Stan and Ford were married. I realize that's a huge oversight on my part. It's 1982. There was literally nowhere in the world that it was legal to get married as a gay couple. Whoopsie. So, they're more married in spirit. Maybe had a ceremony with family but it's not legally binding.

(Fun fact: Denmark recognized legal partnerships starting in 1989. The Netherlands was the first country to legalize gay marriage though in 2001.)

Anyway, I hope you are all enjoying the story. I had a plan, then my characters started doing stuff, and now it's already surpassed the length I thought it would be. Maybe halfway? I don't know. We'll see. If they keep yapping at me then I'll keep writing. XD

Also, I love seeing comments. So thanks for leaving them. And feel free to leave more. They make my day. :)

Now that he’s got the starting of a plan, he’s itchy.

Restless.

He has an extra hard time getting to sleep on the couch after getting back from Fid’s place and he spends far too long tossing and turning. And then-

Nothing.

No nightmares, for some reason.

It's suspicious, to say the least.

Yes, Bill let him go a whole week without them at first but now they’ve become a regular and expected side effect of them working together.

He doesn’t like it and it makes him uneasy, like something else is gonna happen next instead. How much more damage can Bill do outside of dreams and regular torture? He doesn’t know and isn’t looking forward to finding out.

After having breakfast, he went around the whole house double-checking that all the triangles were covered. He’d been able to gather from the book that Bill could see through anything that resembled his triangular image.

Had Ford known Bill the whole time he was here?

It seemed like it because almost every stained-glass window had a triangle on it. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that Ford had been worshipping the damn demon.

That realization pulls another amused and almost insane laugh from him.

Of course Ford would worship a demon with a high enough intelligence to bridge the gaps between universes. It's frustrating to know that Ford was tricked.

How didn’t he see it?

It’s obvious to him, but maybe that’s just because he’s an expert con man.

No one can pull the wool over on him.

He thinks.

Unless Bill is currently aware of his tiny plans.

He doesn’t think so though. Bill would take it out on him in a violent manner if he was suspicious like he did to Ford when he refused to continue work on the portal. He’s okay, for now at least. He’s just gotta be really careful.

If Bill can read his mind, how is he supposed to keep this a secret? Not thinking about it when he’s around? That should be enough. Probably.

As far as he can tell Bill hasn’t done much digging around in his head. Enough to know he’s terrified of heights and losing Ford, but that’s about it.

Not to say there’s much up there to root around in any way.

Once he’s sure all the triangles are covered, as they always have been, he goes into the kitchen and hovers by the phone.

Now he’s got a whole other set of problems.

What is the easiest way to get Fids to come over?

He’s pissed at Ford but still cares about him. The code to the safe makes that obvious.

There's no question that he’s gotta lie, at least to get him here, and then afterward he can lay it all out.

Lay what out?

Is he even going to believe he's not Ford?

He’ll have to put together as much evidence as he can between this phone call and when he comes over.

He thinks about coming up with a script for this phone call and then thinks better of it. He’s always better at lying when he leans into the conversation and just talks. Anything else would probably make this harder than easier.

It takes a long time to get up the courage to dial in the number but after a couple more minutes he does it and then stands there listening to it ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Click.

‘You’ve reached the McGucket household, please feel free to leave your name and number- ‘

Click.

Damn it.

He tries a second time but gets the same response. Two rings and then voicemail.

He’s not deterred so easily.

It takes five more calls with this same response before he starts to worry. Come on Fids. You really need to pick up the phone here. Please.

It is still early, but it's clear someone is purposefully declining the call each time.

For this call, he lets it go to voicemail and adjusts his voice a tiny bit so he can sound like Ford as best he can.

“Hey, Fiddleford? It’s me, Stanford. Look, I’m sorry for calling you so early. I just- “he lets a beat of silence pass like he’s thinking hard on his words, “Can we talk? Please? I get it if you don’t want to talk to me, but- “he stops again, long enough that anyone listening would think he’d hung up, “Call me back. Please, Fids.”  Then he hangs up, putting the phone back and feeling rather proud of that bit of voice acting.

But was it good enough? He feels bad playing into the guy’s feelings but he’s come too far and gotten too close to let a little bit of a moral dilemma stop him now.

He can apologize about it later once he’s here.

For a little while he hangs around in the kitchen, cleaning, because he doesn’t feel comfortable letting Bill take over when the phone might ring.

Luck, his old friend, is still around though.

It only takes an hour of fiddling around, cleaning the fridge, and putting stuff back, before the phone rings.

He misses the call since it only rings once and then drops.

But it's him. And he grins seeing the familiar number when he checks.

This time he stays by the phone so when it rings a second time, he picks it up on the first ring.

Although he can’t tell, because the other end of the phone is silent, and he has to check that the call is still going before hesitantly speaking, “Fids?” He makes his voice small and hesitant.

More silence, finally broken by a sigh, “Hey, Ford. I. I saw you called. What, what about?” Fiddleford’s voice is unsteady but there’s a tired and frustrated tension behind it like he’s still not sure if this call was a good idea.

He lets out a sigh of relief that’s real, unlike his words, “Thanks, for calling me back. I, uh. You see- “he coughs and then swallows unsure if it comes across the phone or not, “I’ve. I’ve got a lot to apologize to you for. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. And., I don’t think talking over the phone does it justice.” He hesitates but before he can continue, he gets interrupted.

“Apologize doesn’t even begin to cover it Ford,” Fid’s tone is exasperated now.

“I know, I know. Can we talk? I mean. Can you come over, or something? Not now, but in a day or something? Please? Whenever works for you, after what happened recently- “he cuts himself off like he said too much with another cough, “I’ll, uh, make some dinner or something. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being stupid. You know what, just forget it. I’ll just. Sorry. Bye Fid- “

“Wait!” The words are all but a yell on the other end of the phone.

Stan wasn’t actually going to hang up, but the word makes him pause with a grin anyway.

This he can do.

It’s shameful how easy something like this is for him.

He always took more after Mom than Dad.

After a minute of heavy breathing and quiet cursing on the other end of the phone, Fiddleford speaks again, “Alright. Okay. I’ll, I’ll come. Tomorrow night work? I know you are busy but- “

“Yes, absolutely. Tomorrow night is perfect. Thanks, Fids, thank you. Nine too late for you?” It’ll be cutting it close with their usual swap time but maybe he can prep something to throw in the oven today before going downstairs.

He lets some of his real joy slip into his words and allows a real smile to cross his face. One step closer to finishing all this crazy shit.

“It’s a little late, but it should be fine. So. I’ll, uh, see you. Bye.” The line goes dead before he gets a chance to say a proper goodbye.

That doesn’t matter. He puts the phone down and all but jumps for joy.

*

He’d barely finished parking his car and he’s already regretting coming here. Answering the phone was a huge mistake

But Ford had been so damn persistent about it.

Calling and calling. It wasn’t like him at all.

He never called more than once, unless something really important needed to be discussed.

In this case, the important thing to discuss was them. Which tugged on the heartstrings because he’d been under the impression Ford didn’t care about him. He’d said so himself that last day in the basement.

Surely if Ford wants to apologize then he needs to at least hear him out, right?

That’s why he parks his car in the driveway behind a big red car he’s never seen before. Did Ford buy a new car? He ignores it for now and slowly makes his way across the yard.

The driveway is plowed/shoveled and so is the deck. That’s weird too. Ford’s terrible about actually taking care of his house.

Just last fall he had to clean out the gutters because Ford couldn’t find the time for it.

Maybe he’s changing, hopefully for the better.

He can’t get up the courage to knock for a minute, just standing terrified to face Ford again.

It had taken all of his courage to face him in front of the library.

Where is he? It's nine o’clock on the dot but-

That’s his car, so where is he?

The new car in the driveway is unmissable.

Is he just standing at the door?

Yes.

Looking through the window of the kitchen he can see Fids standing on the porch.

Too close to the stairs for his liking.

He runs for the door, pausing to collect himself and adjust his posture before opening it wide.

He has to fight the urge to put on one of his big grand smiles and instead wears a hesitant and sheepish one with knitted shoulders to match.

He hates wearing Ford’s clothes. This sweater is uncomfortable, and kinda of scratchy, and the pants don’t fit right either. But it does contribute to the look.

Oh, and the glasses, they make everything blurry so he has to bend his head to look over them a little like they’re slipping down his nose so he can read Fid's expression.

“Please, come in, come in. It's freezing out.” He motions Fids in and stands back so there’s a big gap for him to walk through without them getting close to each other.

For a moment Fiddleford considers turning around and leaving, forgetting would be easier, but Ford looks so desperate for him to come inside. He’s never seen him look like this.

Not over a test grade, or a grant application, and especially not over him.

So, he walks inside, glancing around as he slips out of his boots so he doesn’t track snow everywhere.

The house is different too. It's warmer than it used to be. The windows are shut but the lamps are all on basking the living room in a comfortable warm light.

It’s a lot cleaner too like Ford cleaned up specifically for his visit. He can’t be sure of that, but it eases his nerves anyway. “Uh, thanks.” He says, really looking at Ford.

He’s dressed in one of his sweater vests and has a jacket on over it even if it's not too cold inside. He’s also wearing slippers and- Is that a foot brace?

Yes, he’d been limping outside the library, but- “What happened to your foot, Ford?” He can’t help but care when Ford is so clearly mirroring that sentiment. It feels allowed.

Luckily this was one of the things he’d prepared for, among many, before now. The lie rolls off his tongue as he looks down like he forgot about it, “Oh, yeah. Heh, I dropped some metal from downstairs on it. Bruised it up pretty badly. Doc says I just gotta wear this for a few weeks and take it easy.”

None of that’s true but when he looks up Fids seems to believe it and just gives him a tight nod. “Anyway, how about dinner, yeah?” He moves from the door and heads through the living room towards the kitchen.

Fiddleford follows, still hesitant, and sits on his side of the table while looking around again.

The kitchen is even cleaner than the living room and the curtains are open here, letting him look outside at the snow. That red car.

He looks at Ford again where he’s stirring something on the stove and pulling out two bowls. His hair is long, very long, but it's not as curly as he remembers it. He looks like he’s put on some weight all over his frame too.

Broader shoulders and larger biceps. It’s only been three months since their fallout, how could his physical appearance change so much? Is it because he’s been lifting all the metal for the portal on his own?

That thought makes his shoulders tense up again and he just sits at the table in silence instead of saying anything. Ford was the one who wanted to talk.

He knew that making something from scratch would take too long and that it wouldn’t be ready at nine. But that’s part of the plan too. Because they can talk and then eat after they get past the violent part.

He’d be surprised if they didn’t fight. No one likes being tricked. But this guy’s scrawny, smaller than Ford, so he knows he’ll win out.

He puts the soup on low and covers it before heading back over to the table to sit down, taking off the glasses before they give him a headache. He lets most of the façade slip and his posture adjusts back to his own. For now, he keeps his hands down under the table though.

“Alright. Now that I’ve got you here, I can stop lying to you.” He lets out a breath and fiddles with the fabric of these pants, “Can you just hear me out on what I’ve got to say and not run out of the house? Please?”

Thus far he could sense that Ford was hiding, something. He just didn’t know what. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and wants help tearing the portal down? Whatever it is he’s about to find out. “I can’t promise I won’t leave. But I’ll try. This. I realize this must be hard for you. So, I’ll try to.” He shouldn’t have to try but right now there’s a chasm between them and it takes two ends to make a bridge.

Poor guy.

He still thinks he’s Ford.

The guilt is heavy in his chest but he can make it up to the guy. Somehow.

He’s only got one gambling chip left but he’s prepared for that too if it comes to it.

No one does something for free.

He lets out a breath and looks up to meet his gaze, “I’m not Stanford Pines. I’m his brother, Stanley Pines.” The silence that follows is incredibly short compared to what he expected.

This isn’t what he expected and now he’s angry, shoving his chair back to stand up. “You aren’t funny Ford. I thought you invited me here to actually apologize for once in your life! I mean, seriously. Have you not come to your senses about the portal? Is it finished, is that what this is about? Because I already told you- “

Stan gets up, walks around the table, and boxes Fids in a little. He hopes he’s left enough room that it comes across as concern though. Technically it is. He’s concerned Fids is gonna bail before they’ve even started.

“Look. Stop yapping and look!” He holds up both hands in front of his face so he can’t miss them. “I’m missing two fingers because I don’t got 'em. Ford was the special one, not me.”  

His anger only ramps up seeing Ford’s hands without two fingers. He’s yelling for a completely different reason now, “You got them removed! Ford! What the fuck is wrong with you!” He grabs one of the hands to look for the scar but can’t see one. “I thought, I mean- you always- “he can’t even finish the dozens of thoughts in this state.

Scratch that method of proof then. Guess having normal hands isn’t good enough. Damn. He thought it would be. Hoped it would. Next.

He pulls his hands away and reaches over on top of the fridge from where they’re standing and pulls out a folder, shoving it open onto the kitchen table. “Here, look then. Seriously, look. Please.” He nudges him and tries to encourage him to turn.

Fiddleford is still gob-smacked about Ford’s hands but he turns to look anyway to see what was just put on the table. Inside the folder are two identical birth certificates.

One of them is much more stained and rumbled than the other.

He looks and reads them both. ‘Stanley Caryn Pines’ on one and ‘Stanford Filbrick Pines’ both with the same two parent’s names and the time born on the records are only fifteen minutes apart.

“Ford, what kind of game is this? This isn’t an apology and I’m not following. I can’t believe you’d do that to your hands. I thought you had started to accept them and embrace them making you different.” He’s trying to understand but it's just not clicking.

Damn. For such a smart guy he’s actually pretty dumb. Maybe love dumb, but still dumb.

He pulls back and moves closer to the center of the kitchen where he starts undressing right in front of Fids.

These clothes are gonna be stretched because not only is he too big for them but he’s also wearing shorts underneath them. That had been a bitch to accomplish without looking all wrinkled and improper.

“Ford!” He turns around, facing red as he covers his eyes. This was not how he expected this evening to go and other than looking away he doesn’t know how to continue. Maybe Ford’s finally lost it and this is a grasp at reality before he goes.

He tosses Ford’s clothes into the corner of the room to clean up later and after putting the brace back on he turns on the overhead light in here for a better view. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Fucking look. I’m not butt naked. I wouldn’t put a stranger I barely know through that.”

At first, he doesn’t, because he doesn’t believe Ford, but finally, he gets up the guts to turn.

His embarrassment goes away with his anger and fades to something closer to confusion.

He’d been able to tell Ford looked different but now it's so much clearer. Ford’s only wearing a pair of shorts and the leg brace exposing his chest and all the differences in his body's structures.

That’s too different for only three months.

And the scars. Ford doesn’t have any scars that he knows of. He barely ever left the dorm for Christ's sake.

There's one down the left arm that looks relatively new, still freshly healed, and his chest is covered in old scratch marks like a cat tore up his chest at some point. Or maybe it was caused by glass of some kind.

Below the scratches are larger and deeper scars though. A large slash across the left side that must have needed a lot of stitches. And bruises. There mostly faded, but in some spots the skin is yellowing. Did he fall down the stairs?

Stan turns around so Fids can see the rest. Of course, this is a gamble, because he doesn’t know if Ford and him were like that. But he kinda hopes so, because he’s running out of tricks.

Ford doesn’t have a-

Is that a burn mark on his shoulder? One of them is covered with some gauze but the other has a light pink mark so clear it looks like a branding mark.

Okay, he’s not an idiot, and he’s willing to admit when he’s wrong.

This isn’t Ford. He can see that.

Panick wells up.

“Stanley. If you’re here. Where is Ford?”

Damn. Straight to the difficult questions.

Stan turns around to face him, grabbing a robe to cover up with in the cold room. This thing is gonna be stretched out too when Ford gets back.

“You look like you're gonna bolt. Can we sit down again so I can tell you the story or am I gonna have to chase you out into the snow like this? Please?” He hopes that asking will make it sound more like a request and less like a threat.

He wants to run. This isn’t Ford and now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it. His nose is bigger than Ford's, his posture is too lax, and his chin is missing its small dip in the middle.

The pictures wrong.

Where is Ford?

Just a few minutes ago he was pissed at him, as he’s been for months, but now he’s worried sick.

Did Stan hurt him? Is he dead?

“Is he dead? Did you kill him?” Maybe not the brightest thing to say in the event the answer is yes.

“No. Absolutely not. I would never kill Ford.” His voice is hard and a little angry.

Okay, he isn’t sure. He can’t be. But…

He always thought he’d know if something happened to Ford, no matter how far apart they were.

Like, his chest would get tight or something, and he’d know something was wrong.

And yeah, he misses Ford, a lot, but he hasn’t felt that.

So, he’s gotta be alive.

Bill promised, and he’s just gotta believe it based on those two things. Two facts.

Otherwise, he genuinely doesn’t know what he’d do.

“Then where is he!” He yells and it surprises both of them.

Ford and him were friends for years. There was rarely a day they didn’t talk. Then when he moved here, they barely went the weekend (sometimes not even) apart. He can’t just turn off caring. It doesn’t work like that no matter how mad he still is.

He has to take in a deep breath before responding, “I don’t know. Not really. Can we sit, please? I should start at the beginning. Please?” By the time this is all over he’s going to be sick of the P word.

He’s never really used it before, but for Ford, he’ll beg.

Not for his life, but for his brothers.

Fiddleford shakes and he’s not sure if it's anger or worry or both. He forces himself to sit, closing and shoving the folder over to the opposite side of the folder. “Fine. Hurry up. I want to know everything. Now.”

The tone Fids uses reminds him of Ford for a split second but he shakes it off and sits down. He leaves the folder for now. “Ford invited me here, a little over six weeks ago now, because he needed my help. Do you know who Bill Cypher is?”

His arms are crossed but he frowns at the question because the name doesn’t sound familiar. Six weeks makes his mind spin and it takes effort not to yell, interrupt, and demand to know where Ford is again. “No, the name isn’t familiar.”

Maybe that’s who took Ford.

His blood runs cold and his mouth falls open a little.

“Alright, hang on. I’m gonna have to go further back then. One sec, let me change. It's cold as hell in here without layers.” Stan gets up and runs into the living room where he’d set out a change of clothes. He brings back the journal and a shoe box.

He sets the box aside under the folder for now and opens the journal to the page about Bill. “That portal you two were building. It was for this guy, Bill. He wanted to use it as a gateway to get into our world and destroy it. I think. I’m mostly just guessing from context at this point.” He looks up at Fids and frowns when he’s just staring at the illustration of Bill with a blank look.

Shit. This is what he made himself forget, isn’t it?

That.

The one eye.

He gets a vivid memory flashback and for a minute is thrown back into the basement.

The portal.

There.

He stands up and shoves the chair back, bolting from the room.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Stan chases after him, forgetting about his still injured foot, and runs through the house. Fiddleford manages to get outside, not stopping for shoes, before Stan can tackle him into the snow just off the porch.

They land in a pile with Fiddleford trying to pull away but Stan forces him down face-first into the snow with arms pinned behind his back. “STOP!” He yells, pushing Fid's head down and to the side.

Maybe the burning sensation of snow will help pull him back from whatever this is.

He can’t. He needs to go. He can’t stay here. Go. He needs to go.

But he can’t. He’s trapped and Stan isn’t letting him up.

“Please. I need to leave. I can’t. Just, stop. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” He’s crying and Stan’s grip is tight enough to bruise.

He hates this. It reminds him of collecting dues for someone else and having to hurt people or be the one getting hurt. It makes his chest ache and he thinks, for a second, about letting Fids go. Letting him live without this burden. Forgetting would be nice.

But he can’t.

No, they have to do this.

Bill did something to this guy too.

“Fiddleford, don’t you want to kill him? Bill? I need your help with that. Getting Ford back and killing Bill.” Boy, is he glad he took the time to put tape on the outside of the windows yesterday.

Slowly, over several minutes, he calms down.

And then Stan’s words catch up with his panic-laced mind. It brings pause.

“What?” He asks, voice full of disbelief.

He turns Fids over so he’s on his back now with his hands pinned above his head instead so he can look at him. “I need your help. I’ve got an idea, a plan. But I can’t do it without one other person. You. I need you. Please.”

It's not Ford begging him anymore, he can see that, but then again maybe this is worse. This is a man he doesn’t know and yet he looks so damn desperate for his help. Not anyone else’s. Him.

His feet are starting to hurt and that’s when he realizes he didn’t bother with shoes.

Stanley didn’t either at a glance.

It's too cold out to have this conversation here. He huffs and closes his eyes for a second, winces, and then looks up again. “Inside. Let’s talk inside. Can I get up now?”

He could damn near cry when Fids says that and he does a little. He lets out a relieved noise that turns into a cough as he lets go and gets up. They’re both covered in snow and-

Fid’s is lying right where he was in that dream.

Blood leaking out of his throat, Ford sobbing, screams echoing in the wind-

He lets out a choked noise and can’t breathe for a second.

He can’t breathe.

“Stanley?” He asks hesitantly after standing up.

He looks lost and,

Terrified.

He turns to look at the ground, hoping to see what Stan sees. But it's nothing but snow. For a second, he thinks about running, but then he steps forward instead and touches Stan’s shoulder, “Stan, you, okay?”

He takes in a big breath after who knows how long of just looking off and his eyes refocus on Fids standing there looking at him with concern.

It shocks him back to reality the rest of the way.

People don’t look at him like that all honest and open. Pity, anger, and wrath maybe. But not concern.

“Yeah. Right. Sorry. Yep, inside.” He turns, glancing around as they walk like he expects someone to be watching. He rushes too, ignoring how the fast impacts hurt his foot.

He’s accepted at this rate he’s always gonna have a limp because he can’t rest it long enough to heal properly.

His feet hurt too, so he doesn’t waste another glance at the snow and just hurries after Stan inside the house, already starting to shiver despite how brief they were outside. It's only after the door is closed that he remembers Stan’s foot and he mentally kicks himself.

He just made a guy with an injured foot chase him. That’s the opposite of taking it easy. “Sorry about running. I just. I erased that memory for a reason.” He shuffles after Stan to the kitchen.

“It's alright, here, come stand on the heat vent. It’ll warm your feet back up even if your socks will still be wet.” Meanwhile, Stan grabs a dishtowel and sits down to try and dry off the fabric parts of the brace.

He stands over the vent and crossed his arms again, waiting for Stan to explain further.

The silence drags while he straightens up the brace and then dries off his foot after discarding the slipper. This is good, he’s gotten over the hardest part. Probably.

He’s already so tired though.

“Seven weeks ago, Ford sent me a postcard in the mail. I don’t know if he ever mentioned me, but we hadn’t talked in ten years. Since high school. So, I came. And he explained to me the portal. About how something went wrong.”

He reaches back and grabs the journal again, “He gave me this and told me to get as far away from here as possible. To hide it for him.”

Looking at the cover with the six-fingered hand hurts.

“We didn’t end things on good terms ten years ago. So, when he called me here, just to send me far away. I got pissed. I lashed out. We fought, down in the basement. Slamming against equipment and hurting each other. I punched him. He, he gave me that burn on my back.” He points over his shoulder even if it’s covered by the shirt now.

“The portal turned on, while we fought. And. And. And….”

He tries not to cry, but he can’t help it. One small squeak gets out.

“I shoved him, pushing him past the safety line. And he went through, into whatever was on the other side. Then, everything shut off. He went through, and I couldn’t bring him back.”

He can’t hold back the tears anymore.

When it happened, he didn’t let himself cry. He was too focused on figuring out something, anything. But now? He’s dead honest because he needs Fids to trust him. Please.

Ford never mentioned Stan. And that says a lot about their relationship in itself. He knew about Shermie, the nephew, but not his twin brother.

He can’t fathom what could have possibly happened for Ford to erase his own twin from his life for that long.

Especially not when Stan looks so damn broken right now over losing Ford. “Jesus Christ.”

He moves off the vent and moves to stand next to Stan where he’s still sitting. He just puts a hand on his shoulder.

There's anger, at Stan, for pushing Ford. But Stan honestly looks upset enough about this and doesn’t seem to need another kick while he’s down.

He waits while Stan gets himself together, even if it's impatiently.

Through deep breaths he gets himself calmed down again even if his voice is still unsteady. He opens the journal back up to the pages on Bill.

“I still had this, his house, and so I started trying. I know I’m not as smart as Ford. He’s always made that clear. But I figured I could find something. So, I spent two days down there trying to get the portal working. But it was completely busted.  Ford had already taken it apart some already when he went through.”

It was like the universe just hated him specifically and allowed for such a huge screwup just because he’s Stanley Pines.

“I’m sure you and I could probably-“

“Stop. I’m not done. Just. Listen.” Stan interrupts, more composed now.

“I summoned Bill. And I made a deal to get Ford back.” The response is instantaneous and he should have expected it.

Fiddleford punches Stan as hard as he can in the shoulder, almost knocking him out of the chair. “Are you INSANE!” He throws his hands up and starts pacing the kitchen.

“Yeah, actually.” He just brings up a hand to rub his shoulder while watching Fids walk back and forth. Just like Ford. “I don’t want to tell you what I gave him, but in exchange, he gets to use my body as a puppet for part of the day. We’ve got an agreement. The portal is already about halfway back to working order now because he’s been working on it for six weeks.”

They are definitely brothers. Only Ford would do something as insane as making a deal-

Oh.

That’s how Ford got all the information about the portal. He stands in the middle of the kitchen as all the stupid little pieces fall together. The math, the vision, the blind faith. “That’s what he did. Didn’t he? He made a deal. That’s how- “He slaps a hand over his mouth in shock.

“Yep. I don’t know how long he was worshipping the thing, but it was a long time. Recently, I guess he finally wised up to being tricked. And Bill hated that. He got mad. Started hurting Ford, trying to bully him into continuing.” He gets up and walks over, grabbing Fid's arm to guide him into the living room.

Jesus Christ. Ford, what did you do?

He knew, but he didn’t know before now.

He feels like he might throw up but he tries to steady himself with the back of the couch while Stan turns on the TV and puts in a VHS tape.

“Brace yourself. This ain’t pretty to watch.” Stan waits, hovering, near the tv to block the opening screen while waiting to unpause it.

He takes a few minutes just breathing and taking it all in. He has so many questions but he doesn’t know which ones Stan can answer. Stan’s knowledge is a patchwork of clues as it is.

“Okay. Should I sit? I’ll sit.” And he does because he doesn’t know what Stan’s going to show him.

Something bad. This whole conversation is bad.

He hits play and turns up the volume before sitting with Fids on the couch, watching this with him.

And it's just as painful as he remembers. The shot of Ford taunting the camera before diving off the roof into the snow. The phone call made to a number he no longer has. And the nail. The nail through the hand is the worst part and he looks away while it plays before the tape ends.

Fiddleford’s heart hurts. His whole chest aches watching this but at the same time, he can’t look away. Is this what happened to Ford after he left? God. Maybe if he hadn’t left, Ford wouldn’t have been tortured like this. What if-

Stan turns off the TV and tosses the tape onto the coffee table before sitting down again. “Bill hurt my brother. He tortured him. Bullied him in a way I’ve never let anyone get away with.” His fists clench tight as he turns to face Fids.

“He isn’t gonna get away with it. I’m getting Ford back and I’m gonna kill that stupid triangle once and for all. Which is why I lied to you. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

The questions fall out before he can think about it, “Why? Why me? I’m just the inventor. Your brother was the ideas guy. I can’t- I mean. I can’t help you kill a, a god.” He turns to face Stan and is surprised by the determined look on his face. He heard the sureness in his tone, but the look.

He’s dead serious.

“When I ran into you at the library, that put you on my radar. I was desperate for something, anything. So I stalked you. I’m not above admitting I’ve spent much of the last ten years as a con man. Spent some time in prison for a lot of stuff.” He gets up and grabs the box from the corner and brings it over to the couch, setting it between them open on the floor.

“I found this too. You guys went to school together. Were roommates. Both of you were massive nerds.” He chuckles a little pulling out a couple of the pictures to show Fids. His smile only widens when it makes him scowl.

“So, I might have decided to break into your house and snoop around in your lab.” This earns him another punch to the shoulder. They’re gonna match at this rate.

“You did what!” At least this time he stays on the couch but he’s still very angry.

“I know, I know. It's wrong. But I needed a plan. And you were a genius too, just like Ford. I thought surely you’d have something that would get my gears turning in this mostly empty head.” He knocks on his skull and regrets it with a wince.

“You should have asked for my help before then! You don’t just break into people’s houses! When did you even manage that? I work from home.” He’s still pissed, but that dumb smile is making it harder to stay mad.

“Friday night, you went out with your family. Date night and babysitter? I don’t know. I'm guessing. But for the record, you shouldn’t keep a key under the front mat. It's not secure at all. Just have your son keep a key on his backpack or something.” He decides not to answer the fact that he does break into people’s houses. Not often, but more often than most. The normal number of break-ins committed is zero.

A key under the mat? He had given their son a key to keep in his-

Ahh. He’d been hiding it under the mat then so he wouldn’t lose it again and get his allowance docked. Damn it. They’d need to talk about that.

“So, what did you find then? Anything that you think would work?” He couldn’t think of anything. Most of his lab was a bunch of papers and books.

His shoulders relax and he lets his smile get wider, “That memory gun is the best bet. I might have hacked your safe to get at those starting tapes. Based on the general premise I think it could work. If we do it right.”

Fiddleford is back up and off the couch, pacing again, and yelling. “You broke into my safe! That’s. That’s! How do I know you didn’t steal anything? How can I trust you!” He should have known when the tapes were moved around that something wasn’t right.

Stan gets up and leaves the living room, coming back with a notebook and a set of keys in hand that he holds out to Fiddleford.

“That car, the red one, is my baby. She’s been my pride and joy since Ford and I pooled all our money together to buy her. Mom and Dad helped, but she was our car. I’ve kept a log of every piece of work I’ve ever done to her. And yeah, I’ve turned the miles back a few times, but her real millage is in here too.”

He tries to hand it to Fids who’s just staring at him.

“That car has been my home for the last ten years. After I got kicked out, she was all I had. But if it’ll get you to help me. Get you to trust me. I’ll give her to you.”

It breaks his heart to offer, but it hurts more to think about never getting to make things right with Ford.

“I gave her an oil change myself two months back, breaks don’t need to be done for another eight if you just drive her to the store and back. The battery might need replacing before next winter too.”

Why isn’t he taking it?

He’s giving up the only piece of home he has left right now and Fiddleford won’t even say anything.

“Just take it!”

He turns, glancing out the window at the big red car. It’s been cleared off so he can see it and he wonders if that was intentional. But looking back at Stan he looks ready to cry like in the kitchen.

All the anger about having his stuff gone through disappears. Yes, it was an invasion of privacy-

But Stan looks broken, like he’s drowning.

He just wants his brother back and he’s willing to give up everything to do it.

Instead of taking the notebook or the keys he steps forward and pulls Stanley into a tight hug with arms around both shoulders. “I don’t need the car, Stan. I’ll help you.”

He’s known Stan for all of (maybe) twenty minutes. But he’s so damn determined, sure, and hell-bent on fixing his mistake. It's inspiring and it doesn’t take a genius to see Stan’s a good person.

The sobbing in the kitchen earlier was nothing compared to now as he returns the hug, wrapping Fids up tight and hiding his face in the poor guy’s shoulder as he lets out a broken sob.

He would have done it, if he’d needed to, but he’s grateful he doesn’t have to give up the car.

Without checking a clock, he doesn’t know how long he holds the hug but it's longer than is socially acceptable.

But he needed that, a real hug, and Fids let him be the one to pull away. “Sorry, I think I got some snot on your jacket.” He tries for a joke but his voice is too tired to sound joyful.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve been covered in worse bodily fluids. Babies are gross.” He just goes for a box of tissues nearby to clean up until he can wash it at home.

Stan lets out a tired and dry chuckle but sets about cleaning up the living room before heading back to the kitchen with the notebook, pocketing the keys.

A few minutes of silence later they’re both settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of wild rice soup. Fids got a cup of tea and Stan made himself some hot cocoa.

Once again, his chest feels lighter. He’s gonna pull this off because Fids is gonna help him. “Thank you. For coming, for listening, for agreeing to help. It means the world to me.”

Fids gotta admit, it wasn’t an easy conversation. It still isn’t. But he gets it a little more now.

“So, you still haven’t told me what the plan is. Memory gun. You plan on using it to erase Bill's mind?” He eats a spoonful of soup while looking across at him.

After Fids has swallowed, not wanting hot soup spit all over him, he explains.

“I’m a con man at heart. It's what I do, taking after our mom. But, anyway. The device definitely works on humans. I don’t know about a demon, God, or whatever. So, I figure the only way to be sure his mind is wiped is to con Bill into possessing me in his true form. After he comes through the portal after Ford.”

By now he’s used to Fids looking at him like he’s nuts, so he eats a couple bites of soup while he stares in shock. “Careful, your face might get stuck like that.”

Jesus. Stan’s serious.

He’s actually gonna open the portal again, for one.

Yeah, he wants Ford back too, but not as much as Stan does.

And he’s willing to-

“It’ll erase all your memories too. You’ll forget everything. Who you are, people you know, places you’ve been. You wouldn’t even remember Ford.” Panic is rising up in his chest again.

Stan just shrugs and finishes swallowing before nodding, “Yeah. I know. But you know what? I haven’t lived that good of a life. And don’t say every life is worth remembering, because most of mine isn’t.” He thinks, shaking his head back and forth in thought. “Maybe I could make some tapes for myself. And write some of it down. I mean, a picture of Bill brought back your memory, didn’t it?”

This whole time, Fids been running. Running from Bill, because it gives him nightmares and hurts. He realizes what he’s about to say is hypocritical, but it still comes out. “You can’t. Maybe you’d remember, but there’s also the chance you don’t. You’d never be you again.”

“I’m okay with that. Fiddleford. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I'm ashamed to admit Ford usually gets the bite of it. This is the second time I’ve ruined his life. Doing this, stopping Bill from hurting anyone ever again, that’s worth my life. Easy. Ten times over.”

He lets out a breath over his coco, far more calm about this than he should be, “A second chance with a blank slate sounds good. I could try again, you know? Get a do-over and save the world all at once. Because despite our deal Bill is going to come back with or right after Ford. We either do this, or Ford’s gone forever. And I can’t live with that even if you could.”

How can Stan be so willing to give up his life like this? It makes his head and heart hurt that Stan thinks so little of himself.

“Your life isn’t worth any less than Ford’s, Stan. You know that, right?” He asks uneasy.

“Sure it's not. All lives are created equal. But he’s my brother. This is my screw-up. So, I’ve gotta fix it. Please, just let me do that.”

How can he possibly give Stan permission to do this?

He can’t.

Yet-

“You want me to do it. Don’t you? You’ll be possessed. Ford will be in who knows what condition. Someone else has to hold the gun.” It makes him choke a little and breathing gets hard.

This guy is either a mind reader or a genius. Possibly both.

“Yep. I’ll trick him and then when my body collapses and he’s in you just gotta do the rest.” He reaches over for the shoe box and opens it, putting it on top of the file from earlier, and pulls out a handgun.

It makes Fiddleford jump.

“And if it doesn’t work, someone’s gotta shoot me. Bill would destroy the universe as we know it in his true form. So, once he’s through, we’ve committed to taking him out. If the memory gun only erases me, the jobs gotta be finished. I don’t even know if killing me would do it. It's all guesswork, but…” He trails off and shakes his head. Best not to think about the ‘what ifs’ of the scenario.

Seeing the gun makes all of this so much more sinister than before. He doesn’t know Stan and right now he’s wishing he had never met him tonight.

He sees it, what Stan means, and how hopeless the situation is. And it still might not even work. Even with a backup plan.

In the end, the universe could still be destroyed, Bill could kill Ford anyway, and Stan’s death could be all for nothing.

Yet, he’s insisting they continue anyway.

There's no way he’s strong enough for this.

“I can’t, Stan. I can’t kill you.” He looks away at the soup.

Damn it. Just when he thought the deal was good.

His mouth works faster than his brain.

“Okay. How about this? Plan A, we try and close the portal before Bill comes through. Maybe we can find a solution for my being possessed after getting Ford back. Wiping my memory becomes plan B and the gun is a last resort. Could you stomach that? How fast could you turn off the portal after he’s clear?”

It says a lot about Stan’s self-esteem that he jumped straight to killing himself instead of trying to shut off the portal.

But that is better, more possible.

He takes in a shaky breath and lets it out.

“Okay. You know what? Yeah, I could do that. It takes a few minutes to turn it off, but maybe I could install a kill switch. Like for a breaker?” He starts looking around for a piece of paper and finds one in the drawer behind his chair along with a pen where he starts doing math equations.

“It might start a fire, of course, and damage some of the electrical wires. But that hardly matters as long as we can get it off.” He stops even looking at the food, focusing on his math.

Stanley starts crying again, silently this time, but not from sadness or anger.

These are tears of relief.

He’s got help, they’re gonna do this, and Ford’s coming home.

Chapter 14: Ruptured Hearts

Notes:

Restructuring note: For anyone who reads this as it comes out. My bad. I realized that this and the next chapter worked just fine as one with a little split in the middle. Idk. I couldn't live with them being separated so I changed it. But all of it is still there. It's just in one chapter now. :)

This Ford’s lab is everything he originally wanted for his own house and more. It's more space, more storage, and more equipment. But despite this being his it's also different too.

Like how Stan knows where everything is inside it. He knows each project this Ford has going on, and what it's generally about. Sometimes he can even name a couple of the key theories surrounding the concept.

He assumes those are long-term projects of this Ford’s. Or maybe this Stan just pays that much attention. With everything he’s seen so far it isn’t farfetched.

There is a sense of wonder here too, like the happiness upstairs, that is missing from his home lab.

He was worried that after the tense ride in the elevator, Stan would clam up and distance himself. And he does, Stan still looks at him differently, but he can’t seem to shut up about his Ford enough to stay stoic in this room.

There are so many projects and endless inventions. Most of them are put away in storage, but some of the more useful ones are in the cabinets on the left walls. A freeze ray somehow powered by dry ice, a magnet gun for attracting metal, electric gloves for stunning creatures, and Stan’s personal favorite, an actual mood ring.

Why Ford would make that last one, when it's not even slightly useful, is beyond him. Almost. The wonder here, in the lab, and even in the house. Well. It seems to have a common source.

Stanley.

Ford, for almost as long as he’s been inventing, has been doing so with Stan’s input and opinion. And while that doesn’t stop him from doing things he’s interested in, like those empty clone vats he’s working on, it does keep his work grounded in the basis of childlike wonder that he’s long since lost.

He remembers, just barely, that first year in Gravity Falls where everything had been so new and wonderful.

The before Bill.

Sure, he’d been staying in a rented apartment while his house was being built, but every day he poured over discoveries around every corner.

When Ford can’t find one of those here, Stan gives him an idea for something seemingly impossible and then adapts it into fact and possibility.

It's sweet and incredibly endearing.

Without meeting Ford, he can still see that the love between the pair is strong and mutual.

It hurts. And he deserves that, because the longer he’s here the more his thoughts spin.

So many problems and so much pain are his fault.

He should have listened to Stan. And not just about the science fair project.

There were so many times before that when he’d shut Stan out. Countless and endless. And every time he saw how much it hurt Stan.

How had he been able to convince himself that it was ‘for their own good’ when he’s slapped in the face with how that isn’t true with every breath of air here?

They both would have been happier if he hadn’t been trying to bully and freeze Stan into growing up.

He’d wanted him to mature with him, but to insist on that in all ways was to crush a core part of who Stanley was.

And he’d done it anyway. Over and over.

When Ford gets home, he’s going to fix things. He decides that while sitting on a stool off to the side while Stan sorts through a filing cabinet full of research in search of the papers on the mind scrambler he’s wearing on his wrist.  

The longer he looks for the information he needs the more frustrated he gets. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack down here without Ford to guide him. This isn’t his space despite coming down here regularly so he isn’t a hundred percent sure where the papers are. They could be anywhere in here, on the second level, or even put away in storage.

It should be somewhere obvious, because this is a device Ford wears constantly. He’s already looked near the charger for the stupid thing, the filing cabinet, and the drawer where he likes shoving stuff to forget about.

It's probably somewhere else in the house if it's not somewhere super obvious down here. Maybe Ford brought it up to his room? In the nightstand or something? He’ll check later. For now, he gets up off the floor where he was looking through the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

Ford’s just sitting over on his stool, seeming lost in thought, and looking very upset.

This isn’t his Ford, he knows that, but it still hurts to see that lost and hurt look on his face accompanied by dead eyes. He hasn’t seen eyes like that since Bill.

“Ford, can you tell me why you seem so sure Stan isn’t going to bring you back? I mean, beyond you thinking it’s a terrible and dangerous idea.” And that’s part of how he knows Stan will do it, because he does stupid and terrible ideas all the time. Maybe not dangerous, usually, but still.

The silence between them had gone on so long that Ford jumps a little bit when its broken.

“Where do I start?” But he stops himself there. He was about to go down a long list of insults based on facts about Stanley. He tries again.

“My Stanley, he kinda gave up on math and science right around the end of middle school. Unless something drastic changed in the last ten years, I don’t see how he’d be able to fix the portal from its state on his own. I’d already taken it apart some before I went through. Not to mention the instructions are spread between three journals. I only left Stanley with the second one. The other two are hidden in the valley.” And it wasn’t like he’d made up a treasure map for them either. He was the only one who knew where they were.

He's not just mad at Ford now, he’s sad for himself. His other self.

It sounds like that universe failed him in every way, even with his own twin for God’s sake. And that’s hard to take because he has always been an overly emotional person. And if that Stan is too? Damn. He’s gotta be hurting a lot right now.

He walks over to one of the cabinets and opens it, pulling out the first three journals from behind the newer ones and bringing them over to the table Ford is sitting nearby. He puts journals one and three aside over in a stack and starts flipping through the second one page by page.  

“It sounds like your Stan had everything going against him. All he had was family for help and none of you gave it. Not how he needed it at least. Reminds me that I was really fucking lucky. If I’d grown up with you like that, I’d have ended up in prison for sure.”

‘I’ve been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a mullet Stanford!’

He can’t even bother being curious about what Stan is looking for in the journal as he recalls some of the last words between them. Stan had ended up in prison which did not suggest he’d gone on to finish his education.

He swallows hard, “My Stan did go to prison. He, uh, yelled about it during our fight. In three different countries, apparently.” That was hard enough to stomach, he didn’t want to think about the trunk comment.

Really fucking lucky.

“Growing up, I started stealing stuff, like I assume your Stan did? I liked the thrill of it, and I was damn good at it too. Conning people was a natural gift of mine, finding sneaky ways out of stuff. Instead of getting yelled at, although my dad did that too, he tried to help me find appropriate ways to deal with it. Doing business isn’t that different from stealing, except one is socially acceptable.” He chuckles a little, pausing on a page, and then carrying on.

That’s not it.

“I was only fourteen, but bringing me in on the business was a lot cheaper than sending me to boarding school. So, he presented me with the information I needed to find buyers for crab and told me to have at. Figure out the best way to get the most money from some suckers. And it worked just fine, better than fine. I did the negotiating, with my dad's help, and our profits all but doubled over the next two years. And for the adrenaline rush, I liked? He just got me a snowmobile and told me to wear a helmet.” He laughed again thinking about it even if the smile got a little sad towards the end.

“Here it is.” He stopped on the first page talking about Bill but the image of the triangle had been taped over with duct tape so the drawing wasn’t visible.

Yeah, their father had to be the root of the problem in their universe. Because when Stan grew up with a different, and much better, dad he turned out just fine. But was that something he could fix when he got home? Or were they just fundamentally broken with no way back at this point?

He hoped not. Because Stan deserved to be happy. And maybe he did too, if Stan could ever forgive him.

Looking over at the page Stan had stopped on made him flinch a little. He’d long considered tearing these pages out, but had ultimately couldn’t stand to make the book incomplete. “I’m afraid I’m not following, what do these pages about Bill have to do with anything?”

“You said Stan probably isn’t smart enough to get the portal working. No journals means even if he could, he couldn’t finish it correctly. Bill helped you build the portal, and Stan’s gonna know that by reading these pages. So. I think, that if I were in his shoes, I’d probably eventually come to the conclusion to make a deal with Bill to save you.”

Ford’s brain is broken just looking at Stan, glancing down at the pages, and then leaving them there even if he’s not actually processing it.

This Stan has to be wrong.

Because Stan can’t make a deal with Bill.

He warned him, if not only generally, about how dangerous it was.

So, there’s no way Stan would just disregard-

Except he would.

He would totally ignore all the warnings without thinking first just to get what he wants.

And in this case, what he wants is Ford back.

“He’s gonna destroy the world just trying to get me home.” It's not a debate, because the world will end. Bill will break the deal and come through the portal after building it himself and Stan-

He’s going to get tricked just like him.

Instead of getting angry or frustrated he just leans over the table he’s sitting at and buries his head in his hands.

“Jesus, have less faith in him why don’t you? Look. Bills a tricky bastard and your Stan’s gonna know that too. He’s a con man at heart, maybe even a better one then me if he’s escaped prison three times. I’m not saying there won’t be a price, nothing is free, but maybe not the world. Probably.” From what he’s gathered Stan is a tough guy and smart in his way. Just maybe, if he keeps his hand close and hidden, he could do it. Whatever it is.

Ford just can’t wrap his head around the faith this Stan has in himself to do this. It's impossible, because he’s thought about this every way. He drove himself mad trying to stop Bill. Why would Stan be any better at it? But he doesn’t argue, because this Stan isn’t going to change his mind.

Maybe he shouldn’t put a lot of effort into getting home if there isn’t going to be a home to go back to soon enough.

“How did you guys defeat Bill then? How did it happen differently with both of you here?” He asks instead, needing a change from the hopelessness of reality with a good story from this Stan’s past.

Stan reviews the pages while Ford has a crisis. It's clear he lacks faith in his Stan, and he’s tired of pressing on nerves.

He wishes he could go back to this morning, tell Ford to come with him to the shack instead. Maybe if Ford hadn’t taken a nap this wouldn’t have happened. This Ford wouldn’t be here and right about now they’d be cooking dinner. Ford would go on and on about his work on the clone vats. Then he’d make some corny joke and they'd share some kisses over doing dishes afterwards.

“Stanley?”

The voice snaps him out of his thoughts and he looks up and over at Ford. Right. Bill.

“Sorry. I imagine the story mirrors yours a lot. We found some old hieroglyphics in a cave system and Ford thought it would be a good idea to investigate them. It only took a few weeks for him to figure out the summoning incantation. Ford was excited by the idea of opening up a new world of adventure with interdimensional travel. So, when Bill said he could help, he jumped at it.” Ford was a scientist at heart who just wanted to know more, not thinking about the potential price tag.

“And for a while, I didn’t know about it. He kept it from me for a lot longer than he should have. Almost six months those two worked down here right under my nose. Because back then I was working on starting my business. We where both busy. But when he finally told me I got suspicious. What was Bill getting out of it in return? He wasn’t doing it out of the kindness of his heart. I wanted to meet the guy and when he refused it set off alarm bells.” He can’t look at the journal pages anymore so he closes it and turns to face Ford again.

“It took two months of arguing between us before I convinced you to confront him, and,” He winces thinking about it now, “He was pissed. Tried killing Ford after he refused to continue the work. Tried killing me a couple times too. So, we had to get some chains and set up a room for Ford to sleep in. After a week of that Ford was rested enough to work on a solution during the day. Your bracelet. Once that was done, we tore down the portal and cannibalized it for parts.” That was a really rough couple of months, but they made it through eventually. Only because they had each other.

And to think, this Ford had gone through that alone. No wonder he looked so tired and dead inside.

“For a while, he still tried to hurt us in ways he could. The bracelet essentially makes him fall asleep, so we had some rules. No driving, no holding knives, or going up anywhere high without a harness. He actually got a pretty good stab wound in making Ford fall in the kitchen while he was making lunch one time. But that only lasted a few months and then he stopped coming around. Oh, and it has the same effect at night, so he stopped having nightmares because it blanks out the whole system.” He motioned to all of Ford’s body with one hand.

Even facing off against Bill went better here than it did back home. This shouldn’t be a surprise because everything’s better when you’re not facing it alone.

Huh. He’d never considered that before.

His whole life, or since somewhere around high school, he’d started to create a very self-centered reality.

He was better than people, he didn’t need help, and he could do it all on his own.

But that was very clearly wrong, because he couldn’t do it on his own.

It took Stan being there for him, here, to survive Bill.

It's not much of a question if he would have managed it back home. He’d probably be dead right now if things had gone any differently.

“Before I leave, I need to read his work on this.” He holds up his wrist to look at the metal band again. It looks seamless, like it can’t be taken off. It does seem like something he’ll have to wear for the rest of his life. Maybe, if he can memorize how to build this, he could stop some of the violence in the next dimension he goes to.

“I know, I know. We’ll find it. But first, lets head upstairs. I’ll make dinner.” He pauses, glancing around the lab for a minute and then back at Ford. “You know, why don’t you pick out some reading material from around here. Gives you something to do while I keep our lives running. Look around, pick out some concepts that you can take back home with you. Just try and pick from the filing cabinet since those ones are finished already.” Maybe Ford will be mad, but he’ll get over it. Besides, this Ford deserves something nice right now after what he’s been going through recently.

They’ll have a hate fuck later and get over it.

Ford looks up and over from the metal band and blinks a little at the offer. It is certainly a tempting one. This Ford hasn’t spent as long being haunted by Bill compared to him. It sounds like the whole ordeal took under two years. The rest of the time was free. The lab is overflowing with work, showing he’s made good use of that time.

So, he gets up and goes over to the filing cabinets to start flipping through binders.

It very quickly becomes overwhelming.

This Ford has done so much more inventing than he has back home and without knowing how long he’s going to be here it's difficult to decide what to prioritize.

He picks out the binders on the freeze ray, magnet gun, and stun gloves. That’s already a lot to read but he continues flipping through projects for a minute while Stan puts the journals away.

“Did I invent anything for our boat? Special equipment or anything?” He doesn’t see a future where it's possible to get home, much less go sailing with Stan. He should use his time here to learn more tools for survival.

But.

Maybe Stan’s faith is rubbing off on him. And maybe he’s got some ideas about how to make things better back home. If somehow things work out.

The question finally pulls another big smile out of Stan and he walks over to join Ford at the filing cabinet. “You bet he did. Here, they’re over here.” He opens a different drawer and starts pulling out binders of paper. “What do you want? We got the radar system, navigation, advanced control system, that hydroelectric engine?”

This is the first time out of this whole time that Ford’s made any indication of thinking of Stan in a positive light, so why wouldn’t he encourage it? Maybe it's not too late for Ford to change. And maybe being here can help with that.

Of course, Ford would take sailing with Stan seriously and trick out their boat with more science than wood. It makes him smile and he accepts all of them, adding them to the pile of reading before having to stop Stan. “Alright, I think that’s enough. I don’t think I could read much more than this in a day’s time even if it’s all I do.”

“Okay, okay. Here, I’ll help you carry this upstairs.” He leaves the drawers open so he doesn’t forget where they go and gathers up a handful of the binders before heading for the elevator with Ford in tow.

*

Technically it's supposed to be Ford’s turn to cook dinner. However, Ford used to suck at cooking and he doesn’t know what this one’s skill level is. So, he’s not risking starting a fire since that would be a lot more work than just cooking himself.

It's also nice to have some time alone with him at the same time.

It hurts not having him here. He’s been polite and nice. He hasn’t panicked too much, but he misses him.

A lot.

This is probably similar to how that other Stan feels. Which is how he knows Stan would do anything. It's part of who they are and different reality or not, that can’t change.

How long is this going to go on?

Will he ever come back?

What if this is the Ford he’s stuck with now?

He continues to peel potatoes while letting his thoughts spin.

That would be so much worse than their almost separation ever was. At least then Ford was still around. They were still together, just not in the same way.

He likes to think he’s strong, but he doesn’t think he’s strong enough for that. For a reality where Ford is just gone and replaced with a much colder version. One that doesn’t even seem to love him.

Or his own Stan.

Whatever.

This also raises a million other questions. If Ford can alter the metal band, what if that breaks it completely? They don’t have a backup copy because it’s designed to last. Then Bill would be able to fully possess Ford and then-

God. He’d be dead. Or Ford would.

He can’t live with that. His death, sure, but not Ford.

That’s an idea. Not a good one, but one nonetheless.

Would Ford just move on if he died?

Probably. But they’ll have to exhaust all the other options before he thinks about that any further. No sense in getting reckless just for the sake of it. Ford hates it when he does that.

Hypocrite.

The potatoes go into the water to boil and then he pulls the pork chops out of the fridge to season and cook in a pan.

Ford feels like he has too much to do and not enough at the same time. He has stuff to read, but he feels restless. He tries putting on a record so the house isn’t so silent but that doesn’t help either.

He feels like he should be doing something instead of sitting and doing something as enjoyable as reading on a very comfortable couch. Still, he tries. He forces himself to read through the binders about boat upgrades and very slowly he calms down.

It feels familiar reading it, even if he’s never designed anything like this in his life. The handwriting is identical to his own and the grammar is perfect too.

But the narrative is what helps him relax. It’s so much happier. In between the math and explanations, he can hear the fondness and the love poured into this work.

He’s never done that.

The only time he’s ever made something for someone was Bill. And that didn’t exactly go over well in the end.

It's easy to get lost in it sitting in the corner curled up and for the first time in ages, he relaxes.

He hasn’t done that since before Bill, couldn’t, and it's nice.

It's just so nice here.

As progress is made in the kitchen the smell travels through the house and despite his stomachs complaints it takes Stan coming in to set the work down.

“Dinners ready. Stan to dork, hello?”

His gaze snaps up from the second binder, on the radar system, and he finds himself smiling.

Stan is shocked, to say the least, and for a second, he questions if Ford is back. If somehow, they swapped while he was cooking. Because Ford’s eyes don’t look dead anymore. They look happy and his shoulders look relaxed too. Like this, he honestly can’t tell the difference.

“Stanford?” His voice sounds so hopeful and small for a second. “That you?”

His smile falls into a slight frown for a second before the question makes sense, “Ahh. No. Sorry, I was just enjoying my reading. But, what made you think he was back?” He leaves the binder open on the couch for now and gets up to follow Stan into the kitchen.

He manages to keep his face some sort of indifferent until he turns to head back to the kitchen, at which point he lets it fall into sadness. “Oh, you just had light in your eyes again. That’s the main difference between you two. He’s happy. But, that’s good. That you're enjoying reading.”

Does he come across as that much of a sad sack? Huh.

“Trust me, you’ll know when he’s back. If my body is back with Bill that means- “He cuts himself off and stops in the kitchen doorway at the realization.

This Ford is most certainly being tortured.

Stan turns around while taking in a sharp breath as he comes to the same conclusion.

Bill is pissed at them. Pissed at Stanford most of all. What better way to take it out on someone than by swapping their mind with a body you’ve got with you?

Is that what’s been happening to all these body doubles this whole time?

Despite the warmth of the house, a cold and heavy air hangs in the kitchen as the silence continues.

This isn’t a scenario he and Ford prepared for at all.

Body doubles, yeah.

Aliens, definitely.

But being kidnapped by Bill? No.

All at once Stan feels like he’s caving in on himself and he can’t stand up. He sinks to his knees on the floor and tangles both hands in his hair.

There's no getting Ford back. Not his Ford. He barely survived torture in his own mind last time. He’s going to be beyond traumatized, maybe his mind will be wiped completely just to hurt Stan more for not taking that last deal.

The thoughts bouncing around about all the people who died in those other dimensions, and what they had to come back to, on top of knowing those possessed had been tortured gets cut off by Stanley.

He just crumples like a tin can being crushed like gravity is forcing him down.

He can’t blame him, because Bill probably holds a grudge and what’s happening in his body is probably a million times worse than here.

His feet move and he crosses the kitchen to sit with Stan on the floor, pulling him over into a hug to try and comfort him while he sobs and yells.

Nothing can be said to take or stop this pain. The truth they both know.

Ford's shoulders are heavy again, eyes empty.

His own mistakes don’t just affect himself, but now other versions of himself and Stan too.

He’s like a poison killing and hurting everything he touches, like Bill infected him and there isn’t a cure for it.

It's safe to say Stanley does not take the knowledge that his Ford is likely being tortured well.

After about ten minutes of sitting on the floor crying it out, he got up and proceeded to tear the whole house apart. It effectively looks like a bomb, or several, went off.

He looked in Ford’s bedroom, their cars, and every drawer and cupboard above ground.

Ford did not know what to do to help him or calm him down. Until he finds what he’s looking for it's probably not possible. There was a slowly growing rage underneath the search that he could practically feel watching him.

He couldn’t help in the search either (not his house), so he just helped by putting the food away in the fridge before continuing to follow him from room to room.

When they finally went down to the lab it only got worse.

Drawers got opened and poured on the floor.

Cabinets opened and rummaged through.

Books ended up on the floor all over the place and even notebooks got messed up around projects in the search. Papers are scattered in a similar fashion.

Was this what had happened back home after the portal closed?

“A-ha!” Stanley finally yelled from inside the storage room down at the other end of the lab, coming back carrying a dark blue binder to match the metal of the device.

He doesn’t want to know what the storage room looks like after seeing how effectively the lab has been destroyed. So much for keeping it organized.

“Read it and tell me there’s something you can do.” He puts it in front of Ford where he’s sitting on the same stool as earlier and opens it to the first page.

This he can do at least, so he pulls the binder over to start reading. It’s a bit unnerving that Stanley just watches him the whole time, but he kinda gets it. He looks two seconds away from losing it to the slowly rising anger.

It takes almost an hour to read through the whole binder and the whole time Stanley just stands there looking at the pages from the side while also watching him like he expects him to suddenly jump up with the answer.

He wishes, for Stanley’s sake.

“Well, can you adjust it or not? Can you get him back?” Stan demands after Ford finally looked up from the last page.

“Just, give me a minute to think. Jesus, you standing right here is suffocating.” He closes his eyes and tries to focus using all the information he just read.

He’d be lying if he said he had a full grasp. Some of the math is a little beyond him, frustratingly, and he feels like there was an invention before this one with basic concepts that would make those clearer. But finding it would only cause another round of tearing the house apart.

The answer is still the same anyway.

“I. I don’t think so. Not in the way we’d need. I could adjust it so I can’t leave, but not to swap us back.” He’s prepared for the reaction, braced for it, but it still makes him flinch.

Stanley slammed his hand down on the table inches away from the binder Ford just finished, leaving a good dent in the metal, and then stormed off again heading for the stairs next to the elevator.

Not knowing what else to do, Ford follows.

He needs to calm down, he knows that, because he can see how it's scaring Ford. But anger has always been his own greatest weakness and it's why he got into boxing in the first place. Nothing better for needing to hit something than hitting something.

He takes the stairs two at a time up to the second level of the basement, distantly aware Ford is following, and pushes through the doors out of the stairs into the gym here.

It's nothing fancy with just two treadmills, and some weights, but at the back of the room are two big punching bags with space for potential swinging on all sides. The hundred-pound one is usually for warming up, but the two-hundred-pound one is for actual training.

He flicks on the lights and tears off the jacket he’s been wearing since he first got home. He throws his long hair up in a ponytail while crossing the room and has the tape in his hands around the time Ford catches up.

At first, he’s not sure where Stan went, but when he gets to the second level, he can see the light on through the door so he pushes it open and stops just inside.

He knew Stan boxed in what must have been college. Maybe that was his partial scholarship, but he didn’t know he still did. He glances from the jacket discarded on the ground over to where Stan is wrapping his hands with a roll of tap rather aggressively.

Its clear this Stan never really stopped boxing. He’s got too wide a frame and he’s fit too. Without the jacket he can see a long scar running up the arm he’s wrapping starting at the left center of his wrist and running all the way up where he can’t see it anymore because of his short-sleeved shirt. It looks nasty, like it could have killed Stan when it happened.

At least Stan didn’t technically break anything, just made a mess, and punching the bags designed for it has gotta be healthy. So, he stops trying to think of a way to stop Stan and steps back metaphorically.

What’s next?

The bracelet is a dead end, what else is there? Ugh. He hates not being familiar with the environment here. If he knew everything in the lab, he’d be able to spitball ideas. But he doesn’t. So again, he’s back to waiting for Stan to be hospitable again instead of that murderous rage he’s wearing right now.

He shouldn’t be flattered, because what Stan’s feeling right now isn’t about him directly, but he still is. Stan is overcome with sadness and anger towards Bill, over him. Like he really is the center of this Stan’s world.

And that’s probably the main reason this Ford didn’t get so obsessed and attached to Bill.

He has an ego problem, and Bill fed into it.

But here? Stan loved this Ford so completely that there wasn’t room.

Is this how things could have always been if he’d allowed it?

He flushes and leans against the wall near the door watching Stan tape his other hand. Now is not the time to be having a crisis like this.

One at a time.

But.

Maybe there was a reason he’d always been pushing Stanley away.

Right around high school, the start of puberty.

What else could have possibly happened then?

Stan’s other arm is covered in scars too, though none of them are as large as the first. Stan’s arms are bigger and stronger, and it's clear this room gets a lot of use. Maybe Stan comes down here daily as part of his routine.

Even his subconscious is avoiding it, even when it's right in front of their face. Literally.

He was attracted to Stanley and loved him more than he should have.

And that was wrong.

So, he refused it, like it was his favorite drink laced with acid.

Now?

He shouldn’t have. Things turned out so much better together.

There are a lot of things he shouldn’t have done, at least he can admit it now even if these thoughts get left behind here when he finds a way out.

If.

What would happen, if he did get stuck here?

Would it be so impossible or bad to? Watching Stan now he doesn’t think so.

He’s awful.

If he had something lighter to hit, he wouldn’t have even bothered with the tape, but swapping out the bag would take more time than taping. And breaking a hand isn’t going to make the awful situation any better.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he’s satisfied with the tape job. It's not perfect, but it's good enough, and he skips the warmup. Usually, he’d run or jump rope for a while before launching straight in, but he doesn’t have the patients right now.

So, he just starts swinging. His form isn’t right but he’s not fighting right now. He’s letting out pent-up anger, frustration, and worry in the healthiest outlet he’s got right now.

How would this Ford calm Stan down?

He’d never been able to figure out a good method for his own Stanley.

Except hand holding.

That always got him, soothed him right down from a boiling point.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all as one-sided, with him being a freak, as he thought.

He watches, thoughts drifting and dying down as Stan continues. Boxing had always been associated with their father, but maybe for Stan, it was something he enjoyed since despite it all he ended up doing it anyway.

He’s good at it, from what he can tell, and he moves further into the room to have a better view.

This Ford probably had other methods of calming Stanley down, more advanced than handholding.

God, if he could just get that stupid fucking triangle in his hands he’d pop his eye out like a damn balloon.

How dare he try and trick Ford, ruin his sleep, scar his body, and leave him marked.

He wasn’t quiet while he continued to slam the bag with blow after blow, letting out his frustration in the form of something close to growls.

“He can’t just-“ Slam!

“Just wait tell I-“ Slam!

“How dare that stupid-“ Slam!

It's ages before he pauses, going for a water bottle left over with the tape on the cabinet in the corner.

Stan’s hands look a little bloody like he’s going too hard on himself, so it’s a relief when he stops.

Except he goes for water instead of undoing the tape and stopping.

He might regret this later, but-

Those sounds-

He moves across the room and over to the corner Stan is standing in, drinking the whole bottle. Some of it spills down his chin, neck, and onto the t-shirt he’s wearing before he’s done and the bottle gets crushed and tossed into the corner.

They almost collide when Stan turns around.

Before he can lose his nerve, he reaches up and grabs Stan by his ponytail, pulling him down into a kiss.

For a split second, Stan’s mind freezes and he doesn’t respond.

And he knows he should push Ford away, because this isn’t his Ford. Maybe physically, but-

He needs to stop.

Because this is wrong.

Period.

But-

Instead, he brings one hand up to tangle in Ford’s hair, stepping forward closer and deepening the kiss while tilting his head more to the left.

Jesus Christ, he can’t breathe.

He’s kissed people before, he built a damn practice kissing robot for God’s sake, but this feels electric in the same corny way people describe in books. How had he ever thought this was wrong? How had he spent over a decade hiding from this?

Their lips seem to fit together so perfectly and then Stan is spinning them and pinning him up against the concrete wall. It pushes the little air he has out but he can’t pull away to breathe if he wants to.

He lets out a surprised noise when he’s lifted up and fumbles for purchase with his other hand on Stan’s shirt while his legs come up to wrap around his waist. God, Stan lifted him like he doesn’t weigh anything at all.

He’s crushing Ford, boxing him in and kissing him so hard he’s taking in air through his nose exclusively and then he adds tongue, and Ford moans into his mouth and it's just as sweet as it’s always been.

He pulls out Stanley’s ponytail and tangles his hand in the mullet he wears while his other hand runs over what it can reach. Those strong arms, broad chest, strong neck, down across his shirt. Pinned like this he can’t reach the bottom to pull it up and out of the way.

Whatever, he’s not going to miss a second of this kiss even if he’d like Stan’s shirt to evaporate. He bites a little at Stan’s tongue instead and it earns him a growl that sends a shiver down his spine and goosebumps across his skin.

They are both making what just yesterday he would have considered embarrassing breathy noises and moans into the kiss.

Wait. Is that him?

He uses his hips to keep Ford supported against the wall and one hand secured in Ford’s messy curls. Which leaves his other hand free to wander down along Ford’s side and down to grab his ass. The noise that pulls from him finally makes him break the kiss enough to pull back and laugh.

Their foreheads are still pressed together while they both pant in the half an inch of air between their lips.

He’s so going to hell, if hell exists, but he needs this.

“Heh, I thought ya said you and your Stan weren’t like this. Those lips of yours suggest you’re a dirty liar.” He teases, glancing between Ford’s eyes and back down at his spit-slick lips.

Stan looks about ready to eat him alive and he’s wearing that big smile. And it’s aimed at him. Not this Ford, but him. He understands the sensation of butterflies in the stomach now. He kinda feels like he might faint, “No, we aren’t. But you could say I lie to myself a lot.”

Stanley laughs, leaning forward to press another light kiss to Ford’s lips before pulling back a couple more inches, “I’ve gotta say, you trying to bury feelings like this would explain a lot about your actions. Doesn’t make you less of an asshole, but I get it more now.”

With the hand still tangled in Stan’s hair he pulls him forward again getting his displeasure across with the hair pull. And Stan doesn’t seem to mind, laughing into the kiss in a way that’s frustrating.

He pulls away, physically removing Ford’s legs and setting him back down, untangling himself from Ford. As hot as that was, he’s already made a mistake as it is. No sense taking it further now that he’s managed to reach stasis again.

Damn it. It's understandable but equally maddening when Stan starts to pull away, setting him back down on his feet. “When we were kids Stan used to get in a lot of fights, arguments a lot. We’d get home and his temper would flare. Holding hands, cuddling on our bunk, it calmed him down. I assume Ford adapted a more advanced strategy?”

Stanley laughs again, louder, and it echoes in the room because of the lack of padding on the walls, bouncing back at them. “Yeah, you could say that. We’ve had angry sex a lot. Especially after one of us does something stupid. I guess tearing apart the house fits the bill for a kiss like that.”

He doesn’t let himself feel awful about it, because Ford would understand this. Maybe. He was running off the rails and Ford got him back on track. Kinda. At least he can think now. Talk.

“Hmm, must happen a lot then.” He’s disappointed when Stan untangles himself and pulls away, stepping back a couple of feet. He feels flushed and wrecked even though all they did was kiss. “Stanford is a lucky son of a bitch. If you weren’t married, I’d make you carry to a bedroom to have my way with you.”

He starts unwrapping his hands, moving over towards the garbage in the corner. His knuckles are bruised and his left hand is bleeding. Yeah, he went too hard. Much more and he might have done serious damage. He lets out a long sigh, mixed with disappointment at having to refuse and at himself for wanting it. “We’ve gotta try something else.” ‘I’m not screwing you until I’m sure he’s not coming back.’ Stays inside his head. He doesn’t want to influence Ford’s efforts negatively more than he already might have.

Any hope dies then and he straightens out his clothes while Stanley unwraps his hands so he doesn’t look as messy. “I know, I know. We will. Let’s go through the lab again. There will be something. Just gotta find it.” The front of his shirt is wet with some water and noticing it makes him flush all over again.

A silence falls between them while Stanley cleans up his hands with a towel from the same cabinet of the water bottle to clean up the blood while they both catch their breath and recover. Stan's still sweaty and Ford still looks hot and bothered, but overall, the room is a lot less tense than it was just five minutes ago.

“Okay. Alright. Let’s go back downstairs and try again.” He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. But, instead of starting for the door, he reaches over to grab Ford’s hand to leave the room together.

It makes Ford stumble a little in surprise and the butterfly’s flare.

Chapter 15: Faith in Distrust

He didn’t know if he could follow through with his promise to Stanley. Building a kill switch for the portal? Definitely. No problem. He hadn’t erased everything about working with Ford and he still knew enough about the portal to do some basic calculations. But killing Stan? That was a completely different beast.

Sure, he had only known him for just over half an hour now, but he was a good person. Maybe not one with the best morals, but he was trying to do right by his brother.

And it occurred to him, while he was writing in the notepad he’d found, that Stan was facing Bill too. Only mentally, but still.

Bill terrified him, having seen him in person and felt the amount of power he had.

But Stan was facing a version of that every day living in this house, working downstairs possessed. It was clear Stanley was tough either on his own or because of whatever kind of life someone leads to end up living out of their car for ten years.

“Stanley, how exactly are you going to hide this plan of yours from Bill?” He asked nervously, looking up from his math. How was Stan eating at a time like this? He couldn’t stomach the thought of food right now.

He hadn’t allowed himself to cry long, not wanting Fids to see, so his face was cleaned up by a sleeve and he had started eating his soup.

“The journal, it talks about some sort of meditation that allows you to go into your own mindscape. Look at memories and stuff. I wanted to wait tell after we talked to try it. Maybe there’s a way I can hide some specific ones somewhere Bill can’t find them. Otherwise? I just won’t think about it.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his drink.

“I still don’t get how you are so calm about this Stan, this is Bill. You haven’t seen him in person. I- I have. And it's terrifying. How are you sure he’s even going to willingly possess you? Your mortal, what interesting will he have in that?” He hates to ask and he’ll probably hate the answer just as much.

Maybe Fids is right, maybe seeing Bill in person will be terrifying. But he finds it hard to believe that he’ll be frightened by a giant floating triangle. To avoid offense, he doesn’t say that.

“I managed to trick you enough to get you over here, didn’t I? Look, I’ve been conning people almost my whole life. Since I was eight, actually, so with a little bit of acting I’m pretty sure I can do anything. Bill sees me as a good-for-nothing moron. He’s gonna underestimate me, and I can use that.” It's funny that the skill he always resented about himself, that got him through the last ten years, is also the only thing he’s got absolute confidence in.

“I don’t know. We don’t talk really, I’m just a puppet he uses. But maybe It couldn’t hurt to start laying some groundwork. Make him think I’ve got Stockholm’s Syndrome or something. I mean, he’s got a sweet spot for Ford because he worshipped him. Maybe I could try that angle? I’m still working on details, but it’ll come to me in time. I’ll handle Bill, you just take care of the rest.”

This is still absolutely insane. Stan’s going to get them all killed doing this, bringing about the end of the world because he thinks he can beat Bill. And he’s going to contribute, because he’s a sucker.

“Can we at least go downstairs then? I’ll need to find somewhere to install the kill switch. Somewhere Bill won’t see it, I assume?” He watches Stan stand up, taking Fid's bowl to go heat it up again.

“Sorry, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Bill can see through the image of himself. A triangle with an eye, and I didn’t check downstairs before you came over. Besides, you should probably wait to install it until the things almost done. Less likely he catches on then.” He hits a couple of buttons on the microwave before turning back to face Fids.

Guess he knew what he was doing when he got home. Going through his house and covering up anything that looked like Bill. He has to bring up a hand to brush his hair back out of his face, coming away sweaty.

“Okay. Hmm. Maybe I install it somewhere else then? I could probably set something up to remotely flip the main breaker of the shack. That would cut the power to the basement. We’d need to unplug everything upstairs to avoid frying everything, but then I wouldn’t have to go into the basement before. Before its time. I guess.”

After the microwave is done, he brings the soup back over, putting it in front of Fids with a smile. A real genuine smile that reaches his eyes, “That would be perfect Fids. See, I knew you’d be the right man for the job. And don’t think I’m not going to find a way to pay you back somehow. I don’t like having debts. Now, eat the soup. I made it from scratch.” He’s already finished his soup and almost all of his drink so he picks them up and goes back over to the sink.

Fiddleford is pretty sure he’s going to throw up if he tries, but he does anyway because it sounds like Stan put a lot of effort into this meal. That should have been the first clue this wasn’t Ford, because he’s a shitty cook.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m gonna have to request that until this is all over with you stop using that memory gun on yourself. It might be a good idea for you to hide it somewhere here at the shack so you don’t get tempted.” The last thing he needs is for him to forget about their agreement and have to go through this whole conversation again.

It’s a simple request, but still not one he knows he can meet. “I’m still testing it, but thus far there aren’t any negative or additional side effects. It should be perfectly fine for continued use as long as I don’t erase this conversation. Which I won’t.”

Now that sounds like a lie. Not sure which part, maybe all of it, but he can sense it like a shark with blood.

“Nah, you wouldn’t remember if there are side effects. That’s the thing. How about I drive into town with you and bring it back here to keep safe? I could probably put it in Ford’s safe upstairs in his closet once I crack the code.” He hadn’t tried to open it not wanting to be tempted by any money inside. “Just pause your experiments for another six weeks. Who knows, maybe you’ll realize it was causing brain fog or something during the break? Could be a good experiment to test the gun's effects.”

Then he’d have to deal with the nightmares again. He doesn’t want to remember.

Maybe it would be easier to just leave here and make himself forget. Then he wouldn’t have to feel bad about not helping Stan. He could just go back to working on the society of the blind eye and then-

“Hey. Jeez, you guys are alike. I can hear your brain working from over by the fridge.” He sits back down at the table with Fiddleford. “Look, if I can deal with three whole months of being tormented by Bill, the same way Ford was in that video. You can handle some bad dreams. I know this sucks, really sucks, and it is terrifying. I’m just immune to it at this point. But you're stronger than you think. We’ve gotta do this for Ford. And not just him. Think about how many other people in the past Bill has tormented trying to get into a dimension. We can end this, end his reign of terror here and everywhere else.”

Well, when Stan puts it like that, he’d have to be more self-centered than Ford to refuse. It's frustrating how good Stan is at convincing him. It makes him smile for the first time all night, “Hey, I thought you said you were done tricking me. That sounds an awful lot like manipulation.” He finally takes a bite of his soup.

“Heh, yeah. I know. But it's not manipulation if it’s the truth. So, you alright with giving up your fun toy?” Next, he got up to go heat Fids' tea which had also gone cold.

“I guess, but you better make all these sleepless nights ahead worth it.” He’s mostly joking and it does earn him a tired laugh before silence falls between them again while the microwave hums.

Fids eats his soup, getting through a few bites before he frowns again looking at Stan. Then down at his foot in the brace. “Stan. You didn’t drop a piece of metal on your foot, did you?” If Stan was being tormented by Bill in the same way as Ford-

What was wrong with Stan’s foot then? Was that what those faded yellow bruises were all over his body? His chest got tight before Stan even answered.

Stupid genius.

He sighed, “No, I didn’t. I don’t think you want to know what happened. What’s been doing on. You’ve got enough nightmare material as it is from the sounds of it.”

Stan had been doing this, that video, for six weeks? It didn’t look too bad, other than his foot, but that didn’t count the emotional effects torture would have.

Bill could kill Stan, like he threatened Ford in the video. Any day he could hurt him too much. He could get injured and pass out, dying from blood loss without anyone around to help him.

“If I’m going to help you with this, I want you to check in with me. I probably shouldn’t call the house in case. In case Bills around. But, you need to call me. And if you forget I’ll come around and, and-“ He’d what? Show up unannounced and potentially come face to face with Stan possessed by Bill?

“I don’t know about that. I keep an odd schedule. And if Bill possesses me for days at a time it wouldn’t be possible. It would be safer to meet up in town once a week. I’ve, uh, started going to the gym daily from eight to ten. How about you come to see me then sometimes?” He wasn’t really worried about Bill killing him, not until the portal was done and started up, but Fids being worried about him was nice anyway.

“Fine. I can do that. But you really should rest whatever is wrong with your foot.” His frown deeps as the cup is put back next to the bowl, “Did you even go to the doctor? Do you have insurance?”

Stan winces and considers lying. Too late, Fids is looking at him funny. “No, I didn’t. I patched it up myself. And no, I don’t have insurance. Some money, but not enough for a hospital visit. It’s fine, really. If it wasn’t I would have pretended to be Ford and gone it. Most people can’t tell the difference as long as I keep my hands out of view.”

That makes him relax a little even if he’s still worried about Stan. Knowing he’s the only person around to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t get himself killed gives him enough of a reason not to wipe his memory. Damn Stan and his logic for playing on his feelings.

Maybe he can trick a god.

Maybe.

He resumes eating, “Alright, fine. You can hold onto the memory gun and keep it safe. But don’t damage it. Ford and I built it together and I don’t think I could make another one on my own.” He relents, unable to come up with a good enough reason not to agree.

Stan breathes a sigh of relief and nods, “Good. And just in case I’m going to start writing down some memories.” He reaches over and grabs the shoe box which has two tacky and worn photo albums inside. He puts the handgun back at the end of the box. “I’ve got some pictures my mom sent me a couple of years ago. Put together a little bit of a scrapbook about my life before the portals done. Even if it doesn’t make me remember maybe it’ll give the new me a sense of who he is.”

He should call Mom before they try to bring Ford back. Just in case things go wrong. He hasn’t spoken to her in months, since Texas. He adds it to the list of things he needs to do while packing up the shoe box and putting the folder on top. He leaves Fids, briefly, to go set the stuff in the living room before coming back to sit while he finishes eating.

They’ve talked about everything by now so Fiddleford just eats his soup, which is much better than anything Ford ever made them, and drinks his tea. He watches Stan skim through the journal, looking at the information on the mindscape, and he takes the notepad back to continue back home.

He wants to ask why Ford hasn’t spoken to him in ten years to fill the silence. What could have happened to make Ford erase Stan from his life despite still trusting him enough with one of the journals? They seem to contradict each other. He only holds back because Stan seems to be living a daily nightmare and bringing up old pain won’t make all this any easier for him.

*

It's late by the time Stan gets back from Fiddleford’s. He drove over there in Ford’s car, which he’d cleaned out the other day, and after being given the memory gun had headed straight home.

Now he just had to find somewhere to hide it that Bill wouldn’t find. Not that he’d be looking for it anyway. Still.

He went through the house again, room to room, looking for the place with the most dust. Instead of finding a hiding spot, he found an old box of films up in the attic way back in the furthest possible corner of the same closet he’d found Fids box. Where these their old film reels from childhood? That realization, when he recognized their handwriting on the names, was enough to almost make him cry.

It was shocking that Ford had them, much less kept them.

After shifting around the old films and projector he was able to hide the shoebox with the memory gun down underneath everything and then covered it back up with the sheet from before.

With the gun taken care of he headed back down to the living room where he began setting up everything, he’d need to enter the mindscape. It didn’t require much more than meditating on the floor, but he wasn’t sure if he could do it.

Ford could, and he made it sound easy in his notes, but- He had to try at least.

So, he did. He sat down on the floor in the stupid pose depicted in the book and tried to empty his thoughts, to focus.

It took almost two hours of trying even later into the night before he got it to work.

He didn’t know what to expect the mindscape to look like. Some sort of generic house with endless doors filled with memories? But instead of getting something generic, he got something painfully familiar.

He woke up sitting in his car on a street he doesn't recognize at first. There weren’t any other cars in sight and the whole world was greyscale like an old black-and-white movie. The sky up above looked something like tv static and the only sound was the wind. Was that sea salt?

Getting out of the car he finally recognized where he was, standing on the sidewalk in front of the family’s old pawn shop and home. It made his chest ache, bringing back so many good and bad memories.

This was the last place that felt like home so maybe the mindscape defaulted to that and hadn’t had time to switch to Ford’s house. It had been more of a home, and strangely more pleasant to live in than this place had been in those last few years.

All he had to do was find and hide a couple of memories where Bill would never find them. Easy.

The walk up the stairs to the front door was slow but he forced himself to walk inside the shop. It still looked the same as the last time he’d been here but he didn’t delay in heading for the stairs that went up to their small upstairs apartment.

The living room and kitchen looked identical too, right down to the cup of coffee their mother had been drinking right before he’d been kicked out. Even in his mindscape, he was torturing himself.

Moving on to the hallway was when the whole building started to contort. What should have been two bedrooms, a bathroom, and the hall closet expanded for what looked like miles with corridors branching off along both sides into a maze of memories.

How was he ever supposed to find anything in here? Could he just think about it and it would be behind the door he opened? He tested it, thinking back to a more pleasant memory, high school prom. When he opened the first door, he was relieved to realize it had worked. He got to watch Ford get punched dumped all over himself again.

It made him laugh a little but he closed the door now that he understood how it worked. Was it possible to turn a memory into an object? Like a picture frame maybe? Then he could hide it down in the antique shop somewhere.

He headed further into the maze, stopping just around the corner when instead of doors he saw just what he wanted, picture frames. Because of the varying moving memories in differing frames, they looked more like really skinny TVs. He covered one of the smaller ones up of him and Ford down on the beach and instead tried to think about all the different times over the last several weeks he’d been putting this plan together.

The day at the library, his feelings of hatred towards Bill, staking out and breaking into Fid's house, the phone call, and their talk tonight. When he removed his hand the small frame was playing different clips of the memories he’d been thinking about.

Perfect. Now he just needed to hide it somewhere not even Bill would think to look. He pulled it off the wall and headed back the short way he’d come tell he was standing in their family living room again.

Where wouldn’t Bill look?

He couldn’t put this inside a painful memory, Bill liked looking at those. But was a happy one any better? Where was the last place Stan would put a memory? That Bill would expect him to put it?

There was only one person who he’d never trust with anything. It was the last place Bill would expect to find these memories. He turned around and headed back into the hallway, walking past dozens of doors further into the maze than he’d gone before. This memory had to be buried far inside his mind if it was going to hold onto this picture frame.

After walking for what felt like forever, he came to a dark hallway covered in dust. The light above the doors here was broken leaving glass scattered on the ground as he walked down it to the door at the end.

It was just a memory, but he had to brace himself before opening the door anyway.

Inside this door he was back in their living room, barely anymore alive with color than the mindscape version, and his father was sitting on the couch watching TV and drinking what he was now old enough to know was whiskey.

In this memory, he’d been hovering in the hallway, just out of his father's sight, after having a bad dream. He couldn’t have been more than six at the time. It had been just them home alone, a rarity, but he’d never been able to get up the courage to go ask for comfort after a particularly bad dream.

Now, instead of hiding in the hallway, he walked out into the living room carrying the picture frame, ignoring the glare it got him from Filbrick. Stopping right in front of the couch he held out the picture frame in slightly shaky hands. “Dad, I need you to hide this for me. Keep it safe here under the couch cushion or something.”

The memory version of his father raised an eyebrow at the frame, looking at the memories inside of it, and scoffed. “Ha. You think you can do this?” Filbrick stands up, glass in one hand while the other grabs the edge of the frame. “He’s going to eat you up and spit you out. Then you won’t just be a moron, a screwup, you’ll be the reason the whole world is destroyed. You’d be better off forgetting about it. Learn to face the fact that you killed your brother.”

Every word is dripping with disappointment and anger enhanced by the slight slur to his father’s voice. It hurts because it could be true. In all likelihood, he is going to fail. Ford could be dead and all he and Bill are doing is bringing about the end of the world. But if he gave up and stopped every time he’d failed he’d still be in Jersey somewhere probably working a dead-end job living in a crappy apartment barely getting by just like now.

“I don’t care what you think.” He tugs the frame out of his hand and briefly closes his eyes, picturing the memory smaller, the size of a wallet, before offering it back. “Just put it in your pocket. That’s all you need to do.” This time he lets Filbrick take the small frame, watching as he tucks it in his pocket. “Sure, you do. You’ve always cared. That’s why you don’t come around here anymore, right? It hurts to see me when you know how much you’ve let me down.”

Now is not the time to be having these conversations with essentially himself. “I don’t think there was ever any pleasing you. No matter what I did you hated me. Ford was the twin you loved.” It was no secret to him that Ford was the wanted twin and Stanley was the extra mouth to feed.

The memory of Filbrick sits back down, shaking his head and not saying much of anything. That’s an answer in itself. Silence was always their father’s favorite way of showing his disappointment. Whatever.

He doesn’t hang around, turning and heading back the way he came. The maze of memories is impossible to navigate but he finds that just by closing his eyes and focusing it's easy enough to leave. He just has to focus, like he did to get in here to begin with.

Waking up on the living room floor after hours of sitting on the hardwood leaves his ass sore. Other than the difficulty of entering the mindscape it is surprisingly easy to navigate. And now his plan is safe, as safe as it can be from a mind-reading demon.

Chapter 16: Tidying Up

It takes almost two hours to clean the lab up again even with both of them working together.

Looking at everything now, with clear eyes, Stan is very embarrassed by the mess. Yeah, he’s lost his cool before, but never this spectacularly. He blames it on this Ford, partly, because usually he would have been stopped long before he got to the gym.

Books get put back in their general places and papers are organized as best Ford can without knowing exactly where they originally came from. Stan puts most of the tools back in drawers with random pens since he doesn’t understand Ford’s system other than the junk drawer.

He’s going to be pissed when he sees the state of the lab.

If he ever sees it again.

He tries not to think about it while they work.

After cleaning the lab Stan pulls out ten journals from one of the cabinets and sets them on an open section of tables they had cleared. “Alright. These journals document everything we’ve found or that you’ve invented since we moved to Gravity Falls. There's gotta be something in one of them that we can use to get you two swapped back.” He grabs a black light lamp from a shelf and plugs it in below the table so they can see everything before grabbing the first journal to start reading.

This Ford has been very busy if he’s filled ten journals in six years. He barely filled three in that amount of time. He grabs the second journal, even if he thinks he’ll know most of what’s in it, and they both settle in to search in mutual silence.

These journals are both the same and completely different. There are mentions of Bill, but they aren’t in the same dreamlike tone as his own books. The creatures are all the same too but there are dozens of new inventions mixed in, hundreds even.

Sure, he had some back home, but not like this. Fiddleford was more into inventing than he was. Did they ever meet in this universe? Probably not if he went to West Coast Tech. He doesn’t let himself linger on that thought. He needs to focus.

They spend hours reading, swapping books back and forth so they each get a look, and he can see Stan keeping a small list over on his side of the table of ideas. He must want to go over everything before discussing it. So, he gets a notebook of his own and makes small notes.

But there isn’t much here. It’s all brilliant and interesting, a lifetime worth of research in just six years, but nothing short of the portal would do what they need. That and Bill. But they aren’t doing that.

“Alright, I think I’ve got a couple of ideas,” Stan speaks, breaking the silence shortly after they’ve gotten through journals eight and nine.

Ford is tired, exhausted actually, and hungry too because they never ate dinner. They might as well discuss what they have so far and then maybe he can try to convince Stan to go back upstairs. There’s only so much they can get done tonight without resting. “You go first then.” He motions towards Stan’s notepad.

He shifts the notepad over in his hand nervously but nods looking down at it, “Theres the obvious choices. Like building the portal. But that would take far too long even with both of us. Not to mention I know you’d be opposed. So, next. Same issues with summoning Bill. I’d love to have some words with him, but it wouldn’t be productive and I can’t think of a deal to fix this that wouldn’t be catastrophic. If anything, I’d just end up getting possessed and we don’t have another bracelet.”

He’s still mad, but less so than earlier. So, he’s not blinded by rage enough to do something so rash.

“The only other thing I saw was that incantation for entering someone’s mind. I mean, if Bill swapped your consciousness there has to be a link in your head somewhere, isn’t there?” He shrugged, looking down at the paper he’d made the note on.

That's not the most fun plan, because he doesn’t like the idea of letting someone into his head, but it’s not super farfetched compared to what he’s got. “That’s not a bad idea. I’m not a fan, for privacy reasons, but I think getting Ford home is a little more important than me getting a little embarrassed. However, I still think we should wait tell tomorrow to try anything. It's late, and we should eat something.” He hesitantly reaches the hand not holding the notebook to put over Stan’s.

The gesture is returned, because he needs it, and nods a little. “That’s all I saw. What about you?” He keens his neck to try to catch sight of what’s written but can’t read it upside down.

“Well, in my journal I had this underground bunker, for studying the shapeshifter mostly, but I didn’t see anything about that in here. Or the shapeshifter. Still, on the page it should have been in,” He drops the notebook and grabs the third journal to show Stan, “There's a code in the invisible ink without any sort of description. I’m wondering if Ford has something else hidden there. Something he didn’t want to tell you about.”

It’s weird to think Ford would hide anything from Stanley in this world, because Stan is generally very supportive. But he did hide Bill, for a while, so it’s not impossible. But what could be big enough, like Bill, worth hiding?

Damn it Ford, why can’t you stop keeping secrets?

“Tomorrow let's go check it out first thing. We’ll go close up the shop, clear any tours, and then head over there; you’ll have to lead though.” Ford is right, they need to eat something and get some rest. He gets up, leaving everything on the table where it is, still holding Ford’s hand. “Come on, I’ve gotta clean up my mess too.” He waits for Ford to stand before heading for the elevator.

Ford has to remind himself that this hand-holding is exclusively for mutual comfort more than anything else. It's brotherly, not romantic. Kinda.

Together they head upstairs and work together cleaning up the messy house. Between the two of them, it only takes half an hour to put everything mostly back where it goes allowing them to settle in the kitchen with plates of reheated dinner at the table.

“How did you get that long scar on your arm?” He can’t help but ask, wondering what the story is behind what looks like it should have been a fatal wound.

Most of the time Stan completely forgets it's there so he glances down at it stretching out the arm on the table and rolling up the short sleeve so Ford can see all of it. It extends up to his shoulder and then stops.

“It didn’t happen on any of our adventures and I wasn’t attacked by a crazy monster if that’s what you think. It's a really stupid story, I should have known better.” He chuckles, rolling the sleeve back down and picking at his mashed potatoes.

“I was emptying a full crab pot on our boat but something damaged it, bending some of the metal inside. So, when I was pulling out the crabs, I caught my arm and sliced it all the way up. Scared Ford half to death when it cut right through my glove, sleeve, and just shy of the bone.” He talks about it with a hint of humor, like it’s a funny story even if he did almost die from blood loss. “Luckily, we were just outside the harbor anyway, can’t put those traps down in deeper waters, so it only took a few minutes to get back to the docks. It was good practice for our first aid protocols. Ford got to make a tourniquet for the first time.”

Ford lets out a hiss of air, cutting up his pork chop but not eating it. “I hardly think almost dying constitutes practice. What would have happened if you were out at sea? You could have died.”

The worry on Ford’s face just makes him smile, “I would have died, yes. No question about that. I got lucky. Afterward, Ford went back to school, got a degree in biology, and is currently working through med school. Damn, nerd. The second level of the lab is where he’s working on a bunch of different medically aimed science projects.” It brought a fond smile to his face that almost dying drove Ford to such extremes, taking both of their health into his own hands by just learning it all himself for future emergencies.

“What kind of projects?” He eats some, letting Stan do more of the talking.

“Not a lot of finished ones. Thus far he’s got a bone-healing serum, a paste that knits skin back together, and a serum that can be injected into your gums to regrow teeth. Oh, and he made this anti-scar cream. He made that one so I’d be able to make this one disappear, but I kinda like keeping it. Makes me look tough.” They didn’t have any real use for most of the projects daily, but in a state of emergency, they’d be a godsend.

“And he’s done all that without finishing medical school? How does the paste work?” He doesn’t know if he has enough time to read all the research he wants, not if they plan on fixing this tomorrow. Maybe staying up wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“Finishing is relative. He’s done all the classwork for this semester already and just has to wait for the online exams to open up. I keep telling him to just test out of the courses, but that requires to go in person and he doesn’t want to make the trip down to California. We could turn it into a road trip, but growing up in Jersey makes Ford nervous to drive in the snow. Says it's ‘not fair’ if I do all the driving.” Not that he would mind. And there probably wouldn’t even be snow after they got to California. At the time it just wasn’t worth the argument.

“The paste is kinda like paper mâché in texture and you just smear it over the wound so it's fully covered. After it dries it’s a bitch to pull off but it leaves behind a fresh layer of skin nice and pink. It was admittedly really helpful when I nicked my hand putting up holiday lights last December. Saved us a trip to the hospital.”

This world was one where Stan and Ford both loved each other, without worry or concern. Without him putting up a huge wall trying to keep Stan out. And it's beautiful. It just makes him madder at himself for denying himself this type of life for so long. Maybe things wouldn’t have happened just like this, but they could have been close.

Ford just shakes his head and eats another bite of food, “He’s brilliant and this world is painfully perfect.” It makes him want to go home and do better. If his Stan has half the devotion these two share then maybe he really could end up back home. Someday.

“Believe it or not this place isn’t all sunshine and roses. Its not as dark as your life of course, but still. Like when my dad passed. That’s how I came to share ownership. Shermie runs it, living in Maryland most of the year, and then my mom and I got our shares. But money doesn’t fill the space of someone you love.” It’s a normal type of darkness, compared to Ford’s life anyway. Death comes for everyone eventually, usually when you least suspect it.

Once again, he reaches a hand across the table to rest over Stan’s free hand, tangling their fingers together with his enveloping Stans because of the extra digit. “That must have been difficult. From the way you talk about him, I can tell he means a lot to you.”

It's familiar, holding Ford’s hand and it allows him to talk about this without too much pain being drawn up. “Yeah, he was the best, but I try to appreciate the time I had with him instead of wishing for more. Heart problems run in their family, among other issues, which was why they decided to adopt in the first place. Heart problems plus living on a boat most of the year doesn’t make for a good combination. He died doing what he loved, and that’s all anyone can ever ask for.” It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried. The ship had a set of automated external defibrillators but even that wasn’t enough to bring him back.

“But hey, at least we still got our dad. Pain in the ass he is.” He tries to lighten the mood, pulling his hand away to gather up his empty plate to wash. “No, but seriously, he’s not too bad. I can usually get him to laugh at least once an afternoon which I’ve been told is a record.”

Ford follows him over to the sink, almost like a magnet, and hovers near him while Stan washes his plate, accepting it once it's clean to dry with a dish towel and put away. At least the kitchen orientation is the same here. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard my father laugh. I’d say that’s impressive.”

For a moment, it's almost like everything is okay again. Ford and him are doing the dishes together standing inches apart and it wouldn’t take much to lean over and-

Instead, he hands Ford their forks to dry and put away, rinsing his hands and drying them on his shirt instead of looking for another towel. “Well, that about wraps things up. We should both head to bed since we gotta get up early tomorrow. I’m going to sleep in Ford’s room tonight and you can take mine.” Maybe being surrounded by Ford’s smell would make it a little easier to fall asleep.

Ford hung the towel back up and turned to face Stan, nodding and looking anywhere in the room other than at the wet shirt Stan was now wearing. “Alright, I’ll see you in the morning. Unless Bill switches us back.” He finally looks at him, giving him a small smile in case this is the last time they see each other.

If only it was that easy.

He steps forward anyway, pulling Ford into a tight hug anyway. “Don’t look so sad about it. Leaving here is just one step towards you getting home. You’ve got your own Stanley back home waiting for you. He’s probably just as torn up about your absence as I am with Ford.”

True, but going home also means fixing and fessing up to all his many mistakes. He returns the hug, not wanting to let go, not wanting to leave even if he knows he has to. “Do you think that it's possible?” He stops, flushing bright red where his head is resting on Stanley’s shoulder. “That, even though we grew up together, or am I the weird one?” This is possibly the only time he can ever remember himself asking a question without actually saying much of anything.

Stan just laughs, shaking his head and giving him a squeeze with the arms wrapped around Ford’s back, “Anything’s possible, but you won’t know unless you tell him. Which is a huge gamble. Maybe wait until you’ve apologized and gotten on better terms before saying anything.” Despite himself, he stays there with Ford, not pulling away just yet.

“Yeah, I know. Fix our brotherly bond first. That’s the priority.” There is a massive pile of issues and bad blood between them but maybe it's not too late. Not yet anyway. Ford doesn’t pull away either and they both stay there in silence for a while before finally breaking apart.

Stan moves first, letting go after one more squeeze and then turning to head for the stairs without saying any sort of real goodbye, leaving Ford alone in the kitchen with his thoughts and feelings.

Chapter 17: The Summitt

Usually, it’s pretty easy to tell if Bill has him in a nightmare or if he’s waking up to real pain. One of them is rooted in reality where Bill plays off his fears (and Ford is never around) and the other often has more improbable things. Like him managing to stay awake through having his organs removed by a possessed Ford/Bill.

He can’t tell if he’s real this time.

The air is cold, blowing over him just like the last several times Bill has brought him up somewhere high, but he’s fully dressed. Bundled up in layers and all. That seems like a dream, because Bill always forgets a layer or shoes. But being somewhere up high suggests reality.

The sensations are conflicting and it has to be on purpose.

He’s lying down on something wooden, unrestrained, but the strength of the wind makes him want to stay lying down.

Except he can’t. Because he made a deal with himself.

Bill became sweet on Ford, for whatever reasons a god has for that, and if he wants this plan of his to work, he’s gotta manage it too at least a little.

Somehow, he’s gotta convince Bill, the god who thinks he’s a moron, that he’s worth something.

This is not an easy task. It's statistically likely to fail, or it probably would be if he could run the math.

But Bill likes seeing him panic, and be in pain, for whatever reason. He enjoys having a toy to play with. Thus far he’s been more than accommodating, crying and panicking.

Moving forward, he needs to somehow impress Bill, prove that he’s something a little better than most humans in some way. Maybe getting over fear and reacting a little differently to the pain inflicted could help with that.

The plan is to just throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks.

He’s not above flirting with Bill if it comes to it. But he’d rather not.

So, instead of staying down on the wood for as long as he can, he forces himself up onto his knees and opens his eyes. Eye.

He barely manages to catch himself from panicking over the fact he can only see out of one eye.

Breathe.

Impress him.

His head hurts too. It's not like he’s been stabbed again, gotten a concussion, or has a migraine. Its pressure, like something else is inside his head with him.

That feels like something that would happen in a dream.

Except he can see, with one eye, that he’s up on the old railway running between the cliffs at the end of the valley making up Gravity Falls. He can see the whole town, all the way to the ground, and beyond.

Be cool. Just pretend it’s a dream. It's fine.

Even if it's not a dream, take it easy.

He’s not injured, other than whatever is going on with his eye and head, which doesn’t fit reality either. Most dreams start with him uninjured before quickly spiraling into horror.

Where’s the horror here?

Yeah, he’s high up, but he doesn’t see Ford around anywhere which is usually the trigger in dreams. Is this just a warm up and the real issues will start back at the shack?

He glances around and both ends of the track are open, the boards that should be there signaling the track is inactive gone.

Distantly, he swears he can hear the sound of a train whistle but it's hard to tell with the wind blowing so strong.

Okay, this has to be a dream then. Because this railroad has been shut down for almost a century at this point.

That gives him several options. He could just jump off the track to his death. That would be the ultimate show of fearlessness. But if he’s wrong about it being a dream, he’d be dead.

Alternatively, he can try to guess which side the train is coming from and run the other way. He’ll still probably get run over, but the death will be quick and mostly painless.

Although death in dreams are never painless with Bill. He seems to enjoy dragging it out for minutes past what a normal human body could withstand before passing out from pain. Even an instant death of a bullet to the brain lasted thirty seconds, waking him up with a splitting headache.

Next, he pushes up onto his feet, almost getting knocked over by the wind, before steadying himself and glancing in both directions of the tracks.

If this is reality, how did Bill even get up here? And if there is somehow a road near the abandoned tracks, he needs to pick the right side. The last thing he wants is to need to come back out here to get to his car.

He listens for another horn blow, straining against the wind, and decides to head towards the tunnel he was facing when he woke up. The right cliff is more likely to have some sort of access road and it sounds like the train is coming from the other way.

Rather than waiting around, trying to make sure he’s right, he just starts running.

If this is a dream he’ll need as much of a head start as he can get ahead of the train. Being able to feel your body turned into a paste is not on his bucket list of things he wants to experience in this life or the next.

It's hard to run very fast when you can’t see where you’re going at all. The tunnel gets pitch black not long after he enters it and having only one eye isn’t helping. He runs into a wall twice before he starts paying attention to the floor with his feet, staying inside the tracks so he doesn’t hit anything.

The dreams Bill makes him have, the nightmares, always feel unbelievably real. Right up until the full-blown psycho shit happens which is when he can tell it's fake. But this feels really real. His lungs burn with every breath in and out and his injured foot sends a shooting pain up his leg with every impact on the ground ahead.

The next train whistle is louder, but the tunnel is still dark and he’s not going to waste time looking back.

Usually, in dreams, he can’t feel his old injuries. Not the ones Bill has given him at least. Dreams also don’t usually involve running. Real life is where he actually has to run and race away from death for Bill's amusement.

He picks up the pace, running a little faster despite the pain and strains it causes. Despite refusing to acknowledge the panic this should cause; his body is still producing plenty of adrenaline to keep moving. Like this is real.

But it can’t be real, because Gravity Falls doesn’t have a railroad system anymore. This bridge was shut down in the 1880s after the great train crash. He’s sure that in reality there wouldn’t be a train.

But the much louder sound of a train horn behind him, and the faint light illuminating the tunnel way back, would suggest otherwise.

So, it’s a dream then. Has to be.

He keeps running anyway, pushing through his legs complaints and ignoring that it feels like it might cramp if he doesn’t stop or slow down.

It's not possible that Bill would actually put him on a railroad track to die because then he wouldn’t get his portal finished.

Something here isn’t right.

Distantly he can see the other end of the tunnel, but based on the sounds behind him it's not likely he’ll make it that distance before something gives. His foot or his lungs. Both are screaming at him.

The train isn’t real. It can’t be.

He stops running, slowing to a stop in the middle of the tracks to catch his breath. The exit is too far away anyway, no point in continuing to try.

The prospects of feeling himself get flattened if this is a dream is likely, but-

Can Bill make him hallucinate? Is that what this is?

The train stops barely five feet from where he’s standing, still panting and catching his breath.

He’s laughing, but it's not his laugh. That’s Bill's laugh, and it echoes around the tunnel filling the void of sound that the train whistle and wheels had been making.

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out there Stanleyyy.”

That’s Bill's voice, but his mouth isn’t moving. Is he-

“You got that right. I’m inside your head, I can hear all your thoughts. And I gotta say, that took less time than I expected it to.”

Clearly, he doesn’t need to talk when Bill can read his mind, which is good because he’s still panting and his foot is screaming at him. He’s going to pay for this, no doubt. But he can’t even be mad at Bill. He should have known earlier the train wasn’t real. Or just stood and taken it if it was.  

“Don’t sell yourself so short. You know when I did this with old Fordsey he tried to hang off the side of the rails. Almost fell trying to avoid the train! He couldn’t even tell! How ridiculous is that?”

He sits on the edge of the rail, now that he’s not in any obvious danger, and ignores the still very real-looking train just five feet away. The rails are even humming, or seeming to, with energy like the train is still moving. Oh. If Bill is in his head, that would explain why-

“Why you can’t see out of both eyes? Yeah, this is something close to a split possession. I can see, feel, and hear everything but you’ve got the reigns. It's more fun that way. You know, you’re starting to get rather boring to play with. IQ never got used to what I threw at him. You're different.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

“Something like that. You know, you may be a moron, but you aren’t without your own unique qualities. I can admire that. You take pain and torture better than most other humans I’ve worked with. And even fewer figure out the divide between reality and illusion. I’m going to have to test you more on that.”

He brings his foot up to rub at his calf muscle to help with the burning pain still affecting his leg. All that running just made the injury worse, maybe pinching a nerve. He’s caught his breath now but he doesn’t make any noises to indicate he’s in pain.

Bring it on Bill, I can take anything you throw at me and then some.

“See, you have this spunk about you. A toughness I gotta admire. You know, I’ve been thinking, maybe we got off on the wrong foot there at the beginning. This doesn’t have to be all bad you know.”

Keep it moving. It’ll make this all go by faster. He gets up, limp more pronounced than it was before, and slowly starts making his way towards the end of the tunnel. Looking back the train and its lights are long gone now leaving just a black dark void. Did he really run through that full sprint blind?  

What are you talking about, you got something else in mind better than torture?

“You know, your brother may have been book-smart. His mind was that of a generation. But he was weak. He couldn’t possibly understand my vision. The fun of it all. But you? That’s another story.”

What’s the game, Bill? Because whatever it is, I’m not playing it.

“Game? Ahh, but games are what make life worth living. Games are fun and fun is whatever I want. You know, maybe I can convince you some other way. Here. Let me show you.”

The end of the tunnel, barely ten feet away, disappeared from view, and for a brief moment, everything went black leaving him momentarily blinded by the void. But it doesn’t last long because the next moment he’s standing on the bow of a ship looking out at the stars with both eyes again.

Hundreds of thousands of them.

More stars than you could ever see from somewhere on Earth.

Upon closer inspection the bow of the ‘boat’ he’s on isn’t exactly right either. It’s made of metal instead of wood and turning around the reason is clear. He’s standing out on the bow of a spaceship that must have some sort of invisible glass over it so he doesn’t suffocate.

What the fuck is this and where is he?

“Terrible questions. But I’ll give you a pass because you're new. This, Stanleeyy, is a top-of-the-line spaceship. It can go zero to wormhole jumping in the same amount of time it takes you humans to think about blinking. Your dream was always to travel, see the world. But why limit yourself there? The world is small and the ocean today is boring compared to half a billion years ago. Lame. But the stars? Traveling the universe? Now that’s a party.”

Stan spins again, looking out at the stars and around at the ship's deck. It is beautiful, unlike anything he’s ever seen. It makes him swallow.

“Still not convinced? Jeez, you drive a hard bargain. What more could you possibly want?”  

The scene shifts again, blurring his vision, and then when he looks, he’s standing in what has to be the ship's control room. It has a full view on all sides with glass windows and looking at the control panels, he feels like he knows what every button, switch, and nob does. Like the instructions are being fed from somewhere just out of his train of thought.

You still haven’t told me what you want. Why you’re showing me this? You’ve gotta use your words, Bill.

“Deals have to be really specific. You, being a con man, know that almost as well as myself. So, there isn’t anything I can do about coming through the portal with Ford. But after is a different story. You never said I couldn’t come through at all.”

Thus far he’s been really good about not reacting, not thinking, not feeling. But as Bill talks now a shiver travels down his spine. It’s the only reaction Bill gets out of him and he can practically feel his disappointment.

“Or, I could send one of my friends through. The possibilities are endless as long as Ford comes through alone and I give it a few seconds. Your world is going to burn, one way or another, and you know that. You’re not a vegetable. The point is, I like your spunk. And I think we can both agree that Ford’s wronged us both.”

The scene in front of them changes again but this time it's accompanied by some very unpleasant sensations. Instead of standing, overlooking the stars, he’s laying in the back of his car freezing his nuts off covered in every piece of clothing he owns. It’s one of those nights where he just doesn’t have the cash to waste gas. So, he’s just short of freezing instead. Not caring if it kills him.

The next scene sets his mouth on fire and he tastes blood, metal, and feels the broken teeth in his mouth. He’s sobbing in this memory as he slowly works on the hole in the metal, trying to free his hands using the handcuff key since they’re tied in the front as he works.

The third scene is shown from an outward view, not accompanied by sensations, and it's easily what he’d consider his lowest points. That threesome he did in Cuba to pay for a ticket back to the US. He closes his eyes to avoid looking and is just grateful he wasn’t forced to feel that again.

Enough. What do you want?

He’s back in space, stars shining like they never left.

“That’s easy. I want you to join my little party. It's going to happen anyway, this universe is going to burn. And we both want the same revenge. What could be greater revenge on old Fordsey than siding with the god he threw away and detests? We could do great things together. I’ll have to make some adjustments to your meat suit once I’m here, but that’s a minor issue.”

He looks around at the ship again, out at the stars and the billions of worlds beyond. An endless party. With friends. He’s never really had friends. At least Ford had McGucket.

Other than stars, what is there to even look at in space?

“Oh boy. I’m glad you asked. What isn’t there? Let me give you a taste.”

The ship lurches forward and the outside of the glass goes white, black, every color he’s ever seen, and then. Not back to normal. Instead of the black sky of space covered in stars, the ship is directly in front of a black hole. He may not be a nerd, but his (or Bill's) mind provides him with the name.

It's massive, too big for his human mind to comprehend, and his jaw drops open just looking at it. The name is misleading to what it looks like up close in person. Yes, the main color is black, but mixed in are what look like sprinkles of glitter in every color including ones he’s never seen before. Even the flecks of glitter are massive, planet-sized, while the black hole itself could take up the space of a galaxy.

“And if that isn’t enough- Oh well, it’s a bit of a spoiler, but why not?”

The spaceship lurches again in a direction he can’t pinpoint from how fast it happens. It makes him dizzy and he has to close his eyes for a minute.

“Open up, take a look.”

Even with Bill supplying him with information he could never dream up himself, he can’t begin to describe this. It’s a solar system, of sorts, with a massive purple star in the center. Or the color looks closest to purple since the actual color doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.

That’s about where the ‘solar system’ similarities end. In the endless space around the star is what looks like more glitter. Tiny specks of light he’s pretty sure would blind him if he was actually looking at them in person. They float around the star, sometimes making shapes and sometimes overlapping for split seconds.

They clash together sometimes too, creating streaks of light in varying colors when they do. Millions, no, trillions of them creating a sphere all the way around the star like a bunch of moths drawn to the light. There are too many to count and there's too much movement going on to keep track of anything with a human mind. He can’t tell what he’s looking at, but it takes his breath away completely and makes him want to cry all at once.

It’s a miracle that he doesn’t.

“You silly humans. But yes, looking at the programming for your dimension is something special. Every soul, decision, and action is preprogrammed. And you’re watching it in real-time as it happens. Of course, no human could ever look at it and survive. I had to dumb it down for you a little and loan you my vision. But if this doesn’t convince you? I don’t know what will.”

It takes everything to close his eyes and stop looking because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to decide on his own.

Bill just laughs again, long and loud, but not the same crazy laugh from his nightmares. This one is less insane, more joyful like he finds something funny instead of just laughing to laugh.

“Oh, you are unique alright. Not just anyone could look into the fabric of reality and have the strength to look away. I bet IQ wouldn’t have. I’ll tell you what. Just think about it for me. No need to commit to anything now. Just know I got a lot to offer, if you’re willing to join in on the fun.”

The sensation of cold air comes back, as does the painful throbbing of his foot, and when he opens his eyes, or eye, he’s back in the tunnel. Compared to what he was just shown everything nearby looks painfully dull and sad. Which was probably part of the point.

“I’ll leave you to get home on your own. Take some time, and get back to me. We’ve still got about six weeks tell the opening ceremony. You’ll just want to have your ticket punched before then. Otherwise, you and Fordsey will both burn with the rest of this pathetic rock.”

Slowly the pressure in his head fades at the same rate that his left eye starts to come back into focus. He waits until the headache has fully faded before continuing to walk. Without Bill he gets two steps and collapses on the tracks.

His eye is still blurry and when he brings a gloved hand up to rub at it the glove comes away bloody. Shit. He’s gotta get home and rinse it out. But first, he needs to stop shaking.

Now that Bill is gone, he lets the full weight of what had happened hit him. The heights, the train that almost crushed him, the throbbing in his eye and his leg. Even his lungs still burn. Panick settles deep in his chest and for a long while he just lays on the ground.

He still doesn’t trust himself to think right now, not that he could with all the pain he’s experiencing.

Getting up is painful, the walk to the car is even worse, and he just sits in his seat for a long time with the heat blasting to help the shivering. It distracts from the pain in his foot.

Fuck. He’s going to have to go to the doctor, isn’t he?

No getting around it anymore. Something is seriously wrong. He can feel it in the way any sort of pressure on his foot makes it feel like he’s been shot. Damn it. If he’d just known the train was fake. It was obvious! “Fuck!” He slams his hand down on the horn in frustration once before starting the long drive back into town.

Even once he’s fully warmed up by the heater in Ford’s car he’s still shivering. It's hard to tell if it's because of his injury or the gravity of what he was just shown.

Somehow, that was worse than a nightmare.

Chapter 18: Second Chances

Notes:

Sorry about the slower updates. This particular section of the story has been driving me nuts and I rewrote it three times before finally being happy enough with it. Should be smooth sailing from here, enjoy!

He’s gotta hand it to Stanley, he really did commit to sleeping upstairs. Or at the very least pretending to while tossing and turning all night.

Ford on the other hand gave up before he started getting as far as brushing his teeth before heading back downstairs to start a pot of coffee.

There was just too much to do. This universe was full of so much to learn, stuff that this Ford had already done all the work for. And if he was leaving tomorrow, big if, he wanted to take in as much as he could before then.

He stayed up on the couch with a record playing on low and curled up on the couch, pouring over the binders of information they’d pulled out of the lab earlier.

He stayed there for hours and surprised himself by finishing all of them as well as the pot of coffee. Drinking it on a full stomach was much easier than on an empty one as he’d been doing for weeks before Stan had arrived.

But when he ran out of projects to read about, he decided to take a crack at the password downstairs into the lab. Specifically, the medical half of the science lab. Those serums Ford had made could easily be the difference between life and death and it was definitely something he wanted to take home.

It took dozens of tries to crack the password (Gravity Falls was a weird choice) but he did get it which allowed him to spend the rest of the night locked up in the shacks medbay pouring over notes.

Stanley did not get much sleep and the little he did get was restless with constant tossing and turning. Being surrounded by Ford’s smell did help, a little, but it still wasn’t the same as sharing a bed and being able to hold him.

Staying in separate beds gave the illusion that he wasn’t seriously thinking about cheating. Yeah, maybe it was a grey area because it was the same body. The same person even. Just a little different. But he was trying to stick to his questionable morals.

When seven o’clock came around he gave up completely and just got up to get ready for the day, showering and brushing his teeth before going to make coffee. The still warm coffee pot suggested that Ford hadn’t gotten much sleep either and after making himself a cup he wandered through the house looking for him.

Eventually, he arrived in the medbay more amused than upset that Ford had figured out the password. It was a familiar sight to see Ford slumped over some notes asleep after staying up all night. Like this, the two people looked completely identical and it made his chest constrict.

If they never got his Ford back, would it get to a point where he wouldn’t even know the difference?

Would this Ford just slot into his place taking over projects, degrees, and their love life?

They couldn’t exactly separate with how intertwined their lives were, and just in case Ford came back.

What if that took years?

Yes, Stan might be doing his best to get his brother back. But that could still take a really long time.

Would they have to pause their lives? Put off children?

How much of their life would Ford miss out on in his own absence?

These are not questions he wants or ever thought he’d need to consider.

It wouldn’t be right to have children without Ford here, but how long could he wait and hope? They aren’t getting any younger. Why did this have to happen? Why couldn’t things just stay how they were?

Instead of waking Ford, he sat down at a mostly empty lab table with his coffee in the otherwise silent room.

He knew and had argued with Ford for weeks about leaving Gravity Falls. It wasn’t worth Bill’s wrath coming back to bite them someday. But Ford had insisted things would be fine, that they could figure it out.

He’d been wrong.

Now he’s left alone to pick up the pieces and somehow maintain their lives.

Decide how to move forward with only half the man he married.

What’s worth missing on the off chance comes home and what’s not?

He lets himself cry again, silently, like in the kitchen. But unlike before, sobbing over Ford, he’s mourning their life. Their love, because even if he could have something close with a replacement, it would never be the same. It would be different with years of memories lost.

It would be like starting over.

It’s not fair, none of this is, and he rests his head on both arms to muffle the sound of sniffling so he doesn’t wake up Ford.

He can’t do this. He can’t just pause their life, but he can’t keep moving forward either.

If this doesn’t work, if their ideas don’t pan out, then they’ll have to do something more drastic. Because he can’t just sit and wait around hoping.

How dead would he have to be for Ford to move on? Extremely or just kinda? Because here in the medbay kinda might be enough for Ford to pull him back if he’s fast enough.

He’d get a lecture and screamed at when he woke up.

But Ford would be back and things would be okay again.

He sits up a little, glancing over at Ford, and then around. Where does Ford keep the scalpels?

*

Since falling through the portal Ford hasn’t had a single nightmare or dream. Sleep became a welcome break from reality where the real horrors lie.

Which is why it's so weird that this isn’t peaceful.

The world here is disorienting like everything blurs together along the edges, and it makes it impossible to make out a real picture at first. Slowly the familiar space of the mindscape comes into view, still blurry, like something’s drawing him to it despite being asleep

And way out in the distance at the edge of the field where his mind meets void, is a door.

As he walks it slowly comes closer, with the time it takes feeling like decades, until he finally reaches it. Looking back, his mindscape comes into focus now with fields of grains expanding well past what he can see mixed in with various focal points like the swing set, a half-torn-down portal, and a ruined boat.

Before now he’s never been given the choice of where he wants to be. Bill puts him in whatever Stanford he wants, tormenting him that way, and then removes him afterward before he can process the reality of what’s happened.

But having spent less than a day in a nice reality Bill seems to be offering him a choice between staying here or walking through this door back to his own body. Back to whatever torture the other Ford has been enduring in his place.

It isn’t an easy choice.

Here he can stay, for a while, and continue to enjoy Stanley’s company. Live their nice life in the woods together. Be with his brother in all ways without concern over social stigma and their family’s opinions. They have a good past in that reality, without bad blood and pain.

Going back means facing Bill and likely more awful realities of torture. Real ones, where he and Stan die over and over. Or worse, maybe he’ll wake up in the nightmare realm to endure whatever creative torture Bill can conjure up there.

What would Stanley do?

What would he do if offered the choice between a perfect Ford and a perfect life? One who had always stuck by him, never pushed him away, supporting him and encouraging him to be himself from day one?  And another who had brought nothing but pain and suffering?

He brings a hand up to the door handle but doesn’t turn it yet.

Deep down he knows the answer, he just doesn’t like it. If there was anything to ‘good twin’ and ‘evil twin’ Stan’s the one wearing the halo and he’s got a pitchfork and devil horns.

Stan would make the correct choice, as he has always tried to make when it's about family.

Stanley would pick him, regardless of which Ford that was.

He’d take a broken Ford and then try to fix him.  Fix them and make them a family again. At least he thinks so, based on the testimony this last version of Stanley gave.

But Stan is also so much stronger than him and always has been ever since they were kids. He took ridicule, bullying, and physical beatings with hardly any complaints. Sometimes still with a smile on his face, fighting back.

It takes a lot of effort to force himself to turn the door handle and open it, showing him the black void beyond with no indication of what will come next after he steps through.

He experiments by sticking just his fingertips inside causing the mindscape to ripple and black cracks to appear along the floors and across the sky. Once he pulls his hand back the world rights itself back to normal.

The inability to simply make this decision, and choose Stan, showcases how awful he really is. A reality he wasn’t as aware of before this nice dimension.

Too bad once you know something is evil, you can’t unsee it.

Before he can try and talk himself out of it, rationalizing his selfish desires, he steps through the doorway into the darkness.

But he doesn’t fall like he expected, and instead, he’s standing just inside still able to look back out the door.

Lying down on the ground in a very blurry mindscape is another version of himself. Other Ford. But he appears unconscious, not yet aware that he’s safe and back in his own body. He doesn’t look damaged, or bleeding, and the mindscape doesn’t appear to be on fire either. All good signs towards other Ford’s mental state.

That’s good. He’s alive at least and Bill didn’t kill him or drive him mad for the sake of it. Other Stanley can wake up with his Ford back and their lives can continue as normal, or close to it.

He wishes he got to say goodbye to him. But this act of redemption has to be enough, choosing to do something good for a Stanley is a step in the right direction.

They’ll be okay because they have each other and get to live out the rest of their long happy lives.

He can give them that, if nothing else.

Before he can think to reach out, try to say something to his other self, the door between them slams shut and disappears leaving him blind. Then the floor dropped out below causing him to fall through the air  He can’t breathe in here, preventing him from letting out a scream.

*

Everything hurts and it takes him a minute to have much more awareness of his surroundings than that. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears, accompanied by a splitting headache. His neck feels like it's on fire or was at least recently burned. Trying to move his arms and legs brings about a more sinister realization.

He’s chained up by wrists, ankles, and neck. All of which are holding him up tight against the wall.

This isn’t just another dimension, is it? Opening his eyes reveals that this isn’t home, or any twisted version of it. He’s inside an unfamiliar den with a fireplace, grandfather clock, and a piano on the other end of the room by the window.

The only light comes from the fireplace, dancing in countless colors, and from the window where millions of stars are visible.

Trying to avoid looking at himself, afraid of what he’ll see, only lasts so long. He needs to know how bad it is. How bad it was for the Ford being tortured in this body last.

At least he’s dressed, but the clothes he’s wearing are ruined by blood and slash marks. There aren’t any scars or marks on his skin from what he can see without being able to pull away from the wall. Maybe Bill patched him up before bringing him back but didn’t bother with fixing his clothes.

He was badly beaten, cut apart, and maybe even shocked if the marks around his wrist and ankles are any indication. But he’s only feeling a fraction of what was done. He feels cold and a glance at the floor reveals why. It's covered in blood, a whole big pool of it deep enough to step in but not running off to ruin the nearby rug. There aren't any splatters on the furniture either.

In a way it’s a relief to be in his own body, being sure of something for once, but it also terrifies him of what Bill will do to him here when they’re face to face again.

It already feels like he’s experienced enough for one lifetime after being forced to murder his brother and being tortured over and over by Stan. What more could Bill do to him?

“Oh, you don’t want to be asking me those kinds of questions IQ. You haven’t even seen half of what I can do. I’ve been playing nice so far. You don’t want to know what’s next if we can’t come to an agreement.”

Bill’s voice doesn’t seem to come from any particular direction but instead from inside his head, loud enough to be heard over the rushing of blood that is slowly fading. Moments later Bill makes himself visible, phasing through the opposite wall until he’s barely six feet away.

Before Bill's true plans had been exposed Ford would have killed to be here now in the same room as his muse. Now, he can barely look him in the eye over his shame at being tricked by a few kind words and empty promises.

“This has been playing nice? You’ve killed at least a dozen different versions of Stanley and I! You’ve ruined countless lives for your sick little games! There isn’t anything on Earth that could make me come to an agreement with you.” His voice isn’t steady, and his body is weak, but he manages to maintain eye contact while he talks.

“Oh, where are my manners, you’ll probably want that back inside you, won’t you?” He motions to the blood covering the floor and then flourishes his hand over it. The blood lifts drop by drop and compacts itself into the shape of a weird liquid snake. “Open wide.”

It's not like Ford has much of a choice, his jaw opening on its own accord under Bill's will, before the blood floats over and floods his throat. He chokes on it, trying to swallow but unable to breathe and trying to suppress the urge to vomit. After what feels like a full minute the only remaining blood is a layer left in his mouth.

Minutes go by, his body shaking, but the blood does redistribute somehow and his skin starts to change back to a more normal color while Bill just watches, eye smiling with mischief and joy at the obvious discomfort he caused.

“Now that your meat suit is back in working order, let’s talk details. Come on Fordsey, this doesn’t all have to be so difficult you know. We used to have something special, didn’t we?”

Ford gathers up what spit he can muster, red with blood, and aims it down at the floor near where Bill’s feet are hovering managing to get it on the rug. It eases the metallic taste while being disrespectful at the same time. “You are destruction incarnate, not the brilliant being I was led to believe. Besides, it's not like I have anything you want. Did you miss the part where I can’t be your pawn anymore?”

“Maybe not, but you brought me one just as suitable in your place. Stanley Pines, your inferior brother? We’ve been working together, finishing the work you refused me.” His voice is teasing with an edge of malice.

Other Stan had theorized this was a possibility, but to hear that it's true is something else entirely. It makes him angry while simultaneously causing his heart to jump in his throat from fear. The little bit of he has composure fails and his mouth drops open a little bit.

“Humans are so predictable, willing to do anything for those they share a larger percentage of the human genome with. Your brother especially. It’s a weak point I’ve been more than happy to take advantage of. Not that he seems to mind.”

Ford snapped his jaw shut with an audible click and glared at Bill. He wants to kill Bill for taking advantage of Stanley, but the fight runs out of him in seconds. This isn’t even Bill's fault or Stan’s, it’s his. He’s the one who invited Stanley to Gravity Falls in the first place.

He has no leverage here to stop them or to warn Stanley of what’s going to happen.

He has to know, but he’s continuing anyway. For him, that moron.

“What do you want from me then Bill? I have nothing to offer you. What else could you possibly want to take from me now?”

“Way to be melodramatic. It’s the same thing I’ve always wanted IQ. I want you to join me. I wasn’t lying before when I said you were a genius. The kinda brilliance that comes along once a century. You're special. We don’t have to do all this with the chains and the torture. I’ll give you a second chance, just because I like you a lot.”

It's hard to believe that Bill is this stupid. How could he possibly still be holding out hope that he would ever, in a million trillion years, join him? “I’d sooner die than join you. You’re a monster leaving destruction in your wake and I want no more part in it.”

This just pulls a laugh from Bill, sending a short shiver down Ford’s spine, “Oh, as if you haven’t been doing the same thing your whole life. Everything you touch goes up in flames. We’re more alike than you’re willing to admit. The only difference is I don’t pretend to care.”

Finally, he lets his gaze drop to the floor, unable to stand looking at Bill anymore. Shame and guilt overwhelm him, flooding his chest and leaving him feeling worse than any of the other torture Bill has tried so far.

“What, did that last dimension now get my point across? Didn’t you see how terrible things would have turned out for you? You hadn’t even done anything worthwhile, just toying around with boring little inventions to entertain your sorry excuse for a br- “

“Shut up! I’m not going to join you! No matter what you throw at me or put me through I will never love you again! You’re the biggest mistake I ever made so you might as well just kill me and get it over with! Move on from this sick obsession!”

The response is instantaneous with the collar around his ankles, hands, and neck all lighting up with enough electricity to make his hair stand on end and leave a fresh set of deep burning welts on all contact points.

He screams and the world goes white and then black but he’s forced to endure every second of pain for what feels like eternity before it finally stops. A long silence stretches in the room and even if he wanted to say something he can’t find the air or energy to do so.

Bill had to have done something to him because no human could survive an electric current that strong. Is he momentarily immortal while Bill toys with him? No normal human could swallow blood and redistribute it. He feels sick again.  

“I know you don’t mean that Fordsey. I’m the only person who ever really challenged you. Maybe you just need a little more encouragement to see things my way. Be reminded of what might happen to your beloved Stanley if you don’t comply.”

No. Not Stan. Bill can torture him from here to the end of time and back, but he will not stand by and watch Bill hurt Stanley. He’ll figure something out, find some way to fight back.

He finds the energy to bring his head back up from his chest but before he can muster up enough energy to talk Bill’s got a hand on his forehead holding it up. It makes any venom-laced insults die on his lips having Bill standing so close when he wasn’t expecting it.

“I could make this next dimension your real reality, so pay extra close attention. You know how much I hate repeating myself.” The hand runs down from his forehead down along his cheek almost fondly.

Ford’s vision goes black and it’s a relief from having to look into Bill's eye and feel the very real touch of his hand.

Chapter 19: Turbulence

Notes:

Honestly, it's impressive based on the life Stan has been living that this didn't happen sooner.

Stan doesn’t like hospitals.

Sure, he’s been hurt a lot over the years, but that didn’t mean he ever bothered to get checked out unless it was something serious.

Losing a foot was serious enough to warrant the trip.

He knew it was bad, but he didn’t realize just how bad until now.

After packing a bag with Ford’s wallet, insurance card, and some basic overnight essentials he’d gone into the clinic in town. Which had insisted he needed to go to Portland for proper medical care since the clinic in town wasn’t equipped for the amount of damage he’d done after putting off real treatment.

At least they’d been nice enough to get him some painkillers while they held him hostage.

The stupid doctor wouldn’t let him drive with his foot how it was until after a trauma center had looked at it too and he’d received proper care. After waiting until a reasonable hour in the morning, he finally decided it was late enough in the day to call Fids.

Safe to say he had not been happy.

Not about hearing from him, but about finding out his foot was so bad he needed at least a level two trauma center to handle it. And that he’d waited tell so late in the morning to call.

The almost three-hour trip in the car was tense and mostly silent other than the radio.

Which only left Stan alone with time to reflect on what Bill had offered him.

If something feels like it's too good to be true, it is. Plain and simple.

And that’s what this is. There is no way in hell that Bill wants to travel the universe with him. Not without a price that hasn’t been disclosed.

Not to mention he hates the guy. He’s a sadistic power-hungry god on a power trip because no one has probably ever taken him head-on. He tortured Ford for fun and just to get his way. It's enough to make him start grinding his teeth.

It's good that, for some unknown reason, he wants to keep him around because he can use that. But he’s not going to just agree blindly. If possible, he’d like to put off agreeing for as long as possible. Maybe if Bill’s trying to win his favor he’ll stop with the stupid nightmares and torture.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

He’ll try, see if Bill will go for it, but that’s about as far ahead as he can plan his next move. Six weeks is plenty of time for things to change and shit to hit the fan. One step at a time because if he rushes, he’ll end up stepping on a landmine.

When they got to the hospital Fids insisted on putting him in a wheelchair even if he was pretty sure he could walk since the pain meds hadn’t fully worn off.

He focused on doing the best impression of his brother and keeping his hands safely hidden in his pockets as much as possible to avoid being questioned about where two fingers had magically gone.

Things moved pretty quickly from that point, getting taken back for vitals and then back to a room all at once. They were barely there twenty minutes before he had an IV put in, blood drawn, and a doctor came to examine his foot.

They all disappeared for a while, plotting what to do about his foot before the same Doctor came back to discuss options.

The first, and best-sounding option, was surgery. The foot wasn’t infected, but the bone wasn’t healing right and needed to be reset. The guy said a bunch of other fancy words, something about nerves and improper blood flow.

The second option was putting it in a hard cast for six weeks, having to come back to reevaluate, and then possibly having to do that again. All the while being stuck on crutches.

The second option would probably end up being more costly in the long run both on money and time, neither of which he had a lot of, so he went with the first.

The doctor left the room to go make arrangements and bring him some forms to sign when Fid's long shimmering anger finally bubbled up.

“What on earth were you thinking? Bill stabs a knife through your foot and you don’t think to go get it checked? What if it had gotten infected? You would have lost the whole damn foot! Not to mention if they can’t recover those nerves, you might never get proper feeling back! How could you be this reckless Stanley?”

He knows it shouldn’t make him smile because he’s right, but it does. It makes him grin wide, despite the bill this will cost because Fids is acting just like Mom used to. Huffing and puffing over little more than a scraped knee. Except this is admittedly a little more than a scraped knee.

“You know I’ve had worse than this and dealt with it myself, right?” He insists, glancing towards the door before continuing. “You ever been shot in the arm and had to dig out the bullet? This is nothing in comparison.” He rolls up the short sleeve on the stupid hospital gown they made him put on. “I thought it would be fine, but things change. I made a mistake; you’ve got me there. But I’m not going to lose the foot, so it's fine. Might even be a good thing not feeling it. Means I won’t need to know when I stub my toes anymore.” He gives Fids one of his winning smiles to try and calm him down.

Although he only met Stanley less than a full day ago, he is already starting to worry that this guy is going to be the reason he starts going grey. Not his son or wife.

He’s so incredibly careless about his health and well-being in a way that rivals Stanford which is saying something. Stanford used to go days at a time without eating if he wasn’t reminded because he’d get too focused on his work. If he got hurt, he’d do the same thing as Stan, patching himself up and calling it good.

The similarities are as painful as they are obvious between the brothers.

Instead of calming down he just gives him a sad and disappointed look while sitting back down in the chair near the bed with a huff. “I don’t even want to know how you got shot in the arm, Stanley. And for the record, digging a bullet out of your arm isn't something to be proud of either. I don't want to hear about any of your other past injuries, the problem with your foot is stressing me out enough as it is.”

A worse thought occurs to him.

“Stan. Are there any other bad injuries that Bill did that you might need to have looked at while we’re here anyway?” He uses his dad's voice, which isn’t very well practiced, to try and convince Stan to talk.

Before heading to the clinic, he’d made sure to rinse out his eye which was still a little blurry. But Ford has glasses and he doesn’t want to screw up his prescription in his medical records. Besides, eye problems seem to be a side effect of being possessed according to the journal.

But yes, there is still one thing that technically might be a good idea to have checked.

After pulling the needle out of his skull he did his absolute best not to think about it. Tried to forget the whole thing happened and sweep it under the rug.

But even over a month later he still gets a little dizzy turning his head in either direction too fast. He’s just learned how to compensate for it. Maybe, just like his foot, something is more seriously wrong than he wants to admit.

And they are already here, what’s one more test?

“Stanley Pines if there’s something else you’re hiding that might kill you or severely impact your quality of life and you don’t tell me I swear I’ll leave you here and make you walk home.”

It's an empty threat, and he knows it, but it works anyway.

“Okay, fine. Just one small thing. Nothing major. But, well.” He looks away, not wanting to see Fids' reaction. “The first night Bill borrowed my body I’m pretty sure he gave me one hell of a concussion. The worst one I’ve ever had, which is saying something. And.” He feels like he’s admitting to robbing a bank just telling Fids, how would he ever admit this to a doctor? “He, stabbed something. A sewing needle, into my skull. Right here.” He brings up a hand to point at the spot on his head near the back but still doesn’t look up.

Later while Stan is in surgery, he’ll need to go check his head because he’s pretty sure he could feel a hair turn grey just listening to him spit it out.

He’s angry but not at Stan. Bill is the one that hurt him, even if Stan permitted it, and he wants to strangle the stupid demon. He takes in a deep breath and then lets it out, keeping himself calm so he doesn’t scare Stan into clamming up.

“Are there any lasting side effects still affecting you? Neurological ones? Seizers, excessive dizziness, double vision, blurry vision, migraines, or bad headaches?”

He thinks about it, wanting to give an honest answer but needing to sort out what’s because of Bill and because of the injury. He has headaches almost all the time, but he’s pretty sure that’s because of being possessed regularly, like the bleeding eye.

“Headaches, almost constant, but I’m not sure if that’s because of Bill or the injury. And, not excessive dizziness. Just when I turn my head too fast. Makes my vision get a little hazy before everything snaps back into focus.”

Fiddleford has to stand up again, pacing back and forth at the end of the bed again. For the first time since meeting Stan, he can understand his angle on Bill. Why he’s so determined to kill the stupid triangle. Because he’s awful, just awful, and if they can stop him from ever doing anything like this to someone again? Why wouldn’t they?

“Stay here, I’m going to go talk to your doctor about getting you an MRI for your concussion. For now, we’ll not mention the needle so we don’t overcomplicate things.” He goes over to the bed and leans over to look at the spot Stan pointed out. “It's healed over nicely, so they probably won’t be able to tell unless it did some serious internal damage. Stay here.” He’s almost shaking out of anger but directs it into a very determined walk out of the room. He’s not above yelling at somebody right now if it’ll get Stan’s brain looked at.

Fids got that same look in his eye that Ford used to get when forcing Stan to do his homework after school. So, he knows better than to try and brush it off, say it's nothing, because Fids isn’t going to listen to him right now. He thinks it's something and that worries him because maybe Fiddleford isn’t a doctor, but he’s still a genius. “Not like I can go run!” He calls after before the door closes but falls quiet after that, left to wait nervously for whatever comes next.

Fids either knows some people, can be really scary when he wants, or Stan’s symptoms are concerning enough to warrant a scan. Because he gets one after a brief conversation with the Doctor who runs him through a series of eye tests before scheduling him for the test.

It takes until late into the afternoon before he’s brought back. He’s gonna be pissed if his belly button piercing somehow closes up during the time it takes to run the test. It takes forever, almost an hour, of just sitting still in the annoying humming test listening to some boring classical music the techs put on for him.

It seemed like the kinda thing Ford would do, if they marked music taste in your medical record.

When it was over he just got sent back to his room without finding out the results, leaving him and Fiddleford to wait some more in his room. And just when he’s pretty sure he’s going to go in for his dumb foot surgery first, the Doctor comes back. With another doctor.

Uh oh. That’s never good.

Usually in movies that means someone’s dying, right? A consult is always for something really bad.

When they explain to him that he has a very small brain aneurysm that they’ll need to go in and remove he starts taking this whole visit a lot more seriously.

Sure, he jokes about dying and faces off against it every day with Bill. But he’s got stuff to do. Ford to save. He can’t die yet. It's far too soon.

He doesn’t even read the paperwork they have him sign for the stupid surgery. And to his great surprise, Fiddleford doesn’t even appear to be gloating. He just looks relieved.

His foot surgery gets put off, because brain surgery is a little more important. They only wait around another hour (with him under strict instructions not to move his head much) before some nurses come in to bring him to pre-op and he has to wave goodbye to Fids.

The poor guy really shouldn’t have to be dealing with all this. He’s got a family at home who doesn’t need him sleeping in a hospital for several days looking after a poor schmuck. Fiddleford is a really good guy and he’s going to have to find a way to make this up to him too. As if making up for killing Bill wasn’t difficult enough.

*

The next four days are a blur, much like when he first hurt his head, except this time it's because of the two surgeries he’s had to fix the damage Bill did.

Both of them went well, from what the doctors and Fids tell him, but now his foot is in a hard cast, his head is wrapped up in bandages with a nice bald spot, and he’s going to have to use crutches to get around for months.

At least he’s not in danger of just dropping dead randomly anymore. Although he’s been put on about five different medications that need to be taken with meals, including blood thinners. Like it or not, Bill is going to have to stop. Otherwise, he could bleed out the next time he gets so much as a nosebleed.

While he was unconscious Fiddleford had made a trip home, taking to calling him to check in on the phone even if he’s not big on conversation. He’s not big on much of anything right now.

They say it's normal to be out of it for a week or two which means no driving, no high-level thinking, and it’s kind of a relief to get away from Bill and the nightmares while here. It makes staying in the hospital seem like a vacation.

Still, sitting in a bed does get boring. Eventually, he has a nurse help him pull out one of the rejected journals to slowly work on writing down some more childhood memories. It gives him something productive to do without being too hard. He knows all their childhood adventures like the back of his hand and remembering them, thus being in a good mood, might even speed up his recovery.

He can’t be mad about delaying the portal by a week or two because who’s to say he’d have lived to see it be completed if he hadn’t come here? If Fids hadn’t bullied him into getting his brain looked at.

Who knows, maybe his head was damaged long ago. He’s had close to a dozen concussions, any one of them could have caused this.

Except the dizziness when he turns his head stopped almost as soon as he woke up, implying he’s wrong. His head still hurts, but they say that’s normal too and it could last for a few weeks with the fogginess.

Bill went and took a moron and made him even more useless by pushing his body too far. He tries not to think about it. Or the bill this has had to racked up. Or how mad Bill might be after radio silence for the expected week and a half he’ll be here.

Focusing on the memories of Glass Shard Beach is more fun, reliving memories with Ford. These are what he wants to remember. After his mind is gone, the new Stanley needs to know how important Ford is, so he pours it into every story and fills page after page with it.

Maybe if he paints a nice enough picture his next life won’t be so ugly. Maybe.

Chapter 20: Coup

For a moment, Ford is back out in the nightmare realm. Where stars are visible in every direction and the air is limited making every breath take huge amounts of effort. But something shoves him after only a few seconds, pushing him through towards what looks like open space right up until the moment he reaches it.

He falls, hard, through the cut in time and space and lands on his side on a dirt floor. He can breathe again, taking in big breaths and just laying still for a minute before finally looking up and around at his surroundings. He looks up just in time to watch the portal in the basement flicker again and then shut off, leaving the basement in total darkness.

He’s back. Not home, but in another version of it. One where the horror is happening now, without time to prepare or delay.

Forcing himself up to his feet is hard, his body still shaking from the shocks Bill put him through. Even if this isn’t his body. But he needs to move. He was sent here because something bad is about to happen, a lot faster than the other dimensions he’s been in. Something to do with Stanley.

Being familiar with the basement makes it easier to stumble his way to the elevator, taking it straight up to the main level of the shack. Taking the stairs in this state would take too long. Whatever Bills going to do, he needs to stop it. “Stanley?” He calls out, stumbling through the first level of the house in search of him.

The living room is empty, but his stained hoody is draped over the back of one seat. The kitchen is cold, but the coffee maker is still warm like it was used recently. The bathroom light is on, some beard shavings in the sink, and a couple of small drops of blood like he cut himself.

His car is outside so he has to be here somewhere. “Stanley? I’m back! It’s Ford!” He calls up the stairs, having to take them one at a time so he doesn’t end up passing out. If this Ford was previously in the nightmare realm he probably went through a similar round of torture.

Why is Bill so focused on him specifically if he has other Fords to mess with?

Why not just look for a dimension where he’s stupid enough to finish the portal? Or a dimension where he’s intentionally evil and would join Bill? Maybe in those dimensions he never ends up in Gravity Falls to begin with. Or never found the cipher to summon Bill.

Maybe those Fords are too evil for Bill's liking. Too smart. He likes having control and being the worst person in the room.

“Stanley? Are you up here? Please, answer me?” He goes room to room checking the bathroom, closets, and his bedroom, before finally stumbling into the guest bedroom.

Maybe he is a bad person, but he’s not fully evil. Because if he was this would stop hurting. Seeing Stan dead would eventually lose its sting and he’d get used to it. But every damn time it happens his heart breaks over again and it feels like his breath has been torn out of him.

He needs to move.

This time instead of a fatal gunshot wound to the head or slashed wrists he’s greeted by Stan hanging from a noose, with a chair kicked back from where he’d climbed up to secure the rope in the middle of the room from the rafters, away from any furniture in case he changed his mind.

Maybe it's not too late.

He grabs the chair and puts it back under Stan’s feet and checks his arm. It's still warm. Which means this just happened, maybe he’s only been like this for a minute or two. Maybe.

Move.

He yanks over the spare bed, ignoring the complaints of the wood scraping against the floor, so he can climb up next to Stan and untie the rope. He has to hook one arm around Stan’s chest to keep him from pulling on it further while his other hand fumbles the rope, missing and failing to untie it for what feels like minutes but is probably only thirty seconds.

Too long.

They both end up tumbling down to the floor when Ford tries to catch all of Stan’s dead weight. He ignores the hard whack to the back of his head and gets up on his knees, rolling Stan onto his back. He’s still got color, his eyes half open with a dead look in them. He’s never seen Stan’s eyes so empty. He’s always angry, or sad, or putting on a big old fake smile that’s so convincing it lights up his brown eyes. His chest aches.

For being such a genius, it seems ridiculous that he doesn’t know how to do something as simple as CPR. It's one of the absolute most basic first aid tricks in the book but he’s only ever seen it done in movies and maybe once during college when he walked past a nursing classroom on his way to a lecture.

At least he knows where the heart is, so he puts his hands over that section of the chest in the same way they do on TV and starts pushing. Wasn’t there a song you’re supposed to time the beats to? It takes him ten seconds, six presses, to remember that stupid Bee Gee song.

His presses get more consistent having a rhythm to follow and after every eight measures and two dozen chords, he stops to try and make Stan breathe, giving him air and plugging his nose. The only hitch for a good minute is when he spares two seconds to close Stan’s eyes. It makes it a little easier to keep calm. “Come on Stanley. Don’t do this. Don’t let him win. Fight god damn it. It's what you're good at. You need to come back, please.”

Crying isn’t something he can spare right now because it’ll make him lose focus and screw up the system he’s established. He doesn’t even know if he’s doing this right. Maybe he’s not pressing hard enough? Maybe Stan was up there too long? How long after death does a body stay warm? Other Ford going to medical school was probably the best thing he ever did and if he survives this maybe he’ll have to give it a go himself.

Or at least take some basic fucking first aid.

He stops and pulls his hands away to lean down and press his head to Stanley’s chest to check for a heartbeat. Nothing. Stan’s chest is silent still and he wants to throw something.

How long has it been since he actually started? How long can the brain go without oxygen and the heart lay dead before it's too late? This whole thing feels pointless, but he’s not giving up. He can’t, because then Bill wins.

There is some sort of sick lesson he’s supposed to be learning and he refuses. Stan’s not going to die, not this time.

How normal of a life can someone live after being dead? That’s gotta come with some sort of brain damage, doesn’t it? Doesn't matter.

Both hands are back on Stan’s chest again, pressing harder and not caring when it hurts hitting his ribs. “Wake up! I’m here and I’m not letting you get out of all our arguments this easily! We’ve got shit to talk about, you can’t just die!” He’s pretty sure he just heard a rib crack in the otherwise silent room but he doesn’t care. If Stan is dead, it won’t matter anyway.

He pushes more air into Stan’s mouth, trying it more often than every eight measures. He tries every four, getting winded from the effort. It makes him sweat and is that blood running down the back of his head? Maybe he hit his head harder on the floor than he thought taking the brunt of Stan’s weight when they went down.

This is worse than Bill forcing him to take Stan apart with a knife. Because this should be easy, getting Stan to breathe and restarting his heart shouldn’t be so damn difficult. People do it all the time on TV and CPR is so widely used for a goddamn reason. It just isn’t working here. He must have been too late, not pushed hard enough when he started. To afraid of making things worse. As if things could get much worse than dead.

“Please, just wake up.” His voice is high pitched, small, and his breath shaky as he presses both hands down again, more air, and then again. “I need you to wake up Lee, just fucking wake up!” He presses down, one more time, and then checks for a pulse again at Stan’s wrist this time.

Is that just his own mind playing tricks or is that really a pulse?

He almost throws his head down against Stan’s chest, smearing blood across his clothes, to check for himself. He's right there when Stan takes in his first big breath and the relief it brings him couldn't possibly compare to anything else.

It's not nearly as dramatic on TV. One second, he’s not breathing and the next he’s taking in a full deep breath that can be heard coming through both lungs, not a loud gasp compared to sitcoms, but in the silent room it is music to his ears. Then another one follows it and his heartbeat gets a little louder under the skin. Stan is breathing, his heart is beating, and he’s alive.

Not awake, maybe he’ll never wake up, but his body is alive. That’s halfway there.

He shifts, pulling Stan over onto his lap with both arms around him. Finally, he lets himself sob, crying over Stan’s body with a mix of relief and joy. Take that Bill. They’re both covered in blood because head wounds bleed a lot but it doesn’t matter. “It’s gonna be okay. You're okay, I’m not going to let him hurt you. You fucking did it. I'm back, Ford's back, and you're gonna see him again.”

He should really go check if the phones are working, even if they probably won’t be, so he can call an ambulance for Stanley. What if hanging himself broke his neck? Shit. What if he’s paralyzed himself or is now after being moved around a lot? He fumbles around in his pockets, pulls out a pen, and stabs it into Stan’s hand. It doesn’t wake him up, but it does cause his hand to twitch and jerk away.

Not paralyzed then. Thank God.

After what feels like forever, he finally removes himself from Stanley, getting up and grabbing a towel to apply to his head while standing on unsteady feet. On top of the effects of being shocked, he’s got a head wound to deal with now too.

Leaving Stanley’s side is the last thing he wants to do, afraid he’ll come back and his heart will have died again, but he needs medical attention. Something he’s not capable of giving beyond what he’s already done. He leaves the door open as a compromise and stumbles his way downstairs to the kitchen phone.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

He’s shocked and skeptical that the call went through. Usually, Bill probably takes the time to cut the phone lines. But since he came straight through the portal, there wasn't time.

“My brother, Stanley, he’s been staying with me? I was just down in the basement, working on some projects. And when I came back upstairs, he’d attempted to hang himself in his room.”

“Okay sir, where are you? Does your brother have a history of suicidal attempts?”

These seem like stupid questions when he needs an ambulance.

“I live at 618 Gopher Road, Gravity Falls, Oregon. And no, not that I’m aware of. I mean, he’s not the happiest person. But I don’t think so.” For all he knows, maybe that’s wrong. Maybe Stan has tried to kill himself before but just didn’t succeed.

“Okay, and have you checked for a pulse yet?”

These people are idiots.

“I cut him down myself and performed CPR. He was still warm when I found him, so I tried. I managed to get him breathing and his heart beating again. I think I might have broken or cracked a rib or two.” His voice and hands are both shaking and he has to pull over a chair to sit down otherwise he might faint. The towel over his head is slowly getting soaked through so he applies more pressure to try and stop the bleeding.

“Okay, that’s good, and are there any other injuries on his person? Are you injured, sir?”

“When I was getting him down, we both fell off the chair. I hit my head and it’s bleeding a lot. But we can deal with that later. Stanley needs help. He’s responding to pen pricks on his hands, so I don’t think he damaged his neck. But I’m not a doctor.” A nervous laugh leaves him and he can hear the sound of fast typing over the phone.

“Sir, the ambulance is about ten minutes out from you. But I’d like to keep you on the phone until they arrive. Are you with Stan now? Or is the phone downstairs?”

“It’s a landline in the kitchen. I can’t bring it upstairs to stay with you and him. If it's all the same with you I think making sure he keeps breathing is a little more important.”

“Head wounds are nothing to scoff at sir. I’m going to need you to find a cloth or something and tie it around your head as tight as you can. That should help the worst of the bleeding until the EMTs arrive and can examine you. It’s no good to anyone if you bleed out, do you understand? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. Sorry. Hang on, I think I have a first aid kit in the downstairs bathroom. I’ll be right back. I’ll leave the line open, just give me a minute.”

He gets about three steps away from the phone before his own body stops.

Oh no.

He tries to fight it, and keep control over his own body, but the cold feeling seeps in, and little by little he loses the ability to move. He can't even direct his eyesight after a few seconds. He's just watching, trapped while Bill moves him like a puppet, again.

“Did you really think it would be that easy Fordsey? That I’d let you save him? I’ve gotta admit, you did a better job than I expected. But I can’t let you do this. Wouldn’t be much of a learning experience if I did.”

Bill moves his body, walking back into the kitchen and rummaging around in the drawer, pulling an old hunting knife out of the junk drawer. He’d found it out in the woods during one of his first few trips out into the forest and all attempts to find its owner had failed. So, he’d kept it, cleaned it up, and shoved it in that drawer to be forgotten about. Until now.

Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this. Please, Bill. This Stan didn’t do anything, it doesn’t have to go like this.

“Sorry, but you’ve still got a lesson to learn. This isn’t a fate you have control over IQ.”

He’s helpless to watch as Bill removes the knife from its cover and slowly makes his way back through the house. It leaves a trail of his blood on the floor because he’s still bleeding and Bill can't be bothered to apply pressure to the wound. Even Bill seems to be having trouble keeping this body moving up the stairs and has to stop at the top for a moment.

“Now, I’ll give you one chance. I’m not going to make this quick and painless. But if you do it yourself? Well. I assume you could slit his throat, stab his heart. Do something that would be, kinder, as you’d put it. What do you say?”

He swallows, looking down at the knife as Bill allows him the free movement of his vision. If Stan’s going to die anyway, at least it wouldn’t be torture. There's still the reality of people driving here, right now, who will find this Ford with a very dead Stan, contradicting what he said on the phone.

But Stan won’t suffer.

Maybe this Ford will go to jail, but Stan won't feel much. He'll make it quick.

“Fine. Give me the reigns. I’ll do it. But not for you.” He grits his teeth, feeling the control slowly come back limb by limb. He can feel the heavy weight of the knife and knows it's sharp. The last touch was making it razor sharp, restoring it to its former glory, before forgetting about it.

One stab to the chest, if he aims right, should be quick.

Maybe Stan won’t even wake up.

Maybe he’ll never know he failed to kill himself.

Maybe.

Before he can lose his nerve or Bill can stop him, he throws the knife all the way down the hallway, far out of reach and closer to the bedroom. Then he throws himself down the stairs full force, trying to make it as painful as possible.

Bill can’t possess someone when they’re awake, not without their permission. Which means to save Stan, he’s just gotta wake this Ford up. It hurts, causing bruises across his back, making one arm contort at an angle it's not supposed to, and making his head injury much worse. But his vision fades, going black, and that’s good. Ford’s waking up, and Stan’s going to be okay.

He wakes up to another round of electricity running through him, burning worse than it did last time, and it feels like there is a knife pierced through one of his lungs, making breathing difficult. Not that he can breathe while being shocked with more volts than an electric chair anyway.

Above the pain, which is immeasurable, he still feels relief. It worked. He wasn’t actually sure if it would, but it worked. Knocking himself out did the trick and swapped them back.

Sure, maybe Bill let him win, but he doesn’t even care. That Stan’s going to live, and maybe that Ford will too. He stopped Bill and found a way to fight back.

Stan would be proud, he’s sure of it.

“Oh, Fordsey. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

Notes:

I deeply apologize to anyone reading this who knows CPR. I don't and just threw some stuff at the wall for the drama. But I think I was vague enough that it wasn't too hard to read.

Chapter 21: Double or Nothing

It's interesting that Bill either couldn’t visit him in the hospital, stuck in Gravity Falls, or didn’t bother during his entire stay.

It ended up being closer to two whole weeks with him being discharged on March fifteenth. And despite Fid's complaints about him taking a bus back to town, he had to insist on it.

Bill’s going to look at the memories of his hospital stay and it was difficult enough to hide the number of times Fids called, the drive up there, and the time he spent working on his memory journal.

It took a lot of trial and error to figure out how to create a fake memory in place of the real ones, but apparently, there is a lot you can do in the mindscape when you're determined.

He took a cab to the bus station, using his new crutches to get around, and then had to sit through four hours listening to other people talking. It made him wish he’d brought a book when he’d originally packed his overnight bag. It just hadn’t occurred to him that he’d end up in Portland, much less stuck on a bus for so long.

The bus station wasn’t that far from where Ford’s car was still parked at the in-town clinic, only a couple blocks, so he carefully made his way there. One stop at the local pharmacy for his prescriptions later and he was finally back at the shack after what felt like forever.

Nothing had changed in his time away, besides stuff getting dusty, which means he will probably need to clean the place, again. That’s easily the most annoying thing about staying in one place. Everything gets dirty and has to be cleaned constantly.

But he’s getting a handle on his crutches, able to move around faster than the first time he used them, so doing some basic straightening up isn’t too hard. Cleaning out the fridge, dusting a little, and finally moving his stuff out of the living room.

After getting to sleep in a bed for two weeks it seems a fitting time to move himself into the guest room upstairs. He wishes he’d done it before he lost the ability to carry much at a time, but whatever. It's good practice with the crutches.

He doesn’t have that much stuff to bring upstairs and using a bag that can be thrown over his shoulder makes it easier. Clothes get put away in the empty closet first because that’s easy, and then he makes almost half a dozen trips to bring up other stuff. The journals, the picture frame, and photo albums. He even goes out to his car and slowly brings his actual belongings inside.

Usually, he’s not anywhere long enough to unpack anything of importance, the few things that are. But he’s going to live out the rest of his life here. Maybe, if Ford’s not too mad, he’ll even get to stay. Most of it still gets shoved in drawers, hidden in the bedside table, or up in the top of the closet. But sitting on the bed, resting, when it's finished, it feels nice. More like home.

The shack is home, even with all the torture Bill has put him through here. Most of that took place outside in the yard, forest, and town anyway.

Not that there is any evidence. With the snow melted and replaced by rain, it not being nearly cold enough out anymore, the yard is unrecognizable. The blood long washed away anew.

After a long rest in what he’ll consider his room from now on he goes back downstairs to the kitchen. Setting up his room and getting rid of spoiled food in the fridge isn’t the only thing he needs to deal with.

Bills are due and he digs out Ford’s checkbook while he goes through the mail, writing bills out while using the notebook to keep track of how much Ford still has in his bank account last he checked.

That’s a new problem. Maybe he’s good, health-wise, for now. But it certainly put more of a squeeze on finances than things were otherwise. Ford's not broke, but he’s spent a lot more in the last two weeks than Ford probably would in a year even with his good health insurance.

On top of recovering and fixing the portal now he’s gotta come up with a way to make up that cash without getting arrested under his brother’s name.

He could get a job in town somewhere, but that would take valuable time away from working on the portal. His injuries have put enough of a delay on getting Ford back.

That leaves crime of some sort, somewhere out of town. Maybe he could hit up some old contacts in California and make a weekend of it, take a trip to the border? That always pays well.

That problem is next on the list, right after summoning Bill and making sure he knows the new rules. Only mental torture from now on. Otherwise, that portal won’t get done and he’ll end up dead.

He puts all the checks in envelopes, sticking stamps on them, but leaves them on the counter with the notebook and mail. Another trip into town would be too much when he’s already exhausted from going up and down the stairs a million times.

The summoning circle is still on the living room floor and it only takes a few minutes to set up the candles and get the book open to the incantation. He could also just try sleeping, but he needs to talk with Bill rather than just being thrown into a nightmare. This will be a lot faster than just waiting for him to show up.

He gets the incantation right first try this time and after a thirty-second delay from his spot on the couch, Bill finally appears in the living room in the same dull greyscale color that happened last time.

For a split second after appearing, Bill looks angry, glowing bright red and glaring at him with his one eye. But the moment passed too fast and when he blinks it's gone and Bill is back to being his yellow and suspiciously cheery self.

“Welcome back, Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you myself. I’m a busy guy, taking care of a few things. Glad to see you didn’t die. I take it you had Dr. Smith remove that little blood clot? You're lucky Dr. James wasn’t on call. Yikes!”  

He hasn’t even had a chance to say anything about where he was so he assumes this comes from inside his mind, being plucked from memories in seconds so Bill can control the conversation. “If you know that then you already know you can’t go putting my body through any more physical torture. At least not until after I’m off blood thinners in a week or two. I’m not taking it off the table, I don’t want to go back on our deal, but just for now.”

Bill sits in the armchair over at the other end of the couch, crossing his legs, “Listen, I’m pretty sure I’ve already done all the physical torture I can without killing you. There will be plenty of time to kill other people in much more interesting ways after the portal is finished. I’m not going to get too hung up on it. I knew what might happen when reusing the train bit after hurting your foot. I’m plenty happy to stick to nightmares.”

Stan huffs and shook his head. He still doesn’t get why the sudden change of heart. Just a couple of weeks ago this guy couldn’t wait to drop him off the top of the water tower.

“By the way, during your time away, have you had a chance to think over my little offer? You know I don’t offer immortality and one’s heart's desires to just anyone.”

“I was a little busy spending most of it being unconscious, thank you very much. And I’ve got bigger problems right now. Like how to keep the lights on for your interdimensional gateway while also paying the medical bills you caused? If anything, you owe me some serious cash before I even think about joining you.” He points a finger at him, letting annoyance drip into his voice. Bill wants to get on his good side? Money could do that, so he lays the trap.

His words are met with silence for a while with Bill just looking at him, probably rifling through his memories, but he doesn’t back down. He holds the gaze, waiting for him to speak.

“You realize that’s not going to matter in a few months, right?”

A long silence follows with Stanley just looking at him, as if waiting for him to continue, outright ignoring the question.

“Alright, fine. You drive a hard bargain You want money? I can do that, no problem. But it’s going to involve another deal. I don’t give anything away for free. You join me after I come through the portal, and I’ll give you the address, time, and numbers that’ll result in a pretty sizable lottery jackpot. How’s that sound?”

Once again, Bill presents him with something that sounds too good to be true. Yeah, he’d be giving up his soul for it, but it's not like he has much of one anyway. He’ll think about it all later when he’s not currently under a microscope.

“Let’s talk details then. After you come through the portal am I more like a henchman, jester, or a partner? I’m not interested in being made immortal just to make you laugh for eternity. I want in, really in, and not just to be one of your pawns. Like now.”

Was that Bill's eye twitching at the edge?

“My, you’ve thought this through, haven’t you? Alright. You’ll be part of our crew, whose names and introductions can be gone through later. Equal share, as promised. But I’ve got my little caveat in exchange. We’ll be bringing Fordsey along for the ride. Maybe stick him in the brig. Think you can handle that kinda thing?”

He lets out a laugh, a full genuine sounding laugh, “Bill, my brother is a good-for-nothing narcissist who never cared about anyone but himself. If it was up to me? I’d take a turn torturing him myself. That’s not going to be a problem at all.” He stands up and extends a hand over across the space between them. “You’ve got yourself another deal.”

Bill looks almost giddy floating up off the chair and meeting his hand with his own to envelope in blue flames, “Pleasure working with you Stanley Pines.”

There's a few seconds delay between shaking hands and waking up back on the couch. But the low pressure in his head indicated Bill was borrowing him for a moment. He lets him (like he has a choice), watching as he finds a notepad, and writes down an address, a time and date, a name, and lastly, the five numbers to put on the ticket.

It's for a gas station just outside Seattle Washington three days from now at three in the afternoon. The name has to belong to one of the workers there, the one he’s supposed to get the ticket from, Gloria. And lastly, the winning numbers are 8, 16, 34, 27, and 55 according to Bill’s note.

“There, you're all set. As long as you make sure you’re at the counter at the right time you’ll be golden. The ticket has to be printed at three o’clock though. Give yourself plenty of time to get there early. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back. We’ll pick back up next week. Give you time to rest a bit. Plus, by then you'll know I’m not pulling your leg after the drawing on Saturday. Good luck.”

The pressure he’s familiar with when Bill’s inside his head fades leaving him with the notepad of instructions. He waits a while, leaving the paper on the coffee table, and cleaning up the candles, before letting himself think over what he just did.

Now not only has he made one deal with Bill, but a second on top of it. The hole he keeps digging is only getting deeper. He’s seriously counting on Fids not to drop the ball on the memory gun otherwise they’re all toast.

The last thing he wants is to be stuck on a ship pretending to be Bill's friend for eternity while Ford rots down below. That’s some twisted and sick version of their dream ruined and stained if he’s ever seen it.

Part of him thinks it could be fun, just a little, but that’s actual Stockholm Syndrome talking. He’s still standing on morals. Bill is terrible, awful. And Ford’s his brother who’s he’s going to get back.

This money, if it's real, will just make setting up his new memory-void life easier. Clearing away debts, maybe all of them if it’s a lot of money. Bill didn’t specify how much. Lottery winnings are usually a lot, right?

He’d find out Thursday when he made the drive to buy the ticket.

Chapter 22: Sunny Sky's

Notes:

First and foremost. I'm aware that technically Washington State didn't hold its first lottery drawing until November of 1982. However, for the sake of the story, I'm changing history a little. Because I can for my plot purposes. This fanfic is making me learn all kinds of random knowledge. Like that Oregon didn't hold its first lottery drawing until 1985. Enjoy this extra-long chapter!

It's nice to be home back at the shack because no one is around to make him stay in bed for long periods of time. Sure, he still spends most of the first day and a half upstairs in his room, but Fiddleford isn’t around to insist he not drive his car. Dropping bills in the mailbox, picking up directions printed at the library for the gas station in Seattle, and going grocery shopping are things he manages to do himself. Not easily, but still.

He mixes in work with relaxing, lying in bed working on filling out more of the memory journal. It's almost half-filled now. None of them are exactly in order, his memory isn’t that good, but he keeps thinking on it. Remembering different days at the beach, days as teens working on the Stan O’ War, and everything else.

Talking with Ford late at night when they’re both supposed to be asleep, working on homework back when Ford could bother with helping him understand, and every inside joke he can remember. Scores they still haven’t settled, like who still owes who a piece of gum from eighth grade when they both took turns swiping packs from the local gas station.

Or he stole them while Ford coughed up the money from somewhere.

He tells the story, or bet, that got them his beloved car. They both worked their assess off seeing who could earn more money as soon as they were old enough to have jobs, just so they’d be able to get something after they got their licenses.

He knows it's not going to be easy dancing around the last ten years. New Stan is going to want answers about what he’s been doing in that time. And there isn’t much he can do to ease the pain of his and Ford’s fight.

Everything he’s doing, all he’s sacrificing, has to be enough for Ford to forgive him. And if it isn’t? Then Ford is an asshole who doesn’t deserve such a good brother. For now, he’s working under the assumption Ford will forgive and creating a backup plan in case he doesn’t.

During his time in the hospital, Fiddleford had mentioned the idea of loaning him some spare tapes and his camera so that they could make some videos for himself and Ford.

It’s a great idea, brilliant, so he’d agreed. Which was why Saturday morning, after resting a lot the day before, Fids is supposed to come over.

Bills not around, the sun is shining outside, and it’s the perfect day to work on the car. Nothing wrong with it, but new Stan’s going to get a two-hour crash course on everything. Changing breaks, using jacks, replacing spark plugs, and everything else he can think of once the cameras on and rolling.

Hopefully, he’ll be able to convince Fids to leave the camera and blank tapes behind so he can leave some more personal messages for them and his future self.

He doesn’t know what their reunion is going to look like and he needs to be prepared in case they don’t get a chance at a real goodbye. Ford deserves to know the whole truth, everything he did to get him back. Maybe he’ll remember eventually, but leaving a tape with some answers will make it more likely new stan isn’t thrown out as soon as Bill is gone.

Now he’s just waiting for Fids to show up, sitting out on the porch with his crutches propped up nearby and a can of soda in hand. The sun is shining, the grass is starting to get a little green like springs going to come early this year, and he’s mostly at peace with everything.

So what if he’s gonna die, that doesn’t matter. He’s done worse for much less.

If it takes losing his memory to get Ford back in his life and a shit ton of money? That’s not a terrible deal in the long run. Not when he’s ready for it.

When Fid's car pulls up, he parks over behind Ford’s car off to the side, Stan’s car is driven up closer to the house so there’s more room to move the camera around for wide shots. He cleaned out all the garbage and has all his tools laid out in the trunk already. They’ll clean her too, show new Stan how to take care of the leather seats, and shampoo the carpet.

He’s got a real genuine smile watching Fiddleford get out of his car. It's nice to not have to fake it for the first time in a while.

Fiddleford had been endlessly worrying ever since Stan didn’t call after getting home. He said he would, because he promised, which left him thinking the absolute worst. What if he missed his bus? What if he passed out or ended up in a hospital somewhere from a seizer or something? Maybe as soon as he got home Bill killed him for disappearing for two weeks.

Stan’s safety, and the secrecy of their plan, was the only thing keeping him from driving over to the shack. He was at least able to make a drive past the clinic in town to confirm Ford’s car had moved, so Stan made it home at least.

When he got a call from him a day late, he’d been mad, but also relieved at the idea of being invited over to the shack on Saturday. And Stan sounded excited at the idea, even if it was to do something as morbid as recording stuff for his future mind-erased self. Bill was being nice, for some reason, and leaving Stan alone until the following Monday before resuming work on the portal.

Personally, he thought Stan needed more time than that before getting back to such physically taxing work, but Stan insisted he’d be good. That he’d be careful to not let Bill push his body too far, even if it slowed things down more.

Stan seems to have accepted that his actions have consequences and he needs to take care of himself. It's good, makes him worry a little less.

And seeing him now, sitting on the edge of the porch waving and grinning at him, puts a smile on his face. Stan’s smile is contagious that way, making those around him happy like his own joy is infectious.

“Hey, long time no see! Did you get the camera and the blank tapes? I’d help you carry them, but I’m not very good at walking with one crutch yet.” Stan calls across the yard, watching as he grabs the bag with the goods from the backseat. He slams the door and walks over, glancing at the open trunk full of tools and then over at Stanley.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here. Brought a spare battery too, in case it dies. I take it from the new position of the car that we’re recording something to do with that?” He asks, setting the bag down carefully on the closed hood of the car.

“You got that right. You’re going to be my cameraman while I give the new me a crash course on car maintenance. I’ve been meaning to give her a full checkup for a while and she could use a good detailing too. Long overdue. But first, here.” He reaches back and grabs a pit cola from behind himself on the porch and offers it to Fids, waiting tell he's sure it's seen before tossing it gently the short distance between them.

He catches it, barely, and looks at Stan with a raised eyebrow. From a distance, Stan looked happy, but up close. He looks absolutely joyful and relaxed. Like he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to be doing. “Alright, I can do that, Are you taking a break from getting the car set up, or?” He ends up leaning on the hood, facing Stan, while he opens the soda.

“Nope, just enjoying the day. Couldn’t have asked for better weather. I just hope we don’t get rained out in the middle of filming. It’s supposed to be sunny all afternoon until sunset though so we should be good. Been a long time since I got to show off my car to someone new. You, and other me. I’m just happy.” He shrugs, looking around the clearing surrounding the house.

He already did a full sweep for anything that might look like Bill, but he’s still a little paranoid. Hard not to be when so much was on the line.

After that first night they met, the day before Stan went to Portland, he liked to think he had a good grasp on when Stan is lying or not. And right now, he seems to be completely honest. It makes him relax, smiling back, “If you need to take a break at any point just let me know and I can pause the tape. There will be a small cut of static, but you shouldn’t overdo it. Especially not before next week.”

Stan tips back the soda, finishing it, and sets it aside back behind him on the porch so he can pick up the notebook with all his notes on the car and the memory journal underneath it. “Don’t worry, working on a car isn’t that much physical work unless you’ve gotta change a tire. But I’ll only do one of those. The rest is just standing around pointing, talking, and explaining. And trust me, if there’s anything I can give a college lecture on, it's my car. Can you set up the camera? Let me sit on the hood and face it towards me. I’ll go over some basic history first before we start taking her apart. Give you time to finish your drink.”

He carefully hops down the short distance onto his good foot and grabs the crutches to shuffle over to switch spots. Him sitting on the hood with both books, crutches off to the side, and Fiddleford sitting on the porch behind the camera on its stand with his drink.

Stanley doesn’t even look nervous, or worried, sitting on the car gathering his notes and thoughts as he does one last flip through the notebook and the journal. Fids just smiles, waiting for the thumbs up from Stan before opening the side view and hitting record to start the tape.

It's amazing, watching Stan talk. He starts at the beginning with the bet to see who could earn more money towards a shared vehicle between the twins, talking about how their parents chipped in the rest of the way so they could afford her over some ‘junk clunker’ as Stan phrased it.

He rambles endlessly about things the two did with her. One weekend they snuck off to New York for a concert Stan got them tickets for. Another time they took her drag racing. The stories go on with Stan talking for almost twenty minutes before they’ve even gotten to the details of caring for the car.

By then he’s finished his drink, putting it with Stan’s empty can, and hops down to remove the camera from its stand to follow Stan.

They start at the back of the car in the trunk with Stan going over every tool one by one nice and slow and explaining their use or uses. Even sharing stories of times he’s needed them or how he got a particular tool to add a little more meat to what he’s talking about. He pulls out the different fluids too, explaining the different types for different models but making sure it's clear which kinds his car uses.

Engine oil, engine coolant, transmission fluid, brake fluid, power steering fluid, hydraulic clutch fluid, differential fluid, and window washer fluids. New Stan isn’t the only person learning new things. Fiddleford didn’t know there were so many different fluids in just a car. Going over the tools, their uses, fluids, different types of fluids, and when what is appropriate takes almost an hour on its own.

They take a break then, Fids tossing the cans and getting them each new ones and sandwiches to share on the porch out in the sun. He brings out some water too, since Stan has been talking a lot and probably needs it, but he doesn’t look bothered. They just sit on the porch, enjoying the light breeze, and eating together.

“You know, you’d make a pretty good mechanic in your next life if you can give yourself a two-tape crash course on all things cars. Where did you learn all that anyway? Did you use to work for a shop or something?” All the questions he’d been holding back came out now while the camera was off and he wasn’t interrupting the recording.

“Briefly. When I was in Florida, a long time ago, I did. Learned a lot there. But most of it was just as I went. I lived out of my car, so I needed to maintain it. Checked out some books from libraries when I needed them and bought and stole tools as I went to set up my toolbox in the back there. Just took time and dedication.”

It was almost exactly like what he’s doing right now. Ford needs to come home, so he’s making it happen. Plan and simple.

He needed to look after the car, and couldn’t pay anyone to do it, so he just figured it out. Didn’t have any other choice.

It's hard to believe this is the same guy who dropped out of high school. Stanley had accidentally let that slip while they talked on the phone during his stay in the hospital. Said it had something to do with him getting kicked out and why he and Ford didn’t talk for so long. But that was all he was willing to say.

Whatever happened, he’s still ashamed of it, so he won’t press. Fiddleford doesn’t want to ruin such a nice day.

“I’ll admit, you seem to be able to do anything when you set your mind to it. You are one stubborn and determined guy. It’s impressive.” He holds his tongue and doesn’t mention how similar to Ford he seems at this moment.

Whatever Ford wanted to learn, he did, and Ford wanted to learn everything all the time. Stan just doesn’t seem to care as much, not worried about cramming his head full. A lot of stuff, in his eyes, isn’t worth the effort. He’s more laid back, but that seems to be the big difference.

The compliments make him look down and focus on his food, using his long hair to hide the faint blush. It's not like he ever gets complimented. Not growing up, not on the road, but for whatever reason Fids is doing it now. It's nice, makes this beautiful day even sweeter.

He has got to get a haircut one of these days, his hair is well past his shoulders now, grown beyond what passes as a mullet. He takes a deep breath and lets it out before bringing both hands up to tie his hair back out of the way and look at Fids again. “It’s always been like that. Didn’t have much of a choice growing up. If I wanted something, I had to fight for it every time. Builds strength, I guess. I can’t complain. My whole life, in a way, has been preparing me for this. If I wasn’t me, it wouldn’t be possible.”

Stan doesn’t look bothered by what he said, hasn’t even stopped smiling, which says a lot about his childhood. Kids shouldn’t have to fight just to be happy. It shouldn’t be that hard, shouldn’t have been for Stan. He’s itching to ask, but ruining that smile holds Fids back. It feels rare to see it, from what he’s heard about Stan's life.

“You’re going to stay here, with Ford, afterward. Right? I mean, it's Ford’s house. He gets a say, but whatever bad blood you guys have. This is going to fix it, won’t it? You can’t go any bigger than this, what you’re doing. What we’re doing.”

His smile fades just a little, taking another bite and finishing half of his sandwich before answering with an indifferent shrug. “I’d like to, if I have a choice, but it's not completely up to me. And I think so. I think he’ll forgive me. He’s an ass, but he’s not completely heartless. He didn’t used to be at least.” He pauses, taking a drink of soda and taping his good foot against the porch where his legs are hanging. “I plan on leaving him a tape if you don’t mind me borrowing your camera. Something that lays it all out. Explain everything, since the new me won’t remember. You’ll have to make sure he watches it for me, so he gets it. Can you do that for me?”

“You don’t even have to ask. Of course, I will. Even if I have to shove it down his throat, I’ll make him watch it.” The weather is still nice, but some sadness around the topic lingers now between them. “You should put everything in a box closer to when everything happens. The journals, any letters, the tapes, and whatever else you plan on putting together. Leave me some instructions and I’ll take care of it. No problem.”

He sets his half-finished plate back behind them with his soda and water and turns as much as he can toward Fiddleford without knocking his cast around too much. “I don’t know how Ford was ever stupid enough to screw up a friendship with you. He’s supposed to be the brains of the operation. Even if you two don’t get along after all this, I still want to see you. You’re a good friend, even if we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances. And I swear I’m still gonna find a way to pay you back. You just wait.”

He could practically feel the lottery ticket burning a hole in his back pocket.

The trip up to Washington had been long, having to get up early so he could be sure to arrive hours before it was time, but it would hopefully be well worth it. If Bill did keep his end of the deal, he’d know at eight PM tonight if he was going to be a multimillionaire. Ten million was a lot of money, making a lot of things infinitely easier.

For one, he could write a check for Fiddleford sometime shortly before everything happens. He’d deposit a check for Ford too, making up for all the money he’d spent and maybe trying to bribe him a little into letting him say too. Money can buy forgiveness, sometimes.

Part of the reason he’s banned from most states isn’t due to needing to serve time. It's about fines and debts he hasn’t cleared up. He’s left a trail of negative numbers all across the country. But ten million would be more than enough to fix that. New Stan could start with a mostly clean slate, debts paid, and still a healthy amount in the bank for whatever’s next.

He’ll need to look into it, but there are probably only a handful of states he still won’t be able to visit. And honestly, why would he ever want to visit Florida or Texas again anyway?

“At this point, you don’t need to worry about that Stanley. I’m not just doing this for you. Bill deserves exactly what’s coming. And I’m doing it for Ford too, damn bastard.” He shakes his head and takes a drink from his soda. “We’ll just call ourselves even so long as Bill doesn’t kill me. Got it?”

That makes him laugh for a minute, “Deal.” He picks up his glass of water and downs the whole thing, not realizing how thirsty he is. He doesn’t usually talk this much, not since ending up here in Gravity Falls.

They fall back into a compatible silence while they finish eating, listening to the birds in the woods, the wind blowing through the clearing and the quiet sound of Stan’s radio from inside the car. He’d put it on as background noise while they had lunch. Without talking the rest of the meal goes by fast and Fiddleford insists on bringing in the dishes so Stan doesn’t have to get up.

It’s sad to think about, but Fids might be the first real friend he’s had since Ford. He doesn’t want anything from him, like most people, and he doesn’t seem to think of him as less than either. Not like Ford did, last he checked.

He gets up, opening his soda to carry around with him through this next recording session, but waits for Fids to come back before making his way over to the car. It's challenging, with the drink in one hand, but he manages not to spill or fall despite the look it earns him from Fids. “Come on, get the camera and go stand around in the passenger seat. We’ll go over the basics of driving the car in case I forget. That should fill up the remaining time on the tape, right?”

He rolls his eyes, watching Stan climb in the driver’s side with the doors still open, but does as he’s told without commenting on Stan’s precarious balancing of the soda. He just gets in the passenger side and leans back so Stan is in the frame but he's inside enough he can zoom in on stuff as directed.

“Ready? Set? Action!” Stan says after turning off the radio. His smile is back in full force now despite their somber conversation. “In retrospect, I probably should have started with teaching you how to drive. You better not crash our car or I’ll have to haunt your dreams or something. Now, let’s start by showing you the hazards, turn signal, and this is how you turn on the headlights…”

The explanations go on and on about how to operate the vehicle, road safety rules, and Stan goes on a particularly long rant about which states it's legal to turn right on red and which it’s not. After his sixth ticket, he did some research so it wouldn’t happen again. The timing is almost perfect though, fitting into the half an hour left.  

“Alright, now I really think when you get back behind this wheel, a lot of memories are going to come back. Some good, some not. But mostly good. Maybe have Fiddleford or Stanford take you driving that first time. Just to be safe. I’ll see you on the next tape. We aren’t even close to done.” He does a set of finger guns at the camera which is the signal to end the tape with twenty seconds left to spare.

“Okay, let’s start under the hood. That should take up at least forty-five minutes. Then we’ll do a tire and everything in that area.” He glanced out at the sky which was still clear, just later in the day from how long they’d been outside now. “Hopefully it won’t be too dark by the time we get to the undercarriage. That’s going to be hard to do anyway since we don’t have a lift here for me to use. But we’ll make do. Just might be a little cramped down there.” He gives Fid's arm a playful nudge before grabbing his soda and pulling the button to pop the hood on his way out.

He gets being flirtatious is just part of Stan’s personality, but it still makes him flush and fumble for a response before just getting out and changing the tape. “What do you want to label this one?” He asks, pulling a pen out of his pocket to write on the white sticker on the front of the tape.

Stan thinks about it while putting up the hood and sipping his drink some more in preparation for more talking. It doesn’t need to be anything complicated, but just ‘everything our car’ sounds lame. “How about, The Stanmobile’s caretakers guide Part One? Or is that too wordy?”

Fiddleford laughs out loud, taking a second to push his glasses back up and turn to look at Stan who’s giving him a weird look. “Sorry, no, it's perfect. It's just funny that you call your car that.”

Another weird look but Stan moves aside and points at the license plate. “Did you never look at the tabs?”

Fiddleford laughs harder, doubling over and it takes a minute before his hand is steady enough to write the name on the tape. And even then, he’s still chuckling to himself. “When we roll the next tape, you’ve got to explain how that happened. The story there, because that’s too good.” He writes the name on the finished tape and sets it back in the bag before grabbing an empty one and slotting it into the camera.

The soda ends up around behind the hood leaning against it and the windshield out of sight. “Right, I completely forgot.” And he had, smiling a little sadder remembering. “Alright, go ahead. Just aim it at me again to start and I’ll point where you need to be. One, two, three. Action!” He waits for Fids to give the thumbs up before starting to talk again.

“Alright, Fids here has made sure to remind me that I forgot a story earlier. The most important one of all.” He shifts back with the crutches and has Fids get the license plate in shot long enough to read before turning the camera back to him. “When we bought this car, we always intended on sharing it. We’d both get to drive it because we both paid for it through blood sweat and tears. But the winner of the bet was going to get their name on the title and license plate. Whoever contributed the most would win.”

For the first time since they started, he looks a little embarrassed on camera and glances away. “Right before our birthday, a pay period before, I got into a little trouble. I ended up losing my job. Not that I liked it much anyway. But it meant Ford pulled ahead and won the bet by just fifty bucks.” He pauses for a second so he doesn’t get upset about it on camera or accidentally spill the details of how he lost the job.

“Anyway. Ford won, fair and square, and I stayed home while he and Dad went to pick her up. When he came home, Ford surprised me. He copied my signature for the title and when they went to the DMV, he picked out the plate with my name. I still don’t know why he did that, since he won fair and square. But.” He stutters to a stop again, glancing down at the plate and then back to look the camera in the eye. “Claimed his win didn’t count because he used Christmas money from our grandparents from before we made the bet. Still don’t know if he was lying or not. I don’t care if he was. It was nice of him and made me happy. Which was probably his point. Fiddleford just pointed out that you should probably know the story behind it.”

He takes another pause, straightening out his shoulders after telling such an honest and emotional story. It's not exactly like the others, that one makes him vulnerable. And odds are Ford’s going to watch this tape too. “Come over here Fids, let’s start by talking about the battery. You’re going to need to know how to check its charge and the basics of jump-starting one. Now…”

Stan slides back into his lectures, pointing at things and occasionally going to get a tool to take stuff apart to explain the insides and inner workings. It takes just over an hour before he’s satisfied with everything under the hood being covered. It makes his mouth dry from talking nonstop that whole time. They break again, just for water and the bathroom, and then get settled on some cardboard down near the front driver’s tire.

The rest of the day, recording everything Stan needs himself to know, takes hours. After rambling about every part on and under the car they’ve already finished the second tape, having to start a third one just to cover the interior detailing process. And Fids doesn’t complain once the whole time, even if his arms are very tired from holding the camera.

Stan explains how to clean the leather, doing all the seats on video while rambling about more car stories. Some chicks he’s had in the back seat (making Fiddleford flush bright red), places they’ve both been and even the one time he fit twelve people inside traveling between parties one night. When it comes to this car, Stan can’t seem to run out of stories.

They shampoo the floor after vacuuming it and then wipe down all the surfaces, scrubbing off some stains until the whole interior of the car looks new. He even finally gets around to replacing the interior lights that had burned out ages ago, explaining that too as he goes.

Halfway through the third tape, five hours of talking about the car later he’s pretty sure he’s covered everything. Repairs, maintenance, the notebook, stories galore, and cleaning. He stops, they both do, with the camera resting on the roof with the tape still running, and Stan facing it just trying to think of anything else. His brain is fried, and exhausted, but he can’t forget anything.

This is his home, was for a long time, and it's almost as important as Ford. If he doesn’t say it now, he might never remember it again. So, they sit, in silence, with him thinking for almost two minutes before he remembers.

“Shit, you’re going to need to know what to do if she gets in a crash. How to repaint her, what color match she is, how to buff out any scratches or dents, replacing broken glass.” He looks torn for a minute, glancing down at the car and then back up. “We’ll have to do that another day. After I can gather all my thoughts. For now, do you have anything else to add Fiddleford? If you have questions, ask. It's not like I can answer them later.”

Even Fid's brain is tired from all that information being thrown at him, but he thinks he knows what to ask anyway. “Did you and Ford ever work on this car together? I know it was both of yours, at one point, but do you have any stories like that?”

He thinks he succeeds in not making a face, ducking down as an excuse to grab the water bottle sitting on the floor of the driver’s side before facing the camera again more composed. “A couple of times, yeah.” He swallows a drink of water, finishing the bottle so he doesn’t have to answer this. He sighs, tossing it on the driver’s seat and looking at the camera again.

“Look, life wasn’t always sunshine and roses. Not by a long shot. Which is part of why. Why we’re doing this. Why you don’t remember. But this one time, not long after we got her, some of the neighborhood bullies came around. Picking on us, because we were different or whatever. The car was parked on its own, near the beach, while we worked on our boat. And they trashed her. Broken headlights, smashed windshield, scrapped paint. The works. I even had to take out and clean the gas tank because they put sugar in there.” He’s impressed by his ability to not look angry, even when all these years later it pisses him off.

“I broke their noses the next day at school while Ford kept a lookout for me. Knocked out a couple of teeth too which got me suspended for two weeks. Spent every second of that time fixing the damage. Ford helped too. He’s the one who found the replacement windshield at a cost we could afford. Got the exact paint color to redo the doors after buffing the scratches. You should have seen the look on their faces when I drove into the parking lot like nothing ever happened two weeks later.” He smiles now, but it's not as happy as it was earlier. Tainted by the bad memory.

“Every bit of damage is in the notebook I told you about. Every time I scratched her, dented her, that one time I rolled her in New Orleans, and everything else. But almost anything can be fixed if you put in the work and time. So don’t you dare give up on her. She never gave up on us. Stretching gallons of gas miles further than should have been possible.” He’s glad it’s getting dark, giving them a good excuse to stop for today. He doesn’t want to think about all that after such a good day.

“Alright, cut it there, Fids. We’ll be back another day to explain replacing and repairing body and glass damage. Maybe if we have time, I’ll even tell you how to fix her frame if it ever gets bent again.” He gives a little wave and stops moving until Fids gives him a thumbs up to indicate he’s stopped the camera.

“You think you can fit all that into an hour or are you going to need a fourth tape for next time?” Fiddleford asks, letting Stan brush over the last story he pulled out of him. It's hard, wanting to know more about Stan’s past so desperately but not wanting to see Stan hurting over it. He seems happy now, as insane as that is, so why ruin it for his curiosity?

He grabs and pockets the empty water bottle to toss and turns off the inside lights, closing her up for the night so they can head inside. “Probably going to need a fourth tape. But I might need a damaged car to work on to get the point across? Hands-on and visual learning have always been my strong suits.” He glances back over towards Ford’s car thinking for a minute. “Between now and then, I’ll check out if Ford’s car has any scratches or dents. Maybe we can do some stuff there. Later. Right now, let’s head inside.” It's getting late, close to the lottery drawing, and he can’t miss that.

Fiddleford packs up the tape back into the bag, after labeling it like the other two, and helps Stan close up the car by getting the trunk while Stan get’s the hood so they can head into the house together.

He didn’t realize how exhausting talking for so long, reliving all those memories, was until after he sat down on the couch. His shoulders dropped and he had to bring up a hand to rub at his head. Shit. He’s gotta take his meds now and make something for dinner too.

First, he checks the time, finding they’ve still got almost two hours until the drawing. It's still early in the year so the sun’s only mostly set by now. Just gets dark early still. He almost jumps when Fids speaks coming back from the kitchen.

“What are you thinking for dinner? You look beat, got anything easy to cook that I could throw together?” Stan’s smile is mostly gone now, replaced with a look of exhaustion. He did just have brain surgery a few weeks ago, so today is probably the first time since then he’s pushed himself. It makes sense he wants to get this stuff done while Bill is gone, but he still needs rest.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that. I could just throw together some spaghetti on the stove. Nothing fancy. I’ve gotta get up and take my meds anyway.” Ugh. The last thing he wants to do is go upstairs and then come back downstairs.

“Stan. You had brain surgery the other week and then just spent all day walking, talking, and standing around in the hot sun. Sit down. Are your meds upstairs? I’ll get them.” He doesn’t wait for Stan to answer and just heads for the stairs figuring they can’t be that hard to find.

If Ford and Fids were an item at some point, Ford royally screwed the pooch big time. He’s far too nice and far too understanding. He’s glad for it, and probably wouldn’t be doing as well without someone to talk to, but it still blows him away. He grabs the notepad on the coffee table shelf and makes a note to mention how dumb Ford was for screwing that up in a letter or a tape at some point.

Eventually, Fids comes back with the five meds and Tylenol for the headache he always has. Even gets him a glass of water before going into the kitchen to start pulling out pots and ingredients.

Instead of staying in the living room he gets up, after downing his meds, and goes to sit with Fids in the kitchen at the table so they can at least talk in the meantime. Or just enjoy each other’s company. That works too.

He brought the memory journal with him, working on filling in the book with the remaining good memories of Ford from their teenage years. But if he’s honest with himself. He’s running out of good ones. The only ones he can think of now are tinted with sadness, anger, or frustration. Sometimes all of the above.

Eventually, he’s gotta give and tell some of the bad stuff, but he thought he’d have more than a hundred pages of good memories. It always felt like more. Maybe he was just lying to himself all these years, painting Ford in this good light because that’s how he wanted to see it. It was easier to stomach that way. He’ll wait, think on it some more, before giving in and telling him about the bad ones.

He just about jumps out of his skin when the phone starts ringing over near the fridge but gets up to go over and check who’s calling.

All the joy and fun of the day runs out of him when he recognizes his parent's number.

It makes sense that Ford would get calls from them, maybe talk to them regularly for all he knows, but this is the first time since he slotted into his brother's place that this has happened. He’s not prepared for it, not ready. He’s emotionally drained and exhausted.

He can’t pretend to be Ford now. They’ll know. What if it's dad? He’s frozen, watching the phone ring over and over. Or worse, what if it's mom? Can he fake Ford’s voice well enough for that? What if they catch on and start asking questions? There are a lot of things he can’t answer without sounding insane. They could call the police on him, ruin everything.

“Stan, are you okay? Who’s calling?” Fids stops, leaving the water to boil on the stove, to hover next to Stan. He lands a hand on his shoulder, standing off to the side to try and gauge what’s wrong. Stan looks pale like he’s seen a ghost.

The phone stops ringing, going to voicemail, “Hey honey, it's mom. Just calling to see how you are. We haven’t heard from you since Christmas and want to hear about your research, and how you’ve been. Please, give us a call back when you have the time. Love you, bye.”

Instead of fainting, he feels like he’s going to start crying. Or maybe he needs to hit something instead. Of course, Ford gets to talk to their parents for holidays. I love you’s on the voicemail and maybe even presents exchanged for all he knows. He pulls out of Fid's grasp and has to move to sit at the table, letting the crutches fall to the ground and covering his face with his hands.

Right. Stan’s parents. Their parents. Who he probably hasn’t spoken to in a long time, maybe since he was kicked out. That explains why Stan’s shaking where he sits. He pulls the chair around to Stan’s side of the table to sit with him, wrapping the arm back around his shoulder.

“Breath Stanley. Take a minute, then talk to me. You’ve got time.”

It's not fair. Ford got everything all those years ago. He got to keep his home, a safe place to sleep, his parents and their love. All the while he just got tossed out on the street with some clothes and a set of car keys. Yeah, he talks to mom sometimes. Sneaking calls on the landline in the kitchen when Dad isn’t home. But it’s been over six months since then, maybe closer to eight. And never to Dad, not once this whole time.

For a split second, he’s so angry that he thinks about following through with Bill and his deals. Screw Ford. He doesn’t deserve his kindness. His help after all he took and ruined. He took the only thing he ever really cared about, his family. Even if he is his family.

But it only lasts for a split second with tense shoulders and clenched teeth before they collapse in on themselves and the fight runs out of him. Ford could probably destroy the world and he’d still try and help him. Heh. That’s what he’s doing now. More or less.

He sits for a few minutes, breathing in and out, before turning to face Fiddleford who’s looking at him all concerned and caring. It almost makes him cry.

“Senior year of school, Ford was building this science fair project. A perpetual motion machine. Something big and fancy. Won first place at the science fair. And it was great, I was really happy for him. Really. But afterward, everything started changing. Fast. He found out about this fancy school. West Coast Tech.” He has to pause, taking deep breaths and not exactly meeting Fid's gaze while he talks.

“He was stoked, beyond excited. They had some scouts in the area coming to check out his project. The hope was they’d love it, give him a full ride, and he’d get to go to his dream school. But. Well. We always had this plan, or we said we did. About fixing up this old boat of ours. The Stan O’ War. Found it on the beach and started rebuilding it as kids. Before he found out about that school, we were going to sail around the world together.” He pauses and Fids briefly gets up to turn off the pot of water before coming back to listen.

“I was mad, terrified, and scared. I’m not that smart Fids. The only reason I didn’t flunk out of school earlier is that Ford let me cheat off him for years.” He has to stop again, bringing a hand up to brush away the tears. It takes a minute before he trusts his voice not to break. “He told me that if he got a scholarship he’d go to school. But if he didn’t, we’d stick to the plan, and sail around the world together. The night before his presentation I went back to the school gymnasium, just looking at the project. I was thinking about breaking it, stopping everything from happening. But all I did was slam my hand on the table once. And the thing just broke, like it was made of glass or something. It let out a little smoke, a panel came unscrewed. That’s all. It kept moving. It was still moving when I left.”

His eyes are securely on his lap now while he talks, knowing he just has to get it out. Almost done. “So, I covered it back up with the sheet and didn’t say anything. It was fine, but I guess at some point overnight it died. His presentation was a disaster and somehow, he knew it was my fault. He yelled at me when he got home, my dad overheard everything. And. That’s how I got thrown out. And Ford just let him, turning his back on me and closing the window like he didn’t even know me.”

The tears are stronger now, his voice quiet and cracked. “I didn’t mean to; it was a genuine accident. But he wouldn’t listen, no one ever listened to me. I- “

Fiddleford pulls Stan into a tight hug, sitting up on his knees so he’s taller on the chair even if it's uncomfortable. And that seems to be enough, permitting Stan to just let go and sob into his chest, returning the hug and letting out years of pent-up sadness over a mistake he made when he was just a kid.

When Ford comes back, he’s going to punch Ford as hard as he can, maybe try to break his nose. Because yeah, maybe what Stan did was wrong, but that doesn’t add up to cutting your twin brother off and getting him thrown out of the house before he’s even eighteen. Maybe he always knew, but was just too high up on his horse to see it. Too smart to admit he was wrong, more than likely.

Even if, somehow, the crime was bad enough to match the punishment, Stan has gone through enough. He’s genuinely sorry, sobbing into his chest here, and it's heartbreaking to watch. It makes him wonder how he never saw the colder side of Ford before Stan.

He doesn’t understand. Ford’s going to have to explain it to him later. Because he wants to, if there’s anything worth seeing from Ford’s side.

They sit like that for a while, because it’s a lot to let out after a full decade of sitting with it. It seems like the kind of thing Stan wouldn’t have told another soul. Maybe he only did it now because eventually, he’s going to forget speaking it out loud. Forget it ever happened at all. Maybe it became too much.

When the sniffling and sobs quiet down he still lets Stan be the one to pull away. Then he goes to get a box of tissues for him and sits with him again while he cleans up.

“I hate to say this out loud, but your family sucks. All of them. For letting that happen to you, for not believing you. You deserved so much better than you got Stanley. And yeah, you screwed up. But it wasn’t bad enough for things to end up like this. So, it makes sense, that picking up that phone is hard. If you want, I can call them back. Say Ford’s busy with projects but give them a fake update. That might buy some time before they want to hear his voice.”

How is it possible that Ford managed to surround himself with some of the kindest people, like Fids, and then screw it up by picking an evil demon god instead?

He’s never going to get the answer to that question and it’s the only thing he wants to know. Because it seems so damn stupid. Ford isn’t a moron, is he? Are they both idiots? Maybe.

“No. It's okay. Buying time only puts it off a little. I’ll call back later, tomorrow or something. Once I’ve had some rest and I’m not so drained. Mom’s less likely to pick up on it than Dad would. I don’t think I could stomach talking to him. I, occasionally, talked to Mom. She didn’t exactly agree with how things went. But my dad, wouldn’t have me back. In his eyes, costing Ford his dream school was costing him and the family millions. Like Ford had to go to the best school to succeed. Kinda funny. I don’t think he could have ended up anywhere but here anyway. At least going to that crappy college, he met you, right?”

That’s something at least, probably the only thing that kept Stan together all this time now that he’s looking at him. He wants Ford back, their relationship fixed, so badly that he’s going to kill himself doing it.

He gets that now.

“Yeah, that’s right. I think in a lot of ways you are right. I mean, only stuck-up rich kids go to West Coast Tech anyway.” He nudges Stan in the side and is rewarded by a sad chuckle.

“Thanks for listening Fids. God, I don’t think I could get through all this without you here. Seriously. I think all of this would have finally gotten to me somewhere along the way.” It's heavy, but it's honest.

“Well. Good thing I’m not going anywhere. Other than the stove anyway.” He gets up, patting Stan’s shoulder again, before heading back to continue putting together dinner.

Alright. Enough lying to his future self. He settles back in with his journal and starts writing out the half-good half bad memories, starting way back as kids when he used to fight the neighborhood bullies when they picked on Ford for his hands. There are a lot of memories like that, bad but good because he’s proud of them. He makes sure to say so in his ramblings.

He talks about Mom and Dad now too, good memories and bad with them growing up mixed in. It feels like he’s rambling, jumping from one memory to the next without them being in any real order. He tries to mark the estimated age of the thing that happened at the top, finding that easier for holiday memories and birthdays.

It feels like he blinks and he’s filled another fifteen pages and he only looks up again when Fids is putting a plate of food in front of him and sitting down with him to eat. It feels okay, like he has permission, to write about the bad times. The full truth. He doesn’t know how the new him will take it or if he’ll still choose family after all this. He can only try and persuade him so much; the rest is going to be up to the new Stan.

They eat, the journal pushed to the side, and he asks to hear about Ford’s time at school. What that was like, how much he kicked ass being the smartest guy there. Or one of the two anyway.

Amazing as it turns out. He basically lived at the library, their dorm room, or lecture halls in the science department. Makes sense for a guy with twelve Ph.D.s to his name. It makes him smile again, listening to Fids tell stories about projects, and inventions like the tie of possession. That pulls a real laugh from him but he insists Fids goes on.

It's not until he catches sight of the clock on the stove, quarter to seven, that he gets up suddenly over his half-finished food. “Shit. I’ve gotta find the station on TV.” He reaches down and grabs the crutches before quickly shuffling his way out of the kitchen and over to the couch. It takes almost ten minutes of flicking through channels and adjusting the antenna before he gets to the right station. By then Fids had brought their food into the room to sit on the couch, looking puzzled at what could be so important on TV. “The lottery Stanley? Why on Earth would you want to watch this?”

He considers lying, a force of habit, but knows he probably won’t get away with it around Fids. He’s too smart and has seen too many of his tricks. So, he sits down and pulls his wallet out to remove the ticket. “Look, I said I’d be honest with you, so I’m gonna tell you the truth. You’ve just gotta promise not to freak out. Alright?”

He looks down at the ticket and frowns. Oregon doesn’t have a lottery, since when did Stan drive up to Washington to buy a lottery ticket? “Okay? I can’t promise that, but go on?”

He swallows, looking at the three-minute countdown on TV and then back. “I might have made another deal with Bill for a winning lottery ticket.” Fids looks about ready to slap him. “I know, I know. It sounds bad. But it’s a moot point. My end of the deal only matters if we fail to kill him. If we succeed, which we will, I basically just get the money with no consequences.”

Fiddleford does slap him, lightly, on the shoulder, and his face is a little red. “Stanley! Are you insane? A deal to save Ford, I can get that. But this? This is just reckless? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Talking to him only opens yourself up to being found out!”

He sighs, “I know that, but I’ve got it all under control. Seriously. That journal of Ford’s is coming in handy when it comes to keeping secrets inside my own head. It’s going to be fine. Besides, I think I owe you a cut after I win, don’t I?” He nudges Fids in the side and flashes him his most charming smile.

It works and shuts Fids up, who pays more interest in the screen. Enough to compute the jackpot listed at the top of the screen. It breaks him and he just stares, looks down at the ticket, and then back again. Then at Stan, face alive with disbelief.

“See? Ten million seems a little more worth the risk, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m giving both you and Ford a cut. If we survive the apocalypse, we’ll all be fucking rich.”

“You're insane Stanley Pines. Absolutely insane.” It's all he can say watching the countdown slowly tick down closer to the drawing.

“You keep saying that, but you’re the one who keeps hanging out with me anyway. So, if I’m insane you have to be a little cuckoo yourself to go along with my plans.” He gets a shove at his side in response but otherwise, they both fall into silence watching the time tick down until the guy comes on screen with the wheel full of bingo numbers.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to this Saturday night Washinton State Lottery drawing! Make sure to have your tickets ready with you.” The guy turns the big ball of numbers for a good minute before one of them rolls out and he reads it off, holding it up to the camera.

“The first number tonight is 8 ladies and gentlemen!” He turns the big metal cage of numbers again until a second one rolls out, “16!” and another, “34!” and then the fourth, second to last. “27!” Even if this last number is wrong, he’s already got enough to win the million-dollar jackpot, but he holds his breath with Fids as the numbers go around again.

The last number rolls out but before the guy can read it or pick it up off the metal rail it tumbles off and out of view below the camera off screen. For a second everyone fumbles around, trying to find the lost ball. But after a minute or two of not being able to find it, they continue. The guy nervously laughed before smiling. “Guess that wasn’t the right one for somebody, let’s try that again. Oh, and it's 55! That’s the final number for tonight folks. Check your tickets and if you have the winning numbers be sure to bring them to your local lottery location office to have the claim verified and processed. Goodnight, and good luck everyone!”

Stanley can’t stop just staring at the ticket in his hands, unable to break the silence like it’ll erase what's just happened. Now his brain is broken, struck dumb even though he was told what would happen.

He was handed this, cherry-picked, but he still didn't believe it. Until now.

“Stanley. You won.” Fiddleford whispers, equally as fixated on the ticket.

He puts the ticket down, slowly like it might turn to dust, and then pulls Fids over into the tightest hug he’s ever given. Just short of squeezing the life out of him.

"No, I didn't. We won Fids! We all won!"

Notes:

I can not for the life of me remember what fanfiction I got the headcannon for the Stanleymobile, but I remember reading a fanfic where it was mentioned and loved it so much that I had to use it. Please, if you know what fic it was let me know so I can edit this and give credit to the original creator.

Chapter 23: Old Wounds

Notes:

Edit Note: In the last chapter I said the jackpot was eight million. But I forgot to take into account stupid taxes and I wanted a specific amount for plot purposes. So I changed it, the jackpot was now ten million. And we're just going to ignore the fact that technically Stan would get taxed twice by both Oregon and Washington plus Federal. For story purposes, we'll just say he gets one state tax and the federal one.

Also, In cannon I'm pretty sure Stan is a convicted felon ten times over. But also for plot purposes, I'm gonna say he just didn't get caught doing those things. Still did them, but didn't get caught.

No idea how winning the lottery works either, but this was fun to write. Enjoy.

Since Saturday night he’s been living on a dream. The roller coaster of emotions that day had been extreme with ups and downs like no other. But nothing could beat the high of Bill keeping his word. It almost made him feel bad about scamming the guy, almost.

After the lottery drawing, they eventually finished their dinner, cleaned up, and then went their separate ways. But the whole time Stan just couldn’t stop smiling.

Fids made them take a picture together posing with the ticket using a camera he’d brought in the bag of tapes, promising to get him a copy later to put in his scrapbook of memories. It was nice, having someone to celebrate a win with.

For so long his life had been nothing but loss after loss over and over. But recently things weren’t looking too bad. Sure, he had to constantly doctor his own memories to stay ahead of Bill. But he could live with that.

Sunday was another rest day even if he found it impossible to sit still for long with the ticket burning a hole in his back pocket. He kept taking it out constantly just to double-check it was real. Otherwise, he spent most of the day cleaning the house interrupted by breaks to work on his memory book.

He did make one trip into the basement, finding one of Bill's images and uncovering it to talk to it. “Hey, so you weren’t kidding about that ticket. I mean, I knew you were a god, but hell. That was fucking impressive. I didn’t know you could see the future, that’s even cooler than showing me reality, or whatever.” He lets himself look happy, really happy, talking to the carving on one of the wooden doors.

“Look, I know you said Monday we’d get back to work. But I can’t just sit on this for weeks. First thing, bright and early, Monday morning I’m gonna drive up and claim it. It might take a little while, I don’t know what claiming a lottery ticket entails. I’ve never won before.” He grins, extra wide, and it reaches his eyes. “But once I get back from claiming it and depositing it in a bank the next town over, I’ll come straight home and we can stay up late working down here. Might go slow, because we’re going to have to share my body. I can’t have you pushing it too hard. But we’ll figure it out.”

He pretends to look nervous for a second, looking away from the door and then back. “And, heh, maybe sharing a body will be a good way for us to get to know each other a little better. I mean, we are going to be spending eternity together. You could at least buy me dinner first.” He feels stupid flirting with a door even if he knows Bill can see it. “Anyway, I’m going to head back upstairs and rest some more. As boring as that is. I’ll see you when I get back Monday.” He covers the carving back up with the sticky note before heading back up to the den.

It had gotten very dusty and dirty since he hadn’t bothered to clean it this whole time. That was his project for the afternoon, taking breaks on the couch but continuing to work on getting the house in tip-top shape. He just wished Ford’s house wasn’t so damn big.

It's Monday now. Bright and early and he’s supposed to go pick up Fids. But first, he’s got one more thing to take care of.

He still needs to call back Mom.

It’s the last thing he wants to do, because what if she knows? She’s always been able to tell when they swapped places. He won’t know what to talk about, what Ford would talk about, and yeah. Maybe he could talk Mom into not calling the cops, but she’d still be freaked if he told her even a little of the truth.

But it has to happen. The longer he puts it off the more suspicious it’ll be. He’s just gotta call, talk about some fake research, and then get off the phone as quickly as possible. He finds some notes down in the lab about a magnet gun and makes up some new modifications to it just in case he’s already told Mom about it.

Okay. He’s just gotta pick up the phone and call. He just woke up, and not had anything to drink yet, which should make his voice rougher like Ford’s. More believable. Hopefully.

He holds the phone hovering with his notes nearby for several minutes before finally getting up the nerve to call. God, this is a terrible idea. They’re going to know and everything’s going to fall apart. They’ll know something happened to Ford, he’s responsible, and he’ll get thrown in jail unable to finish their work.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Ford, honey?”

That’s mom. Okay, good. He can do this. Just, don’t fuck it up.

“Hello Mom, sorry to call so early. I was actually just about to head to bed, up late working, but I wanted to call you back. Before I forget, again.” He lets the still-present sleep leak into his voice, playing it up even though he’s sweating.

“I’m so glad you called. After not hearing from you for so long I was starting to worry about you. How are you?”

‘Oh, just fine. Being traumatized by a demon god, but otherwise can’t complain’ He almost laughs but turns it into a cough.

“Sorry, I’m doing alright. Work never ends. There is just so much to document here in this valley. It's remarkable.” This feels awkward, but maybe that’s how things are between Ford and them. He doesn’t have a clue.

“That’s good, good. Look. I know you just want to head to bed. You sound exhausted. But, well.” She sounds like she wants to ask something but is afraid of how Ford would react. After a long silence on her end, she finally just spits it out. “I know that the last time I asked you hadn’t heard from him. But has Stanley reached out to you lately? Usually, he gives me a call every once in a while, but it’s been closer to a year now. I just, I worry about him. And don’t get all upset, I know how you feel about him. But I just had to ask.”

His mouth is open and he’s standing there in surprise for a little too long.

“Ford?”

Talk, you idiot.

“No, mom. I haven’t heard from him. I actually sent him a postcard, back in January, but he never responded. Typical though. He’s probably just off on another one of his failed business ventures. Maybe moved to Mexico for all I care.” He lets self-hatred leak into his voice because he thinks that it's how Ford would talk about him. It hurts, like hell, but Mom seems to buy it.

“Ford, come on now. He’s family. I know we’ve never seen eye to eye about what happened. And I’ve never pressed, but something could be seriously wrong. What if.” Her voice cracks. “What if he’s in trouble, more trouble than he can handle? I can’t talk to your father about this you know. Just. Keep your eyes and ears open? And let me know if you hear anything. Please?”

He wants to tell her he’s okay, maybe a little better than okay after this afternoon, but he can’t. Not from this phone. Not today either. Calling the same day would be suspicious. Maybe next week or something he can drive out of town, visit his bank, and make a call from a payphone to calm her down. He hates to make her worry, even if it's all he’s ever done.

“Yeah. Alright. Just for you though. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve gotta get to bed before my sleep meds kick in. I’ll talk to you later.” He’s torn, unsure if Ford would say I love you.

He does, every time they talk, but would Ford? Does he love their parents? Does he understand how much of a gift it is to just pick up the phone and talk to them? Or does he take that for granted too?

If things go bad, months from now, this might be the last time they talk to Ford at all.

If the world ends.

So even if Ford doesn’t usually, he phrases it in a way that might be okay.

“And, well, give Dad my best. Love ya, all that. Bye.” He ends the call before he can listen to her goodbye. It's too much, too difficult to keep up the mask. Luckily the phone doesn’t call back, so mom must not be suspicious. Or if she knows she isn’t going to say anything.

She’s an angle, his angle. And he wouldn’t have made it this far without her. He should really call her soon, as soon as it's not suspicious. He will.

And yeah, he’s not giving dad shit, but ma? Maybe he’ll send her a check, a small one, because she deserves it.

With the phone call out of the way, he finishes getting ready. Breakfast, meds, coffee, and then he’s out the door with a bag over his shoulder. He’s bringing documents, his real driver's license, birth certificate, and social security card.

It's still a real possibility he gets arrested just for showing up in a government building, but hopefully not. Fids coming with, just in case. At least he can make sure the car is taken care of if things go south. But they won’t. He’s not wanted for any crimes nationally. He’s got lots of debts, lots of people who probably want him dead, and maybe even some overdue taxes and fines. But he shouldn’t end up locked up. Probably.

Fids is already standing in the driveway when he pulls up in the car. She drives like a dream after the tune-up they gave her and he forgot how nice it was to sit inside a clean empty car. She’s always been filled with junk, his crap, but it's nice to have space.

He would never admit it to Ford, because he was the neat freak, but he secretly likes clean spaces. Maybe it's because of Ford, or because he’s been in a lot of dumps before. But when a space is clean, it helps him relax. Makes him happy. And now his car is clean too, so he’s grinning with the windows both rolled down from the drive over. “Going my way?” He stops the car at the end of Fid's driveway so he can get in.

Fids found himself looking forward to this drive with Stanley, unlike when they went to Portland. Sure, Stan technically shouldn’t be driving so soon, but he won’t listen even if he brings it up. This trip will be fun. They’ll talk more, laugh, and it’ll. It’ll be like old times with Ford.

He wonders, distantly, if Stan sees him that same way. Stan is Stan, no question. But the nice moments remind him of nicer times with Ford. Maybe not the same person, but the same joy is there. Ford made more quick-wit jokes, almost so subtle you’d miss them, and Stan is bolder and louder in his humor. Different, but in a weird distorted way, the same.

“You're awful, you know that? And what are you doing with the windows down, it's freezing out this early. You’ll catch a cold or something.” He rolls up his window and is glad to see Stan do the same on the opposite side.

“Ahh, you worry too much. I was just enjoying the fresh air. Before I came up here, I was living in New Mexico for a while. The air there just about chokes you. I never pictured myself settling anywhere, after traveling around for so long, but this corner of the country isn’t a bad place for it. Not too hot, not a lot of snow to cause rust issues. Rain, but that’s just a free car wash since Ford doesn’t have a garage.” He reaches over and turns on the radio on low while pulling away from the curb.

“Huh, never been. But from the way you talk about the place it sounds like I’m not missing much.” With the car cleaned up, it's nice. Stan has kept it in amazing shape despite its age. “Did, uh, Bill give you any trouble about missing work?” He asks hesitantly, glancing around the car like they might be on camera.

“No idea, I didn’t talk to him face to face. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission. But if he’s busy enough to give me half a week off I don’t think half a day more will matter much to him.” He’s been trying not to think about Bill a lot. Or overthinking his ability to see the future.

If Bill can tell what’s going to happen, does that mean he already knows everything? Or is it like a statistics thing where he just weighs the odds and can see pathways? If that’s the case he’s probably focused on the one that he wins in, ignoring all other routes. Which is good. He needs that to be true because otherwise they’re all fucked.

He’s gotta take each day as it happens, enjoying the good times, because any day could be his last. Portal finished or not, Bill seems like the kind of guy who would kill him just for crossing him.

“How’s your head and foot feeling? You aren’t overworking yourself, are you?” Stan’s head has long since lost its bandages, the long hair covering the patch they had to shave for the surgery. His leg, below the knee, is still in its cast though, and will be for six weeks. It’s a good thing this car has a lot of legroom since Stan can’t bend his leg that well because of it.

“Headache isn’t as bad as before, I think it's finally dying down, and my legs no problem. It's my armpits you gotta worry about. God, walking around on crutches, even with padding, is a bitch.” He reaches back behind the seats to grab a box from down in the rear footwells and sets it down on the seat between them. “Here, it’s going to be a long drive. Why don’t you pick a tape to listen to? Bunch of mix tapes in there, some cassettes I bought or stole. I’ll listen to everything in there, so take your pick.”

There were dozens of tapes inside the old shoebox, mostly organized, and he sorted through them looking for something. Stanley liked a lot of rock music but it also seemed like he took the time to make his own tapes sometimes. There were a full dozen different mix tapes with labels. He picked up the oldest one, the label worn down so much he couldn’t read it, and held it up so Stan could see. “What’s this one?”  

Stanley barely glanced away from the road but the change in demeanor was instant, shoulders tensing a little and grip on the wheel tightening some. He should have put that away in his bedside table instead of back in the car. “Oh, that old thing?” A nervous laugh left his mouth before he could stop it, “That’s my high school mix tape. It was the first one I ever made after Ford showed me how.”

He has half a mind to reach over and snatch it but what’s the big deal? It's not like Fids could ever possibly know the context of him putting that tape together. It's fine, joyful to listen to even, so why make it a big deal? “Ah, hell with it. Here, put it in. Just don’t judge me for any of the girly songs on here, alright?” He snatches it, and pushes it into the tape player, hitting a couple of buttons while the tape loads.

Like a lot of things Stan does, his reaction makes him frown a little. It piques his curiosity about why Stan wouldn’t want to listen to that tape. Typically, when Stan gets uncomfortable about his past its something to do with Ford.

He’ll talk openly about his criminal past, and the mistakes he’s made, but anytime Ford comes up he starts to get nervous. It makes him stutter, unsure of himself in a weird way, and sad too. Always sad.

Their whole relationship is tragic that way. Stan wants a brother but has been shut out and thrown aside a lot. Sure, he’s made mistakes. But this affects Stan at a deep level like nothing else. Maybe it's just him being an only child, but he doesn’t get it. It's gotta just be something to do with how deep family is rooted in Stanley’s heart. So, without it, it poisons him.

The first song starts to play. Wouldn’t It Be Nice by The Beach Boys.

Wouldn't it be nice if we were older?
Then we wouldn't have to wait so long
And wouldn't it be nice to live together
In the kind of world where we belong?

You know it's gonna make it that much better
When we can say goodnight and stay together

Stan tries to make himself relax while the music plays. This is a good memory, putting together this tape. Sure, it was a coping mechanism at the time and still is. But he’ll be damned if old feelings are going to ruin something good. Silence falls between them while Fids listens with him.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
In the morning when the day is new?
And after having spent the day together
Hold each other close the whole night through

Why is this something Stan would be ashamed of? It's just music, maybe it's attached to some old bad memories with Ford somehow? A bad high school romance? Maybe Stan lied, even if it didn’t sound like it, and this was given to him by someone special?

Happy times together we've been spending
I wish that every kiss was never ending
Oh, wouldn't it be nice?

He reaches over to turn the music down so he can talk over it. He’ll poke the bear, risk it so early into their long drive, because if he doesn’t ask now there might not be a chance. “Stan, I know it's none of my business. But, this tape is well-worn. You’ve listened to it a lot. Was it, I don’t know, from someone? Special? Or, maybe about someone from before stuff happened with your family?”

Somehow, he’s got to find a way to lie and tell the truth at the same time. Damn it Fiddleford.

He takes a deep breath and a sip of his coffee before answering so he has time to think. “Sort of. There was someone, from before, that I had in mind when I put it together. And yeah, I still think about it all these years later. But I don’t want to talk about that. Can we just, enjoy the music instead?”

Maybe if we think and wish and hope and pray
It might come true (run, run, we-ooh)
Oh, baby, then there wouldn't be a single thing we couldn't do
We could be married (we could be married)
And then we'd be happy (and then we'd be happy)
Oh, wouldn't it be nice?

More honesty, painfully so, and he just nods. That’s enough pressing on the subject since he doesn’t want to get left on the side of the road. “Alright, Stan. Sorry for asking. But maybe, before you forget, you should write that down somewhere too. I’ll shut up now though. Did you bring directions?”

He hadn’t even thought of that. Should he? Would it be a good idea to pass these awful feelings on to his new self? It’s supposed to be a fresh start for him. No debt, no bad blood with Ford, and no awful wrong feelings for his brother. No. He won’t. It’s better if he doesn’t. New life, no past problems. Or as few of them as possible.

“Yeah, I put them in the glove box. But I’ve been to Seattle before so I got a pretty good idea of where we’re headed. Won’t need the map until we get into the city just in case.” He waits for several beats of silence until he’s sure Fids isn’t going to talk again before reaching over to turn up the song again.

You know it seems the more we talk about it
It only makes it worse to live without it
But let's talk about it
But wouldn't it be nice?

Goodnight, my baby
Sleep tight, my baby
Goodnight, my baby
Sleep tight, my baby
Goodnight, my baby
Sleep tight, my baby

It took almost twenty minutes and a handful of songs before Stan managed to relax into the seat and smile again. Like he was waiting for Fids to jump to crazy conclusions and accuse him of the truth somehow. But by the time they got past the city limits things were alright again if not still a little tense.

At least they’ve gotten past all the sappy obvious love songs he put at the start. Now that he’s older he thinks that was a stupid thing to do, in case someone found the tape, but it was far too late to change it.

Maybe before he forgets he could make a tape for Ford. Nothing this painfully obvious. But something for him to listen to. In case he does miss him, once he is gone. That would be nice.

Hit the Road Jack by Ray Charles started up next on the tape and he turned down the volume a little to talk again.

“So, boy genius, do you know anything about investing? Now that I’ve got some real money, I should probably handle it responsibly. Stick it in something to make it grow, right?”

The next hour is just Fiddleford rambling and talking about different options. Stocks, high-yield savings accounts, and everything in between. And Stan listens just as intently as Fids did when he rambled about his car for five hours. This is important. The best part is that Fids lets him ask all the questions he can think of, dozens, and answers all of them like the saint he is without judgment.

By the end, he’s able to picture in clearer detail what he’s going to do with the money. He won’t know exactly how much he’ll walk away with until after the paperwork though. They’ll take out taxes which will shrink it by half between state and federal. Still, it's more money than he would have ever dreamed of despite that.

He’s not going to screw this up. Not again. He’s done enough of pissing money away on crap. This win is going to last and he’s going to protect it so he never has to struggle like that again. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll even call Dad to gloat about it before the end. If he can work up the nerve.

They don’t talk about anything else particularly important for the remainder of the next three-hour drive. Fiddleford talks about his life a lot, about his wife and son, Tate. Or Tater Tot. It’s nice not thinking about his problems or life and getting to listen to Fids. And clearly, Fids likes having someone to just talk to about his marriage. He even admits that the strain might have something to do with the memory gun and that cult he’s working on.

Maybe taking a break will make Fids change his mind after all.

But when they finally get to Seattle they are both talked out, tired, and in need of a bathroom break. They park the car and head inside to use the bathroom.

Then?

Stan’s got to go through the process.

The place is empty this early in the morning and it's just them and the receptionist. Leaving him with no excuse to delay. He feels like he’s in trouble, being called to the principal's office all over again for the millionth time. But that’s gotta just be nerves. Nerves about them turning him away saying the tickets wrong. Or that he can’t claim it for some other reason. Or maybe he’ll get in trouble.

He's so used to never having anything good happen that now that it is, it feels like a trap.

“If I end up getting arrested for some reason, just take the car and I’ll find my way back. Alright?” He gives Fids the keys, who’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head, before finally going up to the window with the small folder containing his real documents and the ticket in its envelope.

“How can I help you today sir?” The older woman with greying hair looked completely bored despite her job. Then again, working with but not having millions of dollars would probably suck if he was her too.

He pushes down the nerves and puts on his signature fake smile, “Hey doll, I’m just here to cash in my winning ticket from Saturday night's drawing. Think you could help me with that?”

The woman doesn’t seem to look that enthused by his showmanship, not even cracking a smile. “I’ll need to see the ticket, the receipt for proof of purchase and your driver's license sir.”

He opens the folder, pulling out the ticket and the receipt before pulling out his wallet to hand over his driver's license through the little slot at the bottom of the window. The woman takes all three of them and then gets up from her desk, wandering out of view and into the back-office area to do whatever she needs to do to start the process.

It feels like forever standing and waiting in the lobby. His license is up to date but it's from Kansas of all places. And there’s also the slight issue that his last change of address is still technically in New Mexico. He never changed it over to Ford’s place. Will that be a problem? Should he have done that first?

Before he can work himself into too much of a panic, she comes back with another younger woman who is now carrying the ticket and receipt while the receptionist sits back down and slides him back the driver’s license which he pockets.

“Stanley Pines? You can come back with me and we can go over the paperwork, payment options, and eventually take your picture.” His body moves over towards the door she’s opened off to the side and shakes the hand she offers. “My name is Stacy Franklin, and this is?” He turns and realizes that at some point Fiddleford had come over to stand with him. Yeah, he’s smart, he should come with in case he needs help filling out the paperwork.

“Oh, uh, this is my best friend. Fiddleford McGucket. Is it alright if he comes back with me?” He doesn’t say why, because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s secretly an idiot, but she doesn’t ask anyway.

She just offers her hand to Fiddleford next, “Nice to meet you. Come on back and we’ll go over everything together.” She leads both of them through the door and into a back office still smiling away. He tries not to look like he wants to throw up but only manages the slimmest of smiles. He used up all his strength on the receptionist who didn’t care.

All and all, it's pretty simple once she sits him down and goes over his options.

Before he sees anything the state of Washington takes their cut. Then the federal government takes another big bite. That cuts it down to just under half. He’s got choices. He can take the lump sum now and have just under five mil, or take the annuity (which he’ll have to pay more taxes on every year) and get it paid out over the next twenty-five years. That results in an additional million on paper. Except that considering taxes the difference is barely a couple hundred thousand.

Based on his talk with Fids, he’d be better off taking it all now and investing it safely to make up the difference.

The ball finally drops when they’re in the middle of filling out the paperwork and someone knocks on the door and the woman leaves the room for a few minutes. Then a few minutes turns into ten, fifteen. Twenty.

He doesn’t like it, not one bit, and his instincts are yelling at him to get up and leave. Screw the money and get out before he gets locked up. Because that has to be what this is, they’re finding out about all his debts with state governments and she’ll come back in here with a police officer to arrest him.

Breaking out of an American prison is a lot harder than in Cuba.

“Stanley. You’re going to break the pen. What’s wrong now?” Fids whispers, a hand back on Stan’s shoulder rubbing in soothing circles to try and calm him. He’s red in the face a little and tense all over like he’s never seen. Which is saying something.

He sets the pen down, giving up on pretending to continue filling out the paperwork, and glances at the door again. “Fids. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Lots of them. And there are nearly thirty states I’m banned from over tickets not paid, fines not paid, and it wouldn’t be surprising if I had some warrants on my name.” He takes in a couple of breaths, which are getting shorter and shorter as more time passes.

“I’m just. Scared. We’re so damn close, so close, to getting Ford back. And, I can’t afford to get locked up. The money isn’t that important. And I just- “

The door opens again and he snaps his jaw shut with a loud click that rivals Stacy’s heels.

It's like something out of a nightmare when she steps back in and a security guard follows her. But he doesn’t have handcuffs in hand as Stan imagined. Instead, they’re both just carrying two fat stacks of paper. The woman’s smile is long gone and she looks like she’s aged ten years in the half an hour she was out of the room.

“Stanley Pines? We have some personal matters to go over before we can continue. Would you like your friend to step outside the room?” The two stacks of papers get set on the desk just far enough away that he can’t see what they say.

Fids looks at the women, and the security guard, and then back at Stan without even registering the papers.

Stan, what have you been doing for ten years?

Did losing your brother screw your life up that much?

“Go ahead and step out Fids. I’ll, uh, come get you when I can.” He is not going to cry. He refuses. He’ll get through this and figure it out, just like always. It’ll be fine.

There’s a long moment where Fiddleford can’t make his legs stand. He’s still in shock, but eventually, he does get up and walks outside the room to sit in a chair in the hallway. Now he’s scared on Stan’s behalf watching the door to the room shut with a loud thud.

Stacey sits back down and motions him forward, “Forget about that paperwork for now. Are you aware of the number of country-wide fines you have yet to pay to almost three dozen different state agencies?” She pushes the first stack of paper towards him so he can finally see what they say.

It takes a minute and flipping through a couple of pages of the stack before it clicks. These pages are every single ticket, fine, and debt he’s accumulated over the last ten years. Spanning across the country, city by city, county by county. And those are a lot of pages, a lot of criminal charges. He assumes.

“Yes, I was aware of these.” He lets go of the pages and puts both hands back on the armrests of his chair. How fast could they get out of here if they have to run? They don’t know where he’s staying, not yet, because he had a question about the home address section. And he wanted to make sure not to fill it out, in case of this. Damn, the crutches are going to make that almost impossible.

He’s going to prison, probably federal prison. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Alright, well, this is going to make this all take significantly longer. You’ll have to go through every single one of these charges and approve it with a signature so we can dock the winnings and mail out all the separate checks.” She looks almost angry, probably because of the massive amount of paperwork that would make. “But, after consulting legal that should be the end of it. You’re still going to be banned from,” she grabs a sticky note and writes down three states before passing it to his side of the desk, “Florida, Texas, and Nevada until you straighten things out with a lawyer. Do you still want to go forward with the ticket?”

His hands relax on the wood where they’d tightened up enough to make his hands go white.

Is this a joke? That’s it? Just sign his name a million times, lose some of the money, and he’s free? No handcuffs or getting shoved in the back of a police car?

He shakes his head to himself before he can stare for too long. “Yes, that’s fine. I’d still like to move forward.”

“Good,” though she sounds less than thrilled about it, “After all the checks get sent out, you’ll slowly start getting mail with confirmation clearing up all of, this.” She motions to both stacks of paper. “It’ll still take up to a year before your warrants are cleared with debts paid, so don’t go planning any cross-country trips anytime soon.” She gets back up from the desk. “We’ll give you a copy of this list as well, so you can check them off as you get confirmation letters in the mail. Just, uh, let someone outside know when you’re finished.” She leaves with the security guard quickly, like she doesn’t want to stay in the room with him longer than she has to.

Fair enough, he is a wanted criminal. But maybe, at least in most places, that won’t be true anymore soon enough.

He flops back in the chair, rubbing both hands over his face out of relief. He could just about cry over it.

The door is only shut for a handful of minutes, leaving Fiddleford to worry. That’s just a security guard, so surely he’s not getting arrested, right? Unless the guard is just watching him until the police get here. He told Stan this was a mistake, a massive one. Making this deal with Bill. He should have just claimed it as Ford instead. That would have been so much safer. Why didn’t they think of that sooner?

The door opens back up before he can think too much about how to get Stan out. If that’s possible.

“You can head back in now.” The guard says, he and the woman heading down the hallway and leaving Stan inside.

That’s good, right? He gets up and slowly goes back into the room to see Stan sitting down covering his face with both hands.

Nope, bad. Really bad.

He closes the door quietly and sits back in his chair, waiting for Stan to tell him what’s going on and how screwed he is.

He does cry, silently, at least until he drops his hands and just about jumps out of his skin seeing Fids is back. “Jesus Christ Fiddleford. Warn a guy before you sneak up on him, huh?” He grabs a tissue and blows his nose, tension easing out of his shoulders. It’s alright, things are working out.

Does Stanley enjoy keeping him in suspense or something? “Tell me what’s going on. How bad is it? Are you going to prison or not?”

He tosses the tissue and shakes his head, finally being able to pull a smile back on his face again. “Nope, not at all.” He shifts forward towards the table and grabs the first stack of pages and the pen.

He flushes from embarrassment as he continues, “These pages cover every debt I owe across the country. At least government debts. Not personal ones. And before I can move forward, I have to sign every one of them so this place can dock my winnings and mail out the checks for me. My hand might fall off before I’m done, but it’s gonna be okay.” He finally finishes relaxing as he says that and lets himself believe it.

“You realize that sounds too good to be true right?” But now he’s looking at both stacks of papers while Stan starts signing dotted lines. “Better question. What the hell have you been doing for ten years? I didn’t even know it was possible to do this much illegal crap and not be in jail.” He resists the urge to look at the top page of the second stack. He’ll let Stan tell his story and respect his privacy if he doesn’t want him to look.

“Trying to survive. Or rather, trying to make money. But up until now, I’ve been pretty bad at it.” It's sad that it took making a deal with the devil for him to turn a profit for the first time since leaving home. “I wonder if they have any of my lawsuits in here.” He motions forward for Fids to scoot his chair up. “Do me a favor, go ask for a calculator, and start going through that stack to add up the debt. I’ve always kinda wondered how far in the hole I was.”

For a minute he just doesn’t say anything. Yeah, Stan is charming, and a damn good liar. He’s even smart when he wants to be. But this? This is stupid. It does and doesn’t fit into what he knows about Stan. What kind of crimes has he committed? Has he killed someone? What lawsuits? His mind spins.

“Hey, genius.” Stan’s turned to face him now with a softer expression. “I haven’t done anything as bad as you think. The worst thing I’ve ever done is kill a man in self-defense. The second worst crime was drug trafficking. And before you tell me how bad that is let me tell you something. If I didn’t do it, someone else would have. Or I would have ended up in a shallow grave after mixing with the wrong people. You can hate me if you want. Hell, you can wait in the car if this is too much. I get it. It’s too much for me sometimes too.”

He shuts up, just looking at Fiddleford waiting for him to say something. He waits for several minutes and then turns back to the paper with a dropped smile as he resumes signing the pages. The silence stretching on without any sort of reaction is killing him. Makes sense that his past would push away any good relationship though, so he isn’t surprised.

It’s a lot to process and his mind is incredibly conflicted. Stan’s been honest with him from the moment he was tricked into coming from the shack. He stopped lying there and has been completely honest since then. He’s got nothing to lose at this point feeling like he’s on his way out. So, he wants to believe him, because deep down Stan is a good person.

But, looking at all these pages, it puts into perspective how bad Stan’s past is. How much of a criminal he is. Or was.

Part of him wants to go wait in the car, this being a little too much. It’s like when he found out about Bill and Ford all over again and he just wants to go home and forget about this.

But Stan seems to want that too. Doesn’t he? He’s paying his dues, literally, and pushing through the shame he must feel to get past this. To put it behind him and just never think about it again.

He tries, for a moment, to think about this from Stan’s point of view. It couldn’t have been easy to walk in here, knowing that there was a high chance he’d end up in jail. Very high. But he did it anyway, no matter how scared he was.

Stan is just so damn strong sometimes, pushing through and doing things that he couldn’t even imagine. Talking to Bill? That scares the shit out of him just to think about. Stan does it almost daily and still wears a smile most of the time. Being possessed by Bill? He can’t even wrap his head around that one.

He’s been doing shit, hard shit, like this his whole life without any help, family, and maybe even any friends. No wonder he’s got so many charges. He’s been drowning for years.

Stan knew it was coming, but he still winces when Fiddleford stands up. “At least give me the keys. I can’t have you driving off leaving me here.” He says, voice sad but not surprised.

“I’m not leaving. I’m going to get a calculator.” Fids says, voice level, before turning and going back out into the hall to go ask for one.

Going through the charges, one by one, is tedious work. But once he starts to go through them it's clear to see most of them aren’t that serious. Lots of traffic tickets, parking tickets, destruction of property, and a whole lot of theft and shoplifting charges. Those don’t surprise him because Stan lived in his car and had previously told him he was a thief.

It's still a big pill to swallow adding up the costs line by line and it makes his fingers tired. It takes them over two hours to add everything up and for Stan to sign everything. He has to take multiple breaks because his wrist and fingers start cramping near the end.

Finally, after two and a half hours, all the charges are signed for, the other small packet of paperwork is filled out too, and Fiddleford has the final amount which makes him a little queasy to look at.

He takes the calculator from Fids, looking at it in disbelief that he could have possibly racked up that much money in charges. It's just not possible to commit so many crimes in such a short amount of time. Yet, he checked every single one. Most of them he remembers. Not all the shoplifting ones, but it sounds like something he’d do, and he doesn’t want to fight any of it. Lawyers cost money, more than a hundred-dollar fine is worth.

Over a million dollars in government fines without committing any felonies has to be a record.

It just has to be.

Because it’s insane to look at.

He writes the number down on the sticky note and puts it in the folder with his personal paperwork but lets Fids be the one to go find somebody now that they’re done.

Then the guy from legal comes in and gives him a brief on what’s next, when he’ll be allowed to visit the States again, and the guy recommends he get a lawyer to straighten out everything later too, just to be safe that nothing gets missed.

Another hour later, after he’s been briefed, someone else has finally calculated exactly how much he’s walking away with after taxes. His paperwork is still getting processed, slowly, but they let him hold the big stupid check and take a picture. He gets a big box full of that list he signed, someone having copied all of it for him, and a folder of details for his tax agent inside the box.

And when it's all getting to be too much, since they’ve been here over four hours, they finally give him the check and paperwork for his bank and they’re allowed to leave.

Just like that, they’re sitting in the car in silence.

The check is in his pocket, the box filled with a mountain of paperwork in the back footwell, and it's done.

It wasn’t easy, but now most of his debts are paid. He has a check worth just over three point four million dollars in his wallet and he locks it in the glovebox before even starting the car.

He lets the silence drag for a little while, relaxing fully in the comfort and safety of his car, before finally speaking with Fids for the first time in ages. “So, you want to go get something to eat? I’m buying?” He puts on a small smile looking over at Fids.

Every time he hangs out with Stanley he ends up with a serious headache. It's not intentional exactly. His life is just heavy and Fiddleford isn’t used to that. Before Bill, his life was pretty simple. Now everything’s complicated.

But when Stan gives him that smile, offering to pay for their meal before they start the long drive home, he gives him a tired smile back. “Yeah, alright. But let’s get something to go, if we hurry maybe I can get home before Tate gets out of school.”

Slowly, very slowly, the tense atmosphere dissipates. They get food, put on a different higher energy cassette tape, and head home.

Today has already been so much, so the idea of stopping in the town over from Gravity Falls to open up a bank account is just too much. He’ll drop Fids at home and open a safety deposit box in town and keep the check there until he gets a chance to leave town again. Then he’ll get a credit card, checkbook, and deposit all the money he’s spent back into Ford’s accounts. Good thing he’s been keeping receipts.

Fids eats his food while Stan drives and then they switch so that Stan can get a break and eat his food. He’s exhausted, like usual, and worried about what Fids is thinking of him. But for now, things are alright. Not as good as this morning, but at least he’s not in jail.

Maybe getting a lawyer wouldn’t be such a bad idea, just to organize everything before he forgets everything he’s done. He’ll have to look into that, later.

They don’t make it back until quarter to four in the afternoon. They say a brief goodbye outside the car and Stan gets back in the driver’s seat to head to the bank. It doesn’t cost much to store the check, twenty bucks for the month, which is nothing compared to the value of the check.

But even then, he’s not finished. He has to pull off on his way home and doctor up his memories. He’s getting faster at it, hiding the real ones in the corner of his mind, and then making up fake ones in their place. He knows the truth, but at a glance, Bill hasn’t noticed.

He gets back home an hour after Fids at five o’clock. After struggling to bring the box of paperwork up to his room, and shoving it in the closet, he just lays on his bed exhausted.

Who would have thought being rich would be so exhausting?

Chapter 24: It Takes Two

“Come on Fids, you know it would go so much faster if you helped me. Please? I’ll even pay you for your time if you want?”

To Bill’s credit, he did manage to work with Stanley sharing his body for two days. Tuesday for six hours and then again on Wednesday for a whole seven. But by that point, the novelty of being in a broken body and having to take things slow got old, fast.

Thursday morning instead of starting work Bill had bestowed a whole bunch of math and science knowledge to Stanley, leaving him knocked out on the couch for hours with another headache while his mind processed all the hallucinations and information.

In a way, it was fucking cool. Being able to walk down into the basement and know exactly what everything was. What needed to be done. And best of all, being able to read and comprehend all those math equations Bill had written up when they first started working together. He figured this had to be kind of how Ford felt all the time and it made it a little more understandable why he’d fallen for Bill’s tricks.

It wasn’t enough to sway him from the plan of course, which was why he spent all of Thursday morning restructuring what needed to be done in a more effective order with his newfound limitations.

And coming up with a plan to try and get Fids back on the project.

It just made sense. At his current rate, the portal wouldn’t be finished until mid to late June which was just too long. Things were already behind schedule and it was all Bill’s fault. He had to make up for the lost time somehow.

Now that he had the knowledge and the notes Bill had more or less told him to page him if needed but otherwise had fucked off back to wherever he went when not here. Stanley had next to no supervision so why not bring Fids back in? He’d been helping Ford build it in the first place. There wasn’t anyone else he could trust with this, much less who was smart enough.

This brought them to now, Friday early afternoon, working on buffing out the half a dozen dents on Ford’s car. None of them were very big but enough for the tape. There were scratches too which he also took care of. At this rate, he was giving Ford a whole paint job on his car for free. Minus the cost of paint, plastic, and tape.

“You realize this could be a test, right? Bill could just be testing you to see what you do while he’s gone. Besides, I’m not nearly as good a liar as you. What if he comes back and possesses you while we’re working? I’d panic. You’ll just have to keep doing it yourself.” Fids shifted where he was standing behind the camera, replacing the battery as they were about to start a fifth tape to show the painting process.

Stanley just sighed and shook his head where he was applying the tape and plastic wrap to the windows to protect them from the paint job they where about to do. “You underestimate yourself Fids. And for the record, Bill isn’t that scary.” It makes him chuckle a little. Maybe he did have Stockholm’s Syndrome after all. Or was on his way. “Besides, in my fake memories, you still think I’m Ford. The trip out to Portland where you drove us? You think I’m Ford in that one. So really, we could play it off as me talking you into coming back? Maybe pretend I memory wiped you to forget everything? Bam. Bill thinks you’re an idiot too. And he can’t check for the truth in your head because you haven’t made a deal with him. As long as you only call me Ford down there nothing’s gonna happen.”

Stan’s been planting fake memories in his head for Bill? Huh. That explains why they aren’t dead at least. It's crafty. Smart. Still, the idea of seeing Stan possessed holds him back. Hearing about it and knowing about it is one thing, but to be there when it happens? He’d fuck it up, he’s sure, and Bill would know. “I can’t. He’d know, somehow, I just can’t screw this up. Even if it takes longer.”

He stopped and put down the roll of tape he’d been using to carefully lay down the plastic and turned to look at Fids where he was standing behind the camera. “Fiddleford. You aren’t going to screw this up. Listen, you might just be the smartest person I’ve ever met. If you can do the equivalent of rocket science, I bet you can learn to lie. I could teach you, hell, I’m a fucking master at it. And if you still aren’t sure maybe we could come up with a code phrase, for if he’s shown up and possessing me. That way you can excuse yourself to use the bathroom or something.” He grabs the crutch off the side of the car and shuffles his way over to Fids so they aren’t so far apart with the car in between.

Not only is Stanley good at lying, but he’s also a master of persuasion which is exactly how he ended up helping him with all this in the first place. Only a really good salesman could sell this terrible job. But, looking over at Stan, he’s got that same pleading look on his face he uses every time. The one where he looks like he’s about to repeat some variant of ‘your my only hope Fids’ and that always makes him cave, because he’s just not a strong enough guy to say no to it. And Stan knows it. Bastard.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It might be hard to get used to calling Stan by Ford. And sure, the basement has a lot of bad memories. But it would get all this over faster. And he does like spending time with Stan, even if it hurts sometimes. “You need to be locked up, just for being so good at talking people into things. Should have told security to handcuff you at the stupid lottery office.” But Fids is smiling and shaking his head. There’s that smile again on Stan’s face and the tension eases off his shoulders.

“Hah, you wish it was that easy to get rid of me. That wouldn’t have been the worst corner I’ve ever been backed into. Close, what with the crutches, but not the top spot. I bet I’d have made it home in two days, tops.” Not that he wanted to test those odds. Now that he understood all the fancy math in the world, he could run the numbers of how likely they were to succeed.

He made the conscious choice not to. Instincts hadn’t steered him wrong yet, so he wasn’t going to let any of Ford’s stupid math cloud his judgment. He needed to be Stanley Pines, the master con man, to finish this job. And then? He’d get a do-over and drop the second half of that title.

Yesterday, after being on what felt like a drug trip of numbers all morning, he’d gone in and filed for a change of address and then headed to the next town over to finally open a couple of bank accounts and deposit the check. Doing so made him think he should have gone even further away from Gravity Falls since he’d had to watch the two women working gossip about the money on his way out.

It was a small town, smaller than Gravity Falls, so he wasn’t surprised. At least he didn’t live there to be gawked at. Besides, in this town, he was technically still Ford Pines. Hopefully, no one would make the connection if word somehow spread.

All that mattered was the money was there. It was real and he could use it now.

The very first thing he’d done was pay off Ford’s mortgage and student loans to start. Wiping out the debt his brother had. Then he’d put back all the money he’d spent and paid off the medical bills too. It had hurt since he had never had that much money in his life making spending it hard. But he meant it when he had said ‘we won’ after the drawing. He loved money, going most of his life without it, but he could push through his feelings for those he cared about.

He was still working out a way to make Fids take the money he wanted him to have. It had only been a day, so he wasn’t in a rush as long as Fids got it before the portal was finished.

Fiddleford couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up and he was sure it was intentional. “I honestly don’t even want to know what could be worse than walking into a government building on crutches while being a wanted criminal. But, fine. I’ll help you, starting Monday, but I expected to get hazard pay because of Bill.”

Stan could tell Fids was joking but he took the opportunity, “Oh, of course. Bill certainly is a hazard. I’ll dig around in his paperwork and whatever he was paying you I’ll double it.” The flabbergasted look that caused made Stan’s smile grow wider. “Come on, get the tape ready. There’s a specific art to spraying the paint.”

Luckily Ford already owned an air compressor so it had only taken a couple of extension cords to get it set up with the spray gun Stan had for patching up the El Diablo’s paint job over some scratches and dents. The paint gun was probably one of the oldest in the trunk, maybe the only one he still had from before getting kicked out.

He finished up the tape and plastic on the windshield before coming around to the side of the car where Fids had the camera and where they’d be starting. The camera and its tripod were covered in plastic everywhere except the lens to avoid getting it covered in paint. “Alright. Three, two, one, action!”

After Fids gave him the thumbs up, he resumed talking, “Ford, if you’re watching this, I know your car looks like shit right now. Buffed out and sanded. Don’t panic, it may be a piece of junk compared to mine, but I’m going to fix it for you.” He grins, teasing the hypothetical Ford watching the video. It was a nice thought, teasing his brother like back in high school even if only through a screen. “Now, when you’re spraying the paint gun, you’ll want to wear your eye protection and face mask. I know safety sucks, but don’t even get me started on paint in your eye. You only do that once…” He talked for a while, moving the gun and explaining how to move it to make the coat of paint layer smooth and blend.

Only after he’d explained the whole process did he turn on the air compressor so Fids could record him fixing the patches one by one. He took off the hood, repainted it, redid the doors, and lastly the trunk where there had previously been some hail damage. After they finished what there was to paint, he finished out the tape by showing new Stan how to remove and polish headlights, replacing the bulbs on Ford’s car.

Earlier in the videos, on the fourth tape, he’d already taken apart one of Ford’s doors and explained how to replace windows and windshields. Which meant that was it. Five tapes later, and a whole ten hours of talking, there wasn’t anything else about cars to teach. How to fix a bent frame was explained, but without a lift, he couldn’t record or show new Stan how to go about fixing it. That little piece of information would just have to be lost. It probably wouldn’t be important later anyway.

“Okay, I think that’s it. This has been the Stan Pines guide to cars. If anything will come back to you, I’m sure it's this. It has to be. Take care of her for me.” He smiled at the camera one last time and gave a wave until Fids ended the recording.

With the paint on the car still drying he had to lean more on the crutch instead of back on the car. It would have been nicer if they could paint the car inside somewhere, but as long as it didn’t rain it would be fine. It looked nicer now, but the full reveal would be after they removed all the plastic from the glass.

“Are there any other tapes you want to make on skills you have?” Stan knew his way around cars almost as well as Ford did around math equations. But Stan had to have other skills, other than lying and cheating, that he’d want to remember. This one had just been the first to come to mind.

Stan shuffled over towards the porch, removing his face mask and eye goggles as he went to sit down on the steps. “Nah, not really. I mean, the only other thing I’m close to this good at is conning people and fighting.” There was boxing, but he’d never been that good at it. When dad had stuck them in boxing lessons, he’d sucked because he was doing it twice. Once for himself and once for Ford. It was the muscles he developed over the years that gave him an edge in fights. Not any real talent.

“Oh, come on, you know how to cook, don’t you? Ford sucks at that. Maybe you could start recording yourself making dinner or something so you can still cook for both of you once he’s back.” Fids was still removing all the plastic from the camera to bring back over to the bag on the porch, checking the lens but not seeing any paint on it.

He didn’t think he was that good of a cook, but he was a lot better than Ford. So maybe that was worth salvaging just so he wasn’t eating charcoal every day. It made him laugh. “Alright, fair point. I’ll think about it.”

He still needed to make a video for Ford and probably one for Fids but he wanted to wait until they were closer to finished before getting too far ahead of himself. Anything could happen over the next two months. Plus, he wanted to lay out the whole plan, all the curve balls, and leave it on a cliffhanger right before the grand finale.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to set up the camera down in the basement if they could hide it somewhere. Record everything as it goes down to show the new Stan. Allow Ford to watch it with fresh eyes knowing the whole story. Yeah, he’d have to see about that.

“Well, if we’re done out here, I should head home and pick up Tate from school.” He hesitates, closing up the bag of tapes on the porch and then stepping back so he’s facing Stan on the steps. “By the way, Easter is coming up pretty quickly. Would you maybe want to come over for it? You know, so you aren’t alone for the holiday?”

Stan finished the drink from the water bottle he’d grabbed off the porch smiling at the offer. Growing up Jewish meant he’d never celebrated the holiday but it had also been a decade since he’d celebrated Jewish holidays with anyone either. Instead of saying as such he just nodded, “Sure, it's probably about time your family meets your boss, isn’t it? I’m never one to turn down free food either. Just tell me what time to come over beforehand.”

“They’re already met Ford, Stan. They know you're different. You don’t have to pretend with them.” To an extent, he was still lying to his wife. How couldn’t he? She’d go nuts if she knew what he was doing with Stan preparing to kill a god. It was unthinkable.

Maybe he was a better liar than he gave himself credit for.

The smile he was wearing reached his eyes then, “That makes it easier then, doesn’t it? Oh, and what do you want the phrase to be? For if I get possessed? It has to be something that could come up in random conversation or out of the blue so Bill doesn’t pick up on it.”

Even though he was supposed to be leaving he hung around a few moments longer, thinking it over. “How about, pass me a pen my pencil broke?”

“Sure, that’s good enough. We probably won’t have to use it anyway.” It made a cold sense of dread settle in his chest thinking about why Bill was probably busy in his dimension. He couldn’t know, not for sure, if Ford was with him. But it seemed likely. It was selfish to want Bill gone, because that meant he could be hurting Ford. This had all become bigger than just getting Ford back.

He wasn’t going to remember Ford. Yeah, there would be the memories in his journal and the tapes. But the feelings? Those might never come back. He could hope, but not be sure. So, he needed to focus on getting the dominos lined up right and his new life squared away. Ford would just have to deal with it. And hopefully not come back more insane than when he’d left.

They’d make quite the pair with one having amnesia and the other needing to be sent to a mental hospital.

He watched Fids leave but stayed outside a while, watching the paint dry, before heading inside to find something to do. There was always something to be doing.

Chapter 25: Sins of the Father

Stan has never been so busy in his life but he has also never been happier.

He and Fids work down in the basement Monday through Friday, getting the portal closer and closer to being fixed every day. They’re more than back on schedule before the end of the first week alone. Fids does have to help him with moving stuff, only because of the crutch, but otherwise, they can both work on their separate parts of the project. Fiddleford even starts to relax before the end of the third day.

Evenings and weekends are filled with working on his memory journals. Having finished and filled the first one he had moved on to the second by now. Letters got written and put in a box he found in the attic. Stuff for Fids, Ford, and himself. And his parents. He wrote a small notebook for Mom, filled with kind words. She needed to know how much her love meant to him all this time. How it kept him going.

It went in a folder that Fids was supposed to mail if he died with a much shorter letter on top for if he just forgot himself.

Easter was nice. Even if he had never celebrated it he had to admit it was fun. Helping Fids hide eggs around the backyard in the morning for Tate to find. Watching the kid find them was even better though. He helped Fid's wife, Emma-May, cook while Fids and Tate played in the backyard. It was all painfully domestic. Nice.

It made it a little clearer just how bad his own family had been growing up. Sure, Fids wasn’t perfect, but it was a lot nicer. Fiddleford was a good dad and tried to be a good husband.

He put off calling his mother for two weeks. It wasn’t completely intentional. He got busy working on the portal, writing down memories, and even getting a lawyer a couple of towns over to straighten out his legal issues. Lawsuits, taxes, and those warrants. It wasn’t cheap but walking out with another folder of paperwork and having everything tied off and handled made every cent worth it.

Debts paid, warrants dismissed (after spending more stupid money), and the audit he hadn’t been aware of for taxes was cleared up with a very annoyed tax agent. The letters of confirmation would come with time over the next year and slowly it would be like the last ten years never happened. Or at least his crimes.

Standing in the phone booth a couple blocks down from his bank with a pocket of quarters should have made this call easy. But it wasn’t.

Next week the portal would be finished and this was going to be the last time he spoke with his mother. And, if he got up the nerve to ask, pops too. Then he’d be gone, forget everything, and New Stan would probably never see them again. Which was fine, but.

Just hard.

It feels like they’re the ones dying even though it's him. Like he found out they’ll both be in an accident next week and he’ll miss their funerals. There's so much to say and not enough time to say it all.

He can’t say it all. Or he’ll get called crazy.

He puts in two quarters and finally works up the courage to dial Mom’s phone line for work. It only rings twice before she picks up.

“Hey ma, can you talk?” It's tradition that he calls her phone first, in case Dad’s home, and then she calls him back on the landline if it's safe. Guessing by the call hanging up immediately he assumes dad’s not around. Or she just needs to talk to him.

It's barely a minute before the phone rings and he picks it up again to her almost yelling. “Stanley Pines, don’t scare me like that again! It’s been nine months since you last called! What was I supposed to think? I thought you were dead!” She’s rambling and he smiles sadly because of it. If only she knew the truth.

“Calm down Mom. I’m sorry I went so long without calling. A lot of stuff happened since the start of the year and I just couldn’t. You know how work is. But I’m fine. Really. Better than fine actually. More recently I came into a substantial amount of money. It's part of what kept me so busy, but we can talk now.” He leans back against the glass surrounding this phone booth to take some weight off the crutch.

For a few seconds, she sounds like she’s lighting up a cigarette on the other end of the line before talking again, “Well. I’m still not happy with you. But I’m glad that one of your business ideas paid off. Which one was it?”

Damn. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t focus on that part. But he can’t lie to Mom any more than he already has. “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell Dad.”

“I swear on my real gold jewelry.” He can hear her crossing her heart with her fingers because of the jingling caused by her bracelets.

“I won the lottery for a large amount of money. I won’t say how much, but it was a lot. Even after taxes.” He tucks the phone in against his shoulder and pulls out his own pack of smokes and lighter, cracking the door in here so he can smoke.

He’ll be dead soon anyway, so why not?

For a long time, the other end of the line is silent, like mom is frozen in the kitchen out of shock. It takes a little bit before she’s able to talk again. “Honey, that’s great! What a stroke of good luck! I mean, what are you going to do with it? Buy a house? Start up a store? The possibilities are endless.”

That’s the difference between her and dad. She’s happy for him and just like Fids doesn’t want anything from him either. His being happy and succeeding, no matter how he goes about it, is all she wants.

“I’m not too sure yet. I had a lot of debts to take care of first. Which is what kept me so busy. But I put most of what’s left in some special accounts to grow it with interest.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Got myself a tax agent and financial advisor so I don’t piss it away.” Fids counts as a financial advisor and on top of that, he was free. “It’ll just stay there for now until I decide what to do with it. Not like it's going anywhere.”

“That’s a very smart decision, Stanley. I’m proud of you for taking the time to really think about it.” He can hear her taking a drag from her smoke and he mirrors her. It's like he’s back in high school and they snuck out on the porch to smoke together while Ford does homework and Dad watches TV.

“Last time we talked, you brushed over the idea of coming home to visit. But, do you think that might be possible? I’ll meet you somewhere, but I haven’t seen you in a long time Stanley. It would be good to be able to hug you and see how tall you’ve gotten.”

This was a common argument between them. Since leaving home Mom had pretty much never stopped trying to call him back. Saying Dad would get over it for a while and then changing to offering to meet somewhere away from the house and shop. Being banned from Jersey had made it impossible to visit. But now? Hell, if he wasn’t going to forget everything, he’d take her up on the offer and drive there right after the warrants cleared in a few months.

“Mom, I’m twenty-seven. Almost twenty-eight. I stopped growing years ago.”

“Yes? And? I haven’t seen you since you were seventeen Stanley!” Her voice is sad and he understands the sentiment. Why not make her happy, just this once? He might not get the chance again.

“You know what? Screw it. Sure, I can come to visit. Not for a couple of weeks, but I’ll drive out after I take care of some legal stuff. It would be good to see you. I’ve missed you too Mom. More than I can ever say.” Another drag from his smoke keeps him from getting emotional about this.

Mom choked on the other end on her smoke probably not expecting him to agree so easily when he usually dances around it before saying ‘maybe someday’ again. “You're serious? You’ll come to visit?” Damn, he didn’t mean to make her cry.

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’d love to see you ma. Can’t think of anything I’d rather spend my money on. And, speaking of, I’m going to send you a check. Just for you though. Not dad. I want you to open up a separate account he isn’t on and stick it in there. He’s not getting a damn penny from me. Doesn’t deserve it.” He keeps his anger mostly under control but firm enough that he sounds serious.

For a minute the other end of the line is quiet other than some sniffling and rustling suggesting mom is cleaning up tears and blowing her nose.

“Honey, you don’t have to do that. You know we do just fine. Not great, but well enough here. Having you visit will be more than enough for me. Spend it on a plane ticket or something and your hotel.”

This is where he gets his heart from and he does let a couple of tears fall out while he blows a puff of smoke out of the phone booth. “Too late to take it back. I’ve already written the check and closed up the envelope. I just wanted to let you know it's on the way before sending it so you know to keep an eye on the mail. You deserve it, Mom, more than anyone. You supported me even at my worst and loved me no matter what I did. So, I don’t want to hear any more arguments. Just tell me you’ll keep it separate and not tell Dad, okay?”

More sniffling, but she recovers faster this time. “Alright, fine. I know you can be stubborn. I will, I’ll go open one up tomorrow for when it gets here. But it better not be for too much Stan, I mean it. That’s your money and you shouldn’t give all of it away.”

“I know and I’m not. Can’t promise it's not a lot to you. It isn’t much compared to the full amount I have if that makes you feel better though.” He tapes out the smoke, tossing it on the sidewalk outside and closing the door. “I included a couple of pictures too just for you. Since I know we haven’t exchanged any in years. Should hold you over until I can make the trip out there this summer.”

“You better not be lying about that. Don’t get my hopes up and pay me off with money and gifts just to disappear again. I love you Stanley so try to call more often now that you’re a little more stable. Okay?”

He nods, glancing around the street as he stands up a little straighter. This was the easy part of the conversation. This next part is hard. But it's gotta happen. Because after this he’s never talking to Dad again.

“I’m not ma, I promise on my car. And I will just as soon as I get settled and have a proper phone number, I’ll give it to you. Then you can call me for a change. Once I have a stable address you can maybe send me some of those cookies you used to make too.” He’s smiling again but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You got yourself a deal.” The line goes quiet between them. There never is that much to talk about. These calls are mostly for comfort and check-ins anyway. Mom makes sure he’s not dead and Stanley gathers a little more strength to keep going. He needs that now.

“Look,” he has to take a big breath to make himself continue, “Is Dad home? I want to talk to him.”

“Stanley, I don’t think that’s a good idea. And he’s down in the shop working anyway. I could tell him you asked about him? Maybe he’ll call you back later?” She sounds unsure which is fair since he’s never asked to talk to him before. They haven’t spoken in ten years.

“I don’t care. I need you to go tell him I’m on the phone and I’ve got something important to talk about with him. Can you go watch the shop for a few minutes while we talk? I’ll keep it short, promise.” Part of him is hoping she says no and refuses. At least he could say he tried.

But instead, she just sighs. “Fine. Don’t hang up, I’ll see if I can talk him into it.”

He adds half a dozen more quarters to the pay phone but can’t relax with the line silent. Any second Dad’s voice is going to come on the line with its usual hatred, anger, and painful indifference.

It's okay. Just get through what you have to say and get it out. Then this will be over with and he never has to think about Dad again. If their relationship wasn’t ruined before, it certainly will be now. Dad never did take well to being stood up too. But he’s across the country and can’t kick his ass from Jersey.

It may only be five minutes of silence but it feels like an hour before he hears the phone get picked back up on the other end. He waits for Filbrick to say something even though he knows he’s there. During the silence that follows, he adds two more quarters because this might take a while with how little Dad talks.

“Stanley.” He finally says, voice calm and controlled. He hates it. Dad has rarely ever shown an emotion above anger and it annoys the shit out of him. How did mom ever marry him?

For a minute words fail him. They usually do when it comes to Dad, but this is ridiculous. He’s not going to get hit this far away. Maybe yelled at, or hung up on, but that’s fine.

“Hey, Dad.” He’s proud of how calm and even his voice sounds.

“What do you want?” It’s a faster answer than he was expecting but he pushes on anyway.

“I just want you to listen to me talk for a few minutes. I’m not looking for forgiveness or anything. Just sit there, be your usual brooding self, and listen. Can you do that for me? Then I’ll never bother you again.”

He knew it would take Dad a while to respond, but he held firm not continuing without getting some sign of agreement. A grumbled fine a minute later is enough.

He shifts which hand is holding the phone before continuing. “Ten years ago, when you threw me out, I could tell you’d been wanting to do it for a long time. When you and Mom found out it was twins you only wanted one of us, Ford, and I was just a waste of space. You told me so at every opportunity, beat me anytime I wasn’t perfect which was often, and ruined my self-worth. And I’ve carried that with me for ten long years. Always secretly wanting to make you proud but never able to get out from under the knowledge that I’m not good enough.”

He pauses to take in a breath, letting it out, and not caring if it comes across the call. “Yeah, I made a mistake. Lots of them. But I didn’t break Ford’s project. Not on purpose. You won’t believe me and that’s fine. I just had to say it for myself. You were an awful father to me. No kid should grow up under so much pressure. Eventually, it drove Ford and me apart. And yeah, I played a part, but so did you. So did he. And I hate you for it. For everything.”

He has to swap the phone back because it's awkward using the crutch while holding the phone. “Pretty soon I’m going to fix every mistake I ever made. And you’ll never hear from me again, just like you always wanted. You can go back to having two sons and I’ll be erased from the family tree. I just had to tell you all that before, before I go.” He stops himself before he can say anything else. He’s said enough, everything he needed to get off his chest. It makes him feel lighter even if Dad doesn’t give a shit. That’s okay. He can live with that for this last week. Then he'll never have to think about it again.

The silence on the other end of the line is so absolute that he checks twice over five minutes if the call dropped. But it's still going, so he adds more quarters while leaning against the glass again to hear the old man’s response. He hasn’t hung up, as expected, and he isn’t yelling either which is weird. Curiosity keeps him from hanging up and makes him wait it out.

“How much trouble are you in, Stanley?” Dad’s question isn’t angry, still indifferent, but it makes the hair on his arms stand up. Maybe he was a little too honest here, but he never expected him to ask something like that.

His voice is less steady as he responds, “I never said I was in trouble. Just that you’d never hear from me again.” He avoids the question.

“Is it money? Are you calling trying to guilt trip me into bailing you out of jail?” Now anger leeks into Dad’s voice just a little.

Stan is confused now with his brows furrowed. “What? No, of course not. If I haven’t called you in the last ten years, why would I call asking for money now?”

The line is dead for another minute before Dad continues. “Ten years of silence, of bumming around doing who knows what, and you’ve never asked to talk to me. I know you’ve been talking to your mother, I’m not stupid. Why now? Why talk to me now? What’s going on with you that you feel like you need to say goodbye? Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?”

Stan’s blood runs cold and he can’t even be impressed by how this is the most he’s ever heard Dad talk in one sitting. He said too much earlier and Dad knows something’s up.

Fuck. How the hell could he know? He wants to hang up the phone and drive home. If he was smart he would. Dad can’t call him after he walks away because he doesn’t know he’s at Ford’s place.

He considers lying again, saying he’s just in trouble with a mob and they’re going to kill him next week. That would be easier than explaining what’s going on. Be more realistic too. But the part of him that misses dad, the tiny part, wins out and he stays on the line. “Alright. Fine, you got me. It is a goodbye. That doesn’t matter anyway. Or have you lost your memory? I don’t matter Dad.” His voice reeks of self-hatred and he hopes it’ll make Dad mad enough to hang up the phone.

He's long since lost control of the conversation but wants Dad to be the one to end it. Instead, the phone stays on the line for another long time. It’s a good thing he has enough quarters for this stupid game, whatever Dad’s getting at.

“Stanley.” Then more silence. Like dad doesn’t know what to say or can’t make himself say it. But he’s got all afternoon to wait. The only other thing he needs to do today is check in with Fids on the phone and record himself making dinner again.

He tries again. “Stanley. I was hard on you, I know that, but whatever you’re thinking about doing. Don’t.”

Now he’s the one shocked into silence. It almost sounds like Dad is trying to say he cares or something. Almost.  “Fuck you. You don’t get to care now. You don’t get to beat on me for eighteen years, kick me out to fend for myself on the streets, and then act like you give a single shit about me ten years later just because you think I’m about to kill myself!”

This is the part where he’d get his ass beat if they were talking in person but with so much distance between them, he’s safe. He can be honest without consequences now.

This hurts though. So much more than he thought it would. It makes his chest feel like it’s being cut open with a razor. He’s crying too, using his free hand to wipe them away like Dad can see him.

Another painfully long silence passes, dragging on and requiring another quarter. He can hear Dad thinking over the phone like Ford used to do. He should just hang up and end this. In a week it won’t matter that he never got closure on this anyway. “Goodbye, Dad.”

He gets the phone halfway to the receiver before he hears Filbrick yell something. It makes him pause, as intended, and puts the phone back to his ear. “What now? Spit it out or I’m hanging up.”

“What happened to Ford’s science project? I want to know what happened Stanley. Tell me.”

It's silly that Fiddleford thinks he’s so strong all the time because right now he feels ten years old again crying over a skinned knee. He can’t do this, can’t deal with all the feelings this is bringing up. He could barely tell Fids the story without sobbing, he can't tell Dad.

He laughs, because it’s the only thing he can think to do, and it goes on for a minute because this is ridiculous. Dad wants to hear his side of the story now, ten years later, for what?

“Fine, you want the story? You got it.” His voice is shaking and so is the hand holding the phone. “Ford told me if he got that scholarship he was going to go to that school. Instead of us sailing on our boat, if you remember. So, the night before his presentation I went back to the school. I was scared. No prospects Dad. You were going to throw me out after Ford went to school anyway.” He has to stop for a minute because even if he’s crying, he will not let Dad hear him sobbing.

“I didn’t want him to leave. To be alone. I stood there thinking about sabotaging it, but instead, I punched the table it was on. Made a panel pop off, and made a little smoke, but it kept going. It was still moving when I left it. And before you call bullshit, I know it’s just my word but you fucking asked. I know I should have told Ford. He could have made sure it was fine. Still would have been mad, but he wouldn’t have missed out on that opportunity and I, I. I’m sorry. Not a day goes by where I’m not.” He tucks his face into his sweater and aims the bottom half of the phone away to cover up the sob he lets out.

He didn’t think he’d go through so many quarters. Ten minutes with Mom and maybe five with Dad before getting hung up on. Nothing about this conversation is familiar. Has Dad changed in the last ten years? Seems hard to believe. But he is more talkative than before.

“Have you told your brother this?” His voice is more level now, less angry, which doesn’t fit either.

What the fuck is this?

“I was trying to right before you threw me out. Haven’t spoken to him since.” His voice sounds ruined and Dad definitely knows he’s crying. He’s just not calling it out.

“I’ll call him for you, if you want, see if he’d be willing to talk. But whatever it is, whatever you’re doing that’s making you say all this has got to stop. It would break your mother’s heart to have to plan your funeral. Might even make me frown some.”

All the sadness runs right out of him and is replaced with shock as he pulls back the phone to stare at it.

This is bad. Really fucking bad.

Dad can’t call Ford, because right now he’s Ford. And he can’t fake his way through that conversation.

Dad would know.

Fuck.

That’s not even mentioning that he’s pretty sure Dad just made a joke about his funeral.

Dad. Making a joke.

Those words have never been in the same country before much less the same sentence when it comes to Dad.

The phone prompts him for another quarter and he puts in two more before putting the receiver back to his ear. His mouth moves faster than his brain can when he lies. “I don’t need you to get him to forgive me. It wouldn’t make a difference. I have to do this and there isn’t anything you could say to make me change my mind.” Half of that’s true and half-truths are the only way he’s ever been able to trick him before. Hopefully, it still works.

“There has to be something Stan. Something you want. Do you want to come home? To visit? Because you know I can’t just let you go through with this!” The anger is back but-

Does Dad sound scared?

Is that what this is?

Does he care about him?

He doesn’t need to feel worse about all this than he already does and Dad isn’t making that easy. He never has made anything easy.

This call was a mistake.

He would have rather died thinking he was hated than die knowing he wasn’t.

Shame fills him for putting Dad through this. For being too honest. He should have lied a little more and hidden this better. Despite how terrible he was as a father, he’s still Dad. He takes in a shaky breath and lets it out.

“Listen. It’s all going to be okay. I’m not dying. I’m not killing myself. But it is nice to know you’d care if I did. You suck, but I love you too, alright? I’m running out of quarters here from all your dramatic pausing. I have to go. Just know that, okay? I love you.” Before he can lose the nerve, he turns the phone around and ends the call.

He doesn’t want to know if Dad would say it back or not. He’d rather die not knowing.

The phone starts ringing while he’s gathering himself and part of him wants to pick it up. But the other half can’t stand the idea that Dad won’t say it back. Because he probably wouldn’t. He doesn’t answer and just leaves the phone booth, letting the phone ring over and over while he gets in the car and heads home.

Just seven more days and then everything’s over. Seven more.

Chapter 26: Final Act

Notes:

IT'S FINALLY HERE OH MY GOD. I'm so excited and I'm so happy we all made it! I didn't stop working on this for twelve hours in my excitement. Please enjoy and let me know what you think in the comments!

Telling Dad something so close to the truth and being so completely honest might have just become the next biggest mistake he’d ever made.

When he got home, after mailing Mom’s letter, Ford’s phone already had two voicemails. Both are a mix of their parents. Dad was telling Ford that Stanley seemed to be planning on killing himself after calling from an Oregon payphone. Mom was begging Ford to go to the police since he lives in the state to file a missing persons report to try and find him before something bad happened.

Both of them made him feel terrible.

All he wanted was a goodbye and he’d managed to screw that up too. Now both his parents were worried sick and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He couldn’t call back and tell them things were okay. He couldn’t pretend to be Ford and offer reassurance. He just had to go about his life knowing about it.

At least they didn’t spam the phone with calls that first night so he was able to call Fids, let him know he was alive, and then go about making dinner as planned.

It weighed on him though over the coming days. More calls came in from both of them, asking if Ford was okay.

Now they were worried about Ford too because he wasn’t strong enough or skilled enough to pick up the phone and call back as his brother. He kept this from Fids, knowing it would only make him anxious, and unplugged the phone line during the day while Fiddleford was over.

He couldn’t bring himself to delete every new message. He listened to each one feeling worse and worse as they got more worried. Being paranoid, he moved his car over to Fid's house just in case they called the local police to come by to check on Ford. Which turned out to be a smart move because he’d barely been home two hours after dropping it off when they showed up.

They bought every lie he spun about the phone line being down and about him not having a single clue where Stanley was. The police left but the phone kept ringing. The voicemails were angry now, Dad yelling mostly, about him not answering the phone. About not caring about his brother.

Ford would probably, maybe, change his tune once he was back. Maybe.

He left the phone completely unplugged from then on unable to stand the constant ringing in the kitchen. It was throwing him off his groove and ruining this. He needed to focus and finish up some tapes. He made the one for Ford, filling up the two whole hours, and then another for Mom and Dad.

It was becoming very clear that Ford would have to tell them some form of the truth when everything was done. What better way than with their own tape? He also made one for Fids and added it to the very full box making up his life.

But once that was done all that was left was a tape for himself, his new self. It was hard and he had to restart it almost seven times to tape over it. But he did get it done, label it, and toss it in the box.

That was it. His whole life narrowed down to a bunch of tapes, letters, and journals of memories.

He added to it, because it didn’t feel like enough.

He made a tape going over every single item in his bedroom and telling its story.

Maybe, just maybe, if he filled in enough of his life for the new Stan he’d remember.

It was weird. Before these last few weeks, he was happy, calm, and looking forward to being gone. Now he felt trapped and scared. Terrified.

He was going to forget everything, everyone, and leave a big mess for Ford to clean up with their parents.

There was a lot he was leaving to Ford or Fids in his absence.

His confirmation papers would need to be gone through by someone who knew what they meant. He was in many ways going to be helpless after this and relying heavily on other people.

That’s what scared him the most. Not dying. Not going away. Not forgetting.

Leaving himself in the care of others.

What if Fids couldn’t get Stanford to listen and watch the tape?

What if he didn’t give a shit anyway?

What if Fids abandoned him too?

Took his cut and left him on the street to die.

There were so many things that could happen and he wasn’t going to be around to protect himself. That toughness that had been drilled into him was going away in all likelihood. Leaving him vulnerable like a turtle without its shell.

There was also the possibility of Bill just refusing to possess him. That could happen even if he thought it unlikely. Or what if Bill didn’t keep his word and Ford was dead this whole time?

He could be playing Stan like a chump and he’d have no clue.

Not knowing was terrifying in a way he’d never experienced before.

For the first time since all this started, since he made the plan with Fiddleford and knew how this would go, he let himself cry. Long and hard the night before.

Everything was ready, Fids had the kill switch and remote installed outside.

It was go time.

But he sobbed and shook like a baby for several hours first.

Before falling asleep he did something he hadn’t done since he was just a boy. He prayed that just this once Ford would look after him. After doing it for Ford over and over for years as kids, he hoped Ford could do it just this once for him.

Then, he changed his memory again, and went to sleep knowing that come morning his life was going to end, and not necessarily for the better.

It was safe to say Fiddleford was nervous. Today was the day. THE day. And they were going to get Ford back. Maybe see Bill.

Today was the day he might have to kill Stanley.

Erase him from existence.

It hurt.

His whole chest hurt leaving the house in Stanley’s car to drive over to the shack. He parked the car around back, out of sight unless you walked around the house, before going inside.

The house was clean and he knew Stanley had been spending a lot of time making the house just right for Ford’s return. Cleaning, organizing, and putting things back how they were before his arrival.

It was weird, seeing things put back after Stanley had kept them a specific way for so long. Had it only been three months since his arrival in town? Two since they met? It felt like so much longer and also not enough time all at once.

The box of memories was upstairs in Stan’s room, the memory gun was downstairs in the closet in the lab. Which was where he was supposed to hide until the right moment.

Stan hadn’t elaborated on what that meant. He just said ‘You’ll know’ which wasn’t helpful.

They’d talked everything over, gone over the plan half a dozen times, so there wasn’t anything more to say while they both sat in the kitchen together.

Stan had said his goodbyes. Written everything he could down. Hundreds of stories, thoughts, feelings. Everything he could for his new self. For the new Stan. And it wasn’t enough, nothing would feel like enough.

He just had to live with that for a few more hours. Live with everything for a few more hours.

He finished his coffee and washed the cup in the sink before silently heading for the basement with Fids.

There wasn’t going to be a lot of time between now and opening the portal, not any time for changing his memories again. Now he was playing the part. Fully.

Mad scientist teaming up with an evil god who hated his brother.

That’s what his final role was.

They worked on finishing up the last panel together, crossing wires and splitting them little by little, dragging it out. Neither of them wanted it to be finished, because that meant they had to start it up. That this nice little world they’d been living in for a few weeks would end.

But working together the last panel took less than an hour leaving them standing in the basement with everything ready.

Maybe it made him weak but he needed to go upstairs and get some fresh air one more time.

He left Fids down in the basement, letting him go into the closet by himself. Then, he’d come back down here and deal with all this. He just needed a smoke.

It took effort to hold himself together now. He couldn’t cry, that didn’t fit his role, but this was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

Outside on the front porch, he stayed standing and lit up a smoke just looking around at the yard. Ford’s newly painted car. The green grass growing in on the lawn. The light breeze blowing through the trees.

Hours from now, he might be thrown out on this very lawn and back into his car with all his crap again.

Not knowing how to drive or who he was before.

Or, maybe this would be his new home.

Maybe Ford would let him stay and help him learn who he was.

Or to become who the new Stan would be.

No better way to get a fresh start and try again as brothers, if Ford wanted that.

His heart both jumped up into his throat and fell into his stomach when an unknown car started down the driveway. Not a police car, but something closer to a rental car. He put the smoke out on his arm and quickly ducked inside to lock the door before the car could catch sight of him.

Shit.

He stayed at the door, peeking out through the small window, as the car parked next to Ford’s and then two people got out.

Mom and Dad.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

This could not have been worse. Okay, maybe yesterday would have been bad, but today was also really really really bad. Watching them both start towards the door he covered the window back up and stood there dumbly.

What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t ignore them or they’d call the police. But he couldn’t let them in either. Should he go change into his Ford outfit? No, Dad would know he’s lying.

But him being home alone without Ford makes it look like-

Shit. They’ll think he murdered Ford.

Which, okay, not too far off, but not true. Not at all.

Maybe he could leave them on the porch and go get the memory gun? No. He couldn’t do that. But there isn’t time to explain everything either. He can’t.

What would an evil scientist who hates his brother do?

Probably kill them.

Dad knocks on the door loud and hard like he’s going to beat up whoever’s home.

He can’t kill them. But maybe he could do something else?

What’s evil but not killing your family evil?

Breath. Breath. Breath. Play it cool. You can do this.

He shifts over to the door and does his best to look sickly and tired. Which isn’t hard because his unkept long hair and the crutch he’s using to stand add to the act. Maybe Dad won’t beat him up if he sees he’s injured. Before he can change his mind, he unlocks the door and pulls it open.

This is a million times harder than facing Bill will be. He already knows it. Because as soon as he opens the door both of them are looking at him.

Can they not tell who he is?

The silence with the door open drags on and he can see both of them trying to figure out which twin he is. Has ten years away from Jersey made it that hard to tell?

Mom breaks the silence first with a meek word, “Stanley?” And she looks like she’s on the verge of crying. He can’t even bring himself to smile and just looks between them sadly.

“Yeah, it's me. Come on in-“ But before he can finish Mom has already thrown herself through the doorway and pulled him into a hug. It almost makes him fall over because of his crutch but he leans on the wall near the door to catch himself.

“Hey, easy there. It’s not like it’s been a while.” It’s a poor joke and he knows it, but mom just sobs louder into his chest. When he looks up from her and at Dad, he looks pissed, hands clenched at his side and rage in his eyes. He’s not wearing his usual shades, probably because it's too cloudy to see much outside otherwise.

“Seriously, it looks like it's going to rain. Come inside. We should talk and, uh, can you let go? I can’t stand real well with my foot broken.” Mom all but throws herself back, looking him up and down and spotting his cast and the crutch he’s using.

 “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Yes, we’ll come in. Where is your brother?” He shifts back, moving away from the door slowly. He can move a lot faster with his crutch than this but it sells the sad pathetic guy look more. He shifts over to stand near the couch while they both come in and close the door.

Have they ever been here before?

Was flying out here really necessary?

Did they do this for him?

Fuck he’s a bad kid.

“Ford’s just downstairs working on something.” He pauses, looking between them before his gaze settles on Dad’s. “Dad, can you come downstairs with me? I think the three of us are long overdue for a talk. If you don’t mind staying up here, mom?”

Mom is looking around the room, taking in everything about the space. They definitely haven’t been here before. “Oh, I suppose so. But, just, behave alright? I don’t want anyone coming upstairs with a bloody nose, got it?” She looks between both of them, nervous, but Dad just nods while clenching his fists.

“Come on Dad, basements this way.” He leads the way through the house to the basement door and the journey is made in silence. Mostly. He manages to knock his crutch around to hide the sound of him locking the basement door so Mom can’t follow. Then they take the elevator down together to the third floor.

“He’s just through there.” He lets Dad walk first through the lab, unable to see how he feels about seeing the place, and follows him into the portal room.

Before it can become obvious in the dark that Ford isn’t in here, because he’s not yet, he pulls out the pair of handcuffs he’d been saving and attaches one to Dad’s wrist and the other to one of the many pipes on the wall.

He was braced for it, prepared even, but the sock to the nose when Dad turns around still knocks him back off his feet and leaves him tumbling to the dirt floor. “What the fuck Stanley! Where the fuck is Ford!”

Carefully he gets back up off the floor and gets his crutch back under his arm. He was knocked out of reach from Dad’s wrath thankfully otherwise he’d have a lot more than a broken nose.

Good thing he’s not on blood thinners anymore.

“Shut up. I have work to do.” It hurts to spit out, it hurts to do this. But it's gotta happen. Has to be this way.

He leaves him alone chained in the dark portal room and goes back into the lab. Or starts too until he sees that Fids is standing in the doorway looking at Filbrick with something close to horror.

“Get the fuck back in the closet!” He yells at Fids.

Everything about this is unraveling. He’ll have to modify his memories again so Bill doesn’t know Fids is down here. Fuck.

“Stanley, what the hell is your father doing here!? And why is he chained to the wall!”

He pushes Fids, just a little, so he can get into the lab and shut the portal room door where Dad is yelling at him and calling him every name under the sun.

“Look. My parents showed up and I’m improvising. Get in the closet, please. We need to do this now, before my mom gets wise upstairs.” He insists, giving Fids a nudge towards the closet and giving him a pleading look.

Well, that went to shit fast. What the hell are Stan’s parents doing here? “Stan- “

“Just go, please. We’ve got maybe ten minutes before my mom tries to get down here and I don’t have another pair of handcuffs.”

They stand, looking at each other, for several long seconds with Filbrick yelling through the door. But Fids goes back into the closet and closes the door again.

It takes longer than he likes to focus and adjust his memory again. But after a few minutes, he’s rushing around the lab, flipping switches and turning nobs while in the portal room, it's slowly powering up.

Filbrick comes into view as the lights turn on and it's clear he’s trying to get out of the handcuffs. Yelling still, but less mad and more afraid. God, he’s scaring Dad. That’s-

While the portal is warming up, he removes the handcuff key from his piercing and puts it on the desk with a sticky note for whoever eventually unlocks the cuffs.

He grabs a rag and cleans up the blood, fixing his nose with a loud crack in the room full of buzzing equipment. So close. So incredibly close.

“Stanley? What’s going on?” He whirls around from the desk in surprise to see Mom standing down in the doorway that leads to the elevator. She looks frightened, scared, and he doesn’t blame her.

It’s not without merit. But he can’t tell her the truth. He can only tell her lies. Kinda.

“Mom, I’m bringing Ford back. It’s a really long story, one we don’t have time for. But I need you to trust me on this. Please.”

“What are you talking about, where is he?” She sounds so worried and he hates to be the cause of it.

“He’s through that portal.” He motions her over and points at it through the glass. “But it's not safe. I need you to stay in here. No matter what happens, stay here away from it. Okay?” He presses another couple of switches and buttons and the light in the other room gets brighter, almost at full strength. “Please?” He turns and finds that she’s moved to stand right next to him.

She can’t possibly understand. He barely does. But, after a second, she steps back and nods.

God, nobody but Mom would let him do something this crazy.

“I love you, and Dad too. Stay out of sight, don’t let him see you.” He moves around her, turns a key, and then opens the door into the portal room to head through, closing it behind him.

Dad’s gone from yelling at him to looking toward the portal at the other end of the room. He looks mad still, a tiny bit curious, but mostly scared. Very scared.

He doesn’t say anything and moves further into the room, just outside the safety line in front of the portal where the lever is. It's all that’s left to do.

He hesitates, unsure of what will happen.

Anything could happen after Mom and Dad showing up.

But he has to do this anyway.

Before he can change his mind or chicken out, he just yanks it to the left and steps back a couple of feet while the portal opens up. The portal gets brighter, flashing white while the circle around it runs through the rainbow. It's loud too, with equipment in the other room working overtime and the metal in here thrumming with electricity and power.

It feels like years, aging him decades, standing there waiting for Ford to come through. The longer time goes on the harder it is to hold it together.

He turns to look at Dad and finds he’s being stared at. All he can do is bring up a finger and put it to his lips. Please, just stay quiet. Maybe Bill won’t even notice the extra audience member.

For such a big moment and building it up so much in his head, it's rather simple. It all happens so fast that he almost misses it. There’s a small flash of the portal, the light almost going out and then snapping back, and then Ford’s falling through towards the ground.

He doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t miss in throwing himself towards where Ford’s going to land and catches him, sending both of them falling hard to the ground due to Ford’s momentum. It snaps the crutch in the tumble but that’s fine.

“Ford? Are you alright?” He shifts up onto both knees and winces looking at him. He looks like shit. His clothes are cut, his neck is a bright purple and red color, and his hair is far too long like he hasn’t cut it since going through.

But he has a heartbeat. He’s breathing. He’s alive. “Ford? Wake up! Wake up!” He shakes him a little, desperate to have at least a moment before what’s next.

Everything is really hazy. He thinks he can hear words, distantly, but his ears aren’t fully processing what’s being said.

Everything hurts. His neck hurts, it hurts to breathe. He can’t open his eyes. That hurts too.

Ugh. Why does the ground feel so hard?

Wait.

Ground?

He should be strung up against a brick wall. Not the ground.

Stanley gets up, standing on his broken foot, and drags Ford away, off to the side of the room opposite from Dad. It hurts, sending a shooting pain up his leg, but it's not like he has a choice. Ford needs to be out of the way when Bill comes through.

Fiddleford gets quite a surprise when he comes out of the closet and runs into Stan’s mom. They both jump but he slaps a hand over her mouth before she can scream. “Calm down. It’s just me, Fiddleford. Don’t scream. We need to be quiet.” He removes his hand and she looks shaken, terrified, but he understands. So is he.

He watches, with her, through the one-way glass as the portal powers up the rest of the way.

“What’s happening? What’s going on?” Caryn is on the verge of crying. She knows Fiddleford, having met him at Ford’s college graduation, but that’s all she has to go off of. That and her trust in Stanley.

“Long story that I’ll tell you if we survive. Just-“ But then the portal shifts and something comes through. That’s his cue to hit the kill switch. He fumbles it out of his pocket and hits the button hard.

Why isn’t it shutting off?

He hits it again.

A third time.

No dice.

He fumbles for a screwdriver to open up the back and see if maybe the batteries are in wrong. He can hear Stan yelling in the other room, not quite able to make it out, but just stares inside the battery compartment.

Inside is a rock.

One just heavy enough that he didn’t notice Stan switched out the batteries for it.

He could try and find some replacements, but if Stan sabotaged this then he probably removed any replacements from the lab.

He’s going to have to use the gun and it makes his heart sink even deeper in his chest.

“Stanley?” The words are clearer now and he can just make them out, just spit out some of his own. But he still can’t open his eyes. Why can’t he see?

But he can feel. He’s being pulled up into a hug that he can’t return. His body won’t run correctly.

No. Don’t, don’t pull away. “Stan?” It comes out choked and he tries really hard to open his eyes and reach with one hand.

Then the touch is gone and he’s left sitting slumped back against a wall.

That’s enough. He can’t do anymore. That’s all the reunion they get, apparently.

Good enough.

He walks, painfully, back to the center of the room facing the portal again, and waits. It's only a matter of time until-

Caryn desperately wants to understand, to have one foot back under herself, but this is all just too much. She looks into the room, seeing Ford propped up off to the side away from Filbrick.

She can at least make that connection.

Ford wasn’t here before. He was somewhere else. But Stan brought him back.

But who’s he? Who are they hiding from?

Surely, he doesn’t mean Ford. He can’t even sit up on his own. He’s injured.

She tries to go for the door, to go into the room, but Fiddleford pulls her back by her arm. “Stop, going in there right now is a death sentence. He’ll kill you. Just, get down with me.” He pulls her over towards the desk right before there’s another burst of energy in the other room. One strong enough to push the door between the portal room and the lab open.

“But, that’s my family in there. I can’t just stay here. My sons, my husband- “

“I know. You weren’t supposed to be here for this part. Just stay quiet and don’t move. It’ll be okay.” He keeps a tight hold on her arm in case she decides to bolt but in the next moment, she seems frozen with fear.

Bill’s laughter fills the basement, echoing around and bouncing off the walls and shaking the room.

Now Ford finds the strength to open his eyes. They blur for a second, but that’s Bill.

No. That’s Bill.

No. No. No.

He’s home. But that’s Bill.

The basement comes into focus. But this picture is wrong.

Theres Stanley, but-

What’s Dad doing here? Why is Dad chained to the wall across the room?

Their eyes meet for a second and somehow it makes his body sober up quickly. His arms and legs move again and his eyes open the rest of the way. The first attempt to stand fails and he ends up back on the floor, sprawling, but he tries again.

Stanley throws on a nice big smile and relaxes his shoulders like he’s sitting on the couch watching TV. When Bill comes through seconds later, he’s standing there ready to greet him like an old friend.

“MY, MY, MY, it is good to be here in the flesh!” Bill comes through the portal, causing another flash of light throughout the room, and then he’s there. Just hovering not too far in front of Stanley and looking around the room. Taking in Ford. Filbrick. Stan.

“About damn time you got here Bill! You have no idea the fucking day I’ve had.” He turns his gaze on Dad and glares at him, shocking himself by making the old guy flinch. But then he turns back to Bill with a shit-eating grin.

This picture couldn’t be more wrong if it tried.

That’s Stanley, but not his Stan.

Stan would never, ever, grin at Bill like that.

He wouldn’t have cuffed Dad to a wall either.

Ford forces himself to stand but has to lean heavily back against the wall so he can stay upright.

This is actually a million times worse than when he’d accidentally gone through the portal during the test with Ford. Before, it was a moment of fear and then it was gone minutes later.

Now?

He can feel the fear creeping into his bones, locking him in place as Bill’s voice bellows through the basement. Caryn looks just as terrified, looking at him with wide eyes and pale as a ghost. At least he’s not the only one afraid.

“I can only imagine! You’ve almost got the whole family together! Is this that little surprise you said you’d be cooking up? I did say I wouldn’t peak.” Bill moves closer, floating next to Stan until he’s actually got an arm around his shoulder and they’re basically shoulder to shoulder.

Whatever constitutes a triangle’s shoulder.

This is exactly what he gets for trying to be a good father. Trying to look after his stupid pig-headed boys. He shouldn’t have expected anything less than absolute chaos.

But this is worse. Worse than Stan killing himself. Worse than Ford being dead.

He’s lost, very lost, but he stays quiet.

Stan told him to stay quiet.

And yeah, he doesn’t trust him. He’s a liar and a cheat.

But it's not like he’s got a lot of choices.

He doesn’t want to fuck with whatever that thing is.

It's like he’s seeing things, except Ford looks like he’s seeing it too.

How does Stan know this fucking thing, Bill?

Ford. What the fuck is happening?

“It's certainly part of it. But, uh. Do you think you could do me a favor and patch up my leg? That is kind of your fault you know.” Stan’s resting his hands in his front pockets, looking sheepishly down at his cast before back up at Bill.

This has to be another one of those nightmares Bill loves to throw him into.

A trick, a new form of torture. Because this can’t be real.

It feels real, but it’s not. It can’t. Stan, Stan wouldn’t do this.

Not his Stan. Right?

He’s crying, unable to find the strength to push himself off the wall because he knows he’ll end up on his face in the dirt.

“Oh, of course! Where are my manners!” Bill removes his arm from around Stan’s shoulder and snaps his finger. A bright golden light surrounds the cast and leg, burning the cast off, and then the light seeps into his leg. “There you go Stanley, all patched up and ready for the races!”

He carefully puts weight back on his foot but it doesn’t hurt this time. He’s not wearing a shoe, so his stance is uneven, but he’s not about to complain. Instead, he grins and brings an arm up to wrap around Bill with a laugh, “This guy! Heh, you just love to show off for me, don’t ya.”

Bill looks slightly surprised by the arm around his shoulder, but not upset by it. He looks practically giddy when he turns his gaze on Ford.

She gets it now. What Stan was talking about, hiding from him. From Bill.

What she doesn’t get, is why he’s talking to him like their old friends. This thing, that triangle, is evil. But.

No, Stan wouldn’t do something like this. He wouldn’t. It's not in his character.

He’s got a heart of gold and this doesn’t fit.

So, what’s happening?

No. This, is wrong. Everything here is wrong.

Stanley should not be bantering with Bill like buddies. He must be possessed or something.

This can’t be home. It just can’t.

He’s having another dream and any minute now he’ll be killed and wake up back in the dungeon in chains.

“Bill.” He coughs out, still barely able to stand but forcing himself to talk.

It feels so damn real. Looks real too.

“Look, about that surprise I had for you. Here, let me whisper it to you.” Stan leans over and drops his voice too low for anyone to hear other than Bill with his expression that of someone on Christmas morning before presents.

Bill’s eye doesn’t leave Ford where he stands and he even waves at him, tauntingly, while Stan speaks.

“My, my, that is a great idea, Stanley. I mean, we’ll have eternity to practice and take turns. But, well.” For the first time since entering the room, his gaze falls on Filbrick and stays there for a while before looking back at Ford. “Why not put on a show, I’d like to see how creative you can be.”

It's just a fucking triangle.

Except, it's clearly not. Because a triangle from a math equation couldn’t fix a broken foot.

And a triangle couldn’t make him feel freezing cold all over and covered in a thick coat of fear that prevents him from thinking about moving.

Stanley, what are you doing? Who is this fucking guy? Why are you doing this?

But Filbrick stays quiet, unable to make noise if he wanted.

It takes effort, real effort, to make himself move. Fids lets go of Caryn’s arm and shifts up so he can look into the room.

Come on Stan, finish this up. It's going on too long.

He’s starting to feel pretty numb at this point, the ache in his chest dulled to a cold feeling while his hand wraps around the memory gun in his right pocket.

Stanley grins and winks at Bill before turning his gaze on Ford with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Come on then, don’t be shy. We’ll do this, together.” He lets go of Bill, meets his gaze, and then extends a hand out to Bill for him to take.

Except Bill doesn’t take it right away, he hesitates for a moment and turns away from Stan and back towards Ford.

For a split second, everything feels like it's on fire again. He pushes away from the wall and ends up on his face in the dirt. To bright. To hot. It hurts.

Then the gold light fades into his skin and the pain is gone.

He can move again, and he climbs up to his feet and that’s when he notices Bill looking at him, facing him, and Stan is right behind him still holding out his hand.

A cold feeling runs over him and he realizes this is real.

Not some game, not some angle. He’s really home and this is really Bill.

And. That is actually Stanley about to shake his hand.

He’s going to kill him, both of them, except he doesn’t have a weapon.

And Bill is here. In their dimension. They lost.

It's over. There is no more winning.

“Because I like you, IQ, I’ll give you one more chance.” Bill crosses the room from Stan with a hand extended out to him instead. “What do you say, you going to join me? Or are you still hung up on your morals about watching this place burn?”

Stan drops his hand but keeps his smile in place. It's hard, especially now, but he does it.

Bill is going to destroy this dimension.

He wins, getting his never-ending party.

And from the looks of it, Stan plans on joining him.

But that can’t be right, can it?

He looks over Bill and back at Stan with his hands back at his side and his smile still in place.

He can’t tell if it's real or his con-man smile.

There are probably two options here. One, he shakes this hand and gets to live. Two, he refuses and gets to die. Does he want to live in a world ruled by Bill? Or would he rather not be around to watch Stan betray him in another dimension?

Ford swallows, gathering up the little spit he has, and spits right in Bill’s eye because he’s standing so close. It’s disturbing to watch his eye come out and lick it, swallowing it. He’s got goosebumps seeing those teeth.

“Fuck you, Bill. I’d rather die than join you.”

No blow comes, no argument, nothing.

Bill just drops his hand, flame going out, and sighs. “Ahh, what a shame Fordsey. We could have done great things together. But I figured. Good thing I have a backup Twin.” The room fills with laughter again and Bill disappears for a moment, reappearing in front of Stanley.

“Geeze, what am I, chopped liver over here? Hurry up already. I want to see how long it takes for him to pass out while being skinned alive.” Stan brings his hand back up, briefly looking at Ford, and then back at Bill.

Stan’s words echo throughout the basement, like Bill is amplifying them.

Fids know, has to believe, that this is part of the plan. This is the game, Stan’s game, and he’s playing it almost too well. It’s amazing to watch in a weird, sick, and twisted way.

Caryn can’t breathe. Hearing Stan’s word’s echo, talking about Ford, it makes it impossible to take in air. That’s not Stanley. Not her Stanley.

Yes, the two brothers haven’t always gotten along, but he would never hurt Ford. Right?

She’s finding it harder and harder to keep trusting Stanley. Maybe she never really knew him at all. A lot can change in ten years.

Filbrick finds the strength to move finally, pushing himself back onto his feet despite the weight of fear thrown over him like a weighted blanket. He won’t let Stan do this. Whatever it is. He won’t let him hurt Ford. But when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He tries to yell, to scream, but it's like he’s left mute only able to watch.

Stan takes Bill’s hand again and this time is a lot different than both times before. The flame burns like a dull itch and it travels up his arm. He finds himself closing his eyes because that’s how it goes when he lets Bill in.

But being possessed by his real form is a lot different too. He feels stronger, more powerful, and when he opens his eyes there is a faint glow across his skin that makes him laugh. It’s not just his laugh, it's Bill’s laugh too and it almost rocks the room between both layered voices.

For the first time since going through the portal the first time, Ford feels genuine fear and complete hopelessness.

He has never, ever, felt this afraid before. Facing Bill is one thing when he knows it's just a temporary state of pain that will go away. Not now though. Now they’re in reality. A solid dimension. And he’s working with Stan.

Stan is going to hurt him, badly, and there is nothing he can do about it. He lost his third and final chance because that other Stanley convinced him to stick to his morals and ‘be more like Stan’ because he’s a good person.

Clearly, that’s wrong. And he’s about to find that out in the worst way possible.

Good, this is good. Stan’s in. They’re merged. But it's not right. He can’t move yet, because Bill will see him. How on Earth is he supposed to get a good shot in? He shifts, moving over to the other side of Caryn closer to the door, but he stays hidden and out of sight from everyone except Filbrick who can see him through the doorway.

He can’t look, can’t watch this, and he doesn’t understand why Stan dragged him down here to force him to. If Stan had told him this was going to happen-

Okay, he would have called him mad and broken his nose anyway. Fair enough, but this? He’s not going to watch Ford get skinned alive. So, he turns his head towards the door which is when he sees Fiddleford.

He sees the weird-looking gun he’s holding in unsteady hands. After glancing back and forth between Stan, Bill, and Fiddleford he thinks maybe he gets it. Just a little.

Fids is planning something, something to do with that gun, and that’s all he needs to get. He tries to catch his attention, waving a hand at him.

Stan turns, facing Ford’s side of the basement, and slowly starts walking towards him. It's purposefully meant to scare Ford and it works, making him back up until he’s pressed against the wall even though they’re still ten feet away.

“What do you think? Should we use a rusty dull knife or something sharp? I bet something dull would hurt more, but then he might bleed out faster.” Stan doesn’t need to respond out loud, but for dramatic effect he does. “Something sharp, we can experiment endlessly with other tools later. It's not like we don’t have time.” It's just Stan’s laugh echoing in the room this time but he raises one of his hands expecting Bill to give him something to use.

Fids is so focused that it takes a second to see Filbrick waving at him but he does look over. Only to see he’s miming something. Fuck he’s bad at charades.

First Filbrick points at Stan, then at the memory gun in Fid's hands. Then he points at himself, back at Stan.

No, Stan can’t do this. He wouldn’t.

“Stanley, don’t do this. Come on, this is Bill. I warned you. I told you! Why didn’t you listen!” Ford yells, watching as a hunting knife, the knife, appears in Stanley’s hand, shrouded in the same faint blue glow as the rest of Stan and Bill.

“And you were stupid enough to think I’d listen? To think I wouldn’t use it to get revenge? I mean, come on. You ruined my life. This is just an eye for an eye.” Bill giggles at that. “Oh, that’s a good one. You're funny, Stanley.”  

Watching Stan slowly inch closer leaves him frozen in place. He should run, or try to run, but he can’t. It's like Bill has him chained up against the wall again, minus the actual chains. He’s locked and can’t move, can barely talk.

When it clicks what Filbrick is saying he feels kind of relieved in a way. He always knew he couldn’t do this, couldn’t be the one to pull the trigger. But maybe he doesn’t have to.

He reaches a hand up for the handcuff key and grabs it, holding it up for Filbrick to see. It gets him a nod. One more glance over at the other end of the room to make sure they’re busy and he tosses the key over to Filbrick to unlock himself.

Caryn can’t, this is all too much, and she covers her ears while tucking herself under the desk. Stan can’t do this. This all has to be some really bad sick dream. Stanley is a good man with a heart of gold. The check he gave them proves it. Two hundred grand is a lot of money, a terribly large amount. It's how they bought the plane tickets and could afford to close the shop for a week to sort this all out.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She watched Fiddleford, relaxing just a little seeing him toss something small and metal towards her husband. Maybe they can get out of here. Fids is a fucking godsend. She doesn’t understand, and can’t trust Stan, but she trusts Fids. He’s trying to help, to make this all better. Somehow.

Stan walks closer, boxing Ford in with just two feet between them now. “Where do you think we should start? His hands maybe? He is particularly fond of those. He’ll die a little faster if we start with his scalp.” Stan asks for Bill’s input, using the hand not holding the blade to check how sharp it is. “Oh, absolutely. Start with his hands.”

Filbrick very carefully, making sure to be quiet, unlocks the cuffs and puts them on the ground with the key. Then he shifts up, slowly, into a crouch and motions Fids over.

He can’t. Bill will see if he moves from the doorway. Filbrick is directly center behind him. No chance of being seen. Looking down at the gun he hesitates.

If Filbrick drops it, they all lose.

Game over, no do-overs.

He reaches down and types in Stanley Pines on the keypad and then mimes tossing it to him.

Filbrick turns, hands out, and nods telling him to toss it.

So Fiddleford does.

For a long and terrifying moment, he’s scared the gun will hit the ground. Break. Shatter. Alert Bill and Stan. The time the gun is in the air feels like a million years, decades.

Then it’s caught in Filbrick’s hands nice and secure, safe and sound.

“St-Stan. Don’t. Please. Look, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. About everything. You don’t have to do th-this. Please, let’s just talk.”

Bill reaches out, lifting up one of Ford’s hands so it's level with fingers spread. And he can’t stop it, can’t pull the hand away, can’t. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. But he also can’t look away. “You had your chance to talk three months ago. Fuck you, Ford.”

With the gun out of his hands, he grabs Caryn, pulling her out from under the desk to watch through the window again. It's not easy seeing the far side of the room but the light of the portal helps. Shit, he needs to turn that off in a second.

She doesn’t fight it, first looking at Filbrick to see him holding some sort of gun. Her mouth falls open in shock glancing between her husband and her sons.

Their eyes meet and they share a sad look. Stan hasn’t left them any choice.

Filbrick takes a second to familiarize himself with this weird gun, seeing the name on the pin pad already put in. There doesn’t seem to be a safety of any kind so he finally stands up and aims the gun across the room at the back of Stan’s head. He’s just slightly off to the left, letting him see Ford’s face.

His son looks terrified, more scared than he ever looked as a kid.

He’ll fix it.

He moves, stepping quietly while Bill’s laugh echoes in the room. He gets to the halfway part of the room and aims the gun, firing it before he can change his mind or hesitate.

Stan had only just applied the edge of the knife to the tip of Ford’s index finger, giving him little more than a papercut, when Bill whirls around dropping the knife.

They turn around just in time to see Filbrick fire the gun and the burst of light hits Stan square in the face.

At first, nothing happens. For a long two seconds, nothing changes. Stan stays standing, still glowing blue, and everyone’s frozen.

Fids is just about to pull out the other gun, terrified, when the blue glow fades away. Stan goes back to his normal color, his eyes falling closed, and his whole body falls forward in a heap on the floor.

Fiddleford runs away from the door, slamming down switches and turning nobs, closing and shutting down the portal. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but the sense of fear in the room gets lighter and lighter. The heaviness brought by Bill fading.

But he’s crying, slamming stuff in the lab, and finally running out into the room past Filbrick to slam the lever back towards the right effectively turning off the portal. It still needs to power down the rest of the way, but nothing else can come through.

Filbrick stays frozen, looking down at Stan with the gun still in his hands. He’s pretty sure he can talk again, but he doesn’t dare break the silence.

No one does. Fids is the only one moving, the only one doing anything, for almost a full minute.

Then Caryn runs out of the lab and over to Filbrick, throwing her hands around him in a tight hug like she might never get to hug him again. For a minute she thought she wouldn’t. And he drops the gun, it shattering on the floor off to the side, and hugs her back burying his face in her shoulder.

Ford hasn’t moved, still looking down at Stan’s back. Distantly, he knows he can move now. He knows what’s happened. But his brain is stuck on pause and all the things he should know are on the other side. The presence of Bill, the dark atmosphere of the room has faded. The light from the portal is fading more and more the longer he stays standing here.

With the portal shut off, he runs over to Stan next. “Stanley! Oh my god, we did it. Thank fucking Christ we did it.” He rolls stan over off his front and onto his back, checking for a pulse and then pulling him up so he’s sitting so he can hug him. It doesn’t matter that Stanley is gone. His memories erased.

He has to let them have this, a victory hug, because Stan pulled it off. He just pulled the greatest con possibly ever and it would be a shame not to hug him over it. But it’s also for comfort on his part because his quiet tears turn into full-blown sobs on Stan’s shoulder.

He’s gone. That kind sweet liar is gone.

They all stay exactly where they are, no one moving other than Fids with his body being wracked by sobs. The room gets darker as the portal powers down but there is still a faint glow so they can see. Only just. “You fucking idiot! You shouldn’t have sabotaged my kill switch. We didn’t have to do this. You didn’t have to be a hero!” If Stan was here, he’d be socking him in the jaw right now, but he’s not so he just holds him tighter.

Ford finally snaps out of it and his eyes move from Stan and Fids on the ground up to his parents who have moved to stand next to each other facing them all. They’re just watching. Dad looks sad and he’s never seen that emotion before on their father’s face. He stumbles, almost tripping, but then runs over and across to both of them, getting pulled into a hug by them and it’s a relief.

After so much pain, so much torture, he’s glad their here. Because it’s all too much. He can’t even begin to process what Stan just did. Or that Fids somehow saved him with the memory gun. That stupid invention wasn’t so dumb after all. It just saved the world. And killed Stanley.

But maybe that’s for the best. He was about to skin him alive.

Slowly, very slowly, Fids gets himself under control. His sobs die down but he keeps a hold on Stan for another minute.

Okay. They did this. Stan did it. Now he’s gotta do his part. Stan deserves that. He can be strong for Stan.

He takes several deep breaths and then gets up, pulling Stan over to sit him up against the wall Ford was just backed up against. He purposefully puts himself between Stan and the rest of his family, blocking him mostly from view. Stan didn’t do all this just for his whole family to hate him. He did this to save Ford, his parents, and everyone everywhere. Because Stan is too good of a person.

To break up the group hug going on he clears his throat really loudly to get everyone’s attention.

The first time it doesn’t work, so he tries again. “Ahem!”

Ford jumps and whirls. For a split second, he’s terrified that it didn’t work and that it's Bill trying to get their attention. But instead, it’s just Fiddleford.

Kinda. Except he’s never seen him look like this. He looks determined with an unwavering gaze flicking over all three of them. He steps forward, away from his parents, towards Fiddleford. “Fids, you just saved my life back there- “

“Shut Up!” He yells, it echoing in the room. It works, making Ford snap his jaw shut with a face filled with alarm. Good. Okay, he’s got the floor.

“I’ve got a story to tell, the story of how Stan just saved all of our lives! Every life, everywhere possibly forever! And the three of you are going to listen because it’s the least you can do for him after the shit he just pulled off!” He glances, briefly, back at Stan where he’s still unconscious, and then back between the three of them.

Caryn frowns at first, glancing down at Stan, and then she steps forward next to Ford with her hands up. It's hard to remember over all the crazy shit that just happened, but Fids did say he had an explanation. “Alright Fiddleford. Go ahead, we’ll listen.” She wants to know, wants to believe that what Stan just did wasn’t what it seems like.

“Are you fucking kidding me! He just tried to kill us! Ganging up on us with that, that, that Thing!” Filbrick pushed past both Ford and Caryn heading for Fids.

Fiddleford doesn’t hesitate to pull out the handgun from his other pocket and aim it at Filbrick square in the chest. “Don’t take another fucking step towards Stanley or I’ll kill you! This man did not just lose everything for you to literally beat him while he’s already down!” He’s never done anything like this, never stood up for something he believes in so strongly.

This is the kind of thing Stan would do, but he has to be that for him now. He will, goddamn it.

Filbrick stops, barely a step closer than Ford and Caryn when he sees the gun. Fiddleford’s hands were shaking before holding the memory gun, but now they’re completely steady. So, he steps back, glaring, and doesn’t say anything else.

Ford doesn’t know what to make of this new Fiddleford. The guy used to be afraid of his own shadow, now he’s standing in front of Stan holding a gun and challenging Dad. Only Stan ever had the guts to do that. And even then, he never pulled out a gun. “Fids, you should really start talking.” Sure, Dad backed down now, but he still looks mad. Maybe mad enough to test Fid's resolve.

Breath in. Breath out.

“After you went through the portal, Ford, the only thing Stan wanted was to bring you back. He was so desperate to save you that he summoned Bill and made a deal with him. A deal to fix the portal and bring you back alive. And yes, for context, Bill is a demon that your beloved son Stanford summoned into this dimension in the first place!” He lets his anger leak into his voice, bringing up a hand to push his glasses up his nose while keeping the gun pointed up.

The yell echoes in the room and Ford flinches, feeling both of their parents look at him. He can’t do anything but look down at Fid's shoes.

“Anyway. Stan was searching, desperately looking, for a way to somehow bring you back and stop Bill. He did research in your house, and read through your journal front to back. And finally, he ran into me in town. He picked up that we used to know each other.” He can’t help but laugh now even if it's without joy.

“So, the madman that he was, broke into my fucking house! He found out I had the memory gun. Tricked me into helping him, and, and, and…” He feels like he’s going to start crying again but he can’t. He has to get through this. “Your brother gave everything, everything, so that you could come home. He pulled the wool over Bill’s eye for months. Pretending to like him, getting on his good side, all so that when Bill came through that portal someone could erase Bill from his head. He originally wanted me to do it, But, well. We saw how that worked out.”

Caryn is crying now, the only one out of the three having any sort of reaction. She moves, slowly, towards Fiddleford with both hands up. “Can I? Please?” She motions behind Fids and after a moment he nods.

Stan used to think the world of his mom. So, if she’s crying over this story, that means she believes it. She trusts that this is true. He keeps a firm line between Stan and his mom and Ford and his dad. Waiting to hear what they have to say and keeping the gun up just in case.

Caryn kneels down next to Stan, brushing his hair out of his face and then pulling him into a hug just like Fids did. She sobs but her heart feels warm while it aches. This is Stan. That’s the son she raised and she couldn’t possibly be prouder. “Oh, Stanley.”

Filbrick looks at Fiddleford, really looks, but sees that this guy isn’t backing down. He’s serious about the gun and serious about protecting Stan. The two had to be friends because Fids has the same hard determined look in his eye as Stanley and suddenly several things click and his face falls.

“Last week. He called home, and demanded to talk to me for the first time since we kicked him out. Said a lot of things I guess he never had the guts to say. Acted like he was dying. Is that what this is? Is my son dead?” His voice breaks at the end and he wants nothing more than to move back behind Fids and see for himself.

They came here to stop this, to prevent Stan’s death or at least try.

Now he knows he’s the one who caused it.

He killed Stanley and his son wasn’t lying.

He brings up a hand to cover his face, unable to stand it.

“Not completely. What you shot him with is a memory gun. I had it set to Stanley Pines. So, he’ll forget everything that made him who he was. His memories of everyone, everything, and everywhere. People, places, stuff he’s done. Emotions he’s felt. He’s a blank slate and we are all going to have to help him try to remember who he is.” His hold on the gun is still firm but seeing Filbrick cover his face he lets it be aimed at both their shoes instead.

Ford’s brain is broken for the third time since coming through the portal and he can only stare Fiddleford in the eye. They look like Stan’s eyes yelling ‘Go ahead and try me’ putting on a front when bullies picked fights with them back in Jersey. Fids changed, and it’s because of Stan. He’s standing here, right now, willing to shoot someone over Stanley.

They got close in however long he was gone and Stan made Fids a stronger person for it. Less morally sound, but sometimes the two go hand in hand.

He finally closes his eyes and looks back. When he looked over Bill’s shoulder at Stan he was smiling. But it was fake. He sees it now. Stan was lying through his teeth the whole time and the only real moment down here in the basement was that hug he couldn’t fucking return.

He’s the last person to break, but it's spectacular. Ford falls straight to his knees, ignoring how much that hurts, and starts sobbing down into his hands. He can’t breathe, sucking in air but it's like his chest has a hole in it letting it out so he gets light-headed.

Stanley’s gone and it’s all his fault.

Filbrick kneels down next to Ford and pulls him into a tight hug, comforting both of them and giving himself an excuse to hide his face from view to hide his own tears.

This is what Stan deserves. A family that mourns his death and he finds some sick joy in seeing them all break down. He puts the safety back on the gun and pockets it before turning back around to kneel next to Stan with Caryn who has stopped crying but still looks devastated.

For a while, the basement is mostly silent other than Ford’s loud sobs and Filbrick’s quiet tears half a dozen feet away. And Fids lets them cry and lets everyone be sad. It’s a lot to process for him after only knowing Stan for two months, so he can only imagine what it's like for his family. But eventually, the sobs die down without Ford pulling away from Filbrick, needing the comfort.

It’s unlike the Pines family to be so emotional and open. But then again nothing this bad has ever happened before.

“What do we do now?” Caryn asks, finally looking away from Stanley and over at Fiddleford. He knows what happened, so he’s gotta know what’s next. How they fix this. If they can.

He glances around, seeing that both Filbrick and Ford are looking at him too. They all look exhausted and it's barely noon. It’s okay. They prepped for this. Kinda. Not for everyone being here, but still.

After a couple of breaths, he looks back at Stanley who is still asleep. He checks his pulse again and listens to his breathing because it grounds him before speaking. “Let’s start by getting him upstairs to his bedroom. Then we can all go through what he prepped for each of us in advance. Who wants to help me carry him?” It's reassuring keeping a hand on him, knowing he’s alive if only that.

Filbrick finally pulls away from Ford and gets up off the floor without bothering to wipe the dirt off his pants. “I’ll do it, just show me where to put him. Here Caryn, move out the way so I can pick him up.” He waits for both her and Fiddleford to move before picking him up.

It's not nearly as easy as when Stan was a kid and he’s kinda surprised by how much he weighs despite playing sick upstairs. Stan is a damn good actor. Maybe they should have put him in acting lessons as a kid.

Caryn goes over to Ford and helps him stand on unsteady feet. Physically Ford is fine, Stan and Bill patched up every scar and burn mark in preparation for a new set. Which he realizes was probably part of Stan’s plan all along and almost makes him cry again. “Come on honey, let’s head upstairs. It’s alright, we’ll be okay. Walk with me.”

Slowly they all shuffle out of the basement as a group. Filbrick carrying Stan to the elevator without complaint and Fiddleford leading the way. Caryn keeps an arm around Ford while they ride up to the main floor of the house. The lock into the basement was picked by Caryn after she found it locked in the first place so the door is still open as they walk through back into the living room.

“Stanley took over your guest room. Do you plan on letting him stay here during his recovery?” He asks Ford point blank without any emotion as if he really thinks Ford might say no.

It makes Ford flinch when he looks up and sees the hard look on his old friend’s face but he shakes his head and then catches himself. “No, I mean. Yes. Yes, he can stay. He can keep the room. Of course he can keep the room.” His breath shakes when all that earns him is a nod from Fids before he turns away.

Caryn guides Ford over to the couch to sit down keeping an arm around his back.

Ford can’t stop looking around the room. This place looks nothing like the shack he remembers from before falling through the portal. The lightbulbs are warm-toned, and his stuff is neat and arranged on the bookshelves and coffee table. The floors look like they were recently moped too and it hurts. It reminds him of that other Stanley.

“If I know myself, and I definitely do, he’s gonna get you back. I’d bet my life on it. You’ve just gotta wait it out.”

Other Stanley had been right. Painfully so, and now he was home. With his parents. And he didn’t even believe in him! Stanley did it, and now-

He starts sobbing again, turning into his mother’s chest and letting her wrap him up in a tight hug.

Fiddleford leads Filbrick up the stairs and into Stan’s room where the door is still open and Filbrick is relieved to set him down on the bed. Stan’s either fatter than he looks or he’s got some real muscles since the last time they saw each other. Looking around the room he can see small hints of his son. Same cologne on the dresser, those brass knuckles Stan stole on his way out the door, and a framed picture of him and Ford as kids on that boat of theirs.

“Here it is.” Fiddleford pulls out the big box from the closet labeled ‘memory stuff’ and pulls out the letter right on top to set it on the bedside table. He hauls the box up into both hands but waits and watches while Filbrick moves the blanket over Stanley before turning to follow.

It makes him smile a little even if he’s still sad.

Stan didn’t talk about his dad much, not like his mom, so he can only assume their relationship wasn’t very good. Maybe it can be different this time. “Come on, can you close the door? He might sleep for a while yet which gives me a head start on briefing y’all before we have to face the new Stan.” He heads for the stairs and Filbrick follows close behind as they go back into the living room.

Ford is still sobbing, but he’s getting to the point where he doesn’t have any tears left. He’s exhausted and this has all been just too much. Far too much. Mom doesn’t judge though, just holding him until he calms down. He rests his head on her shoulder and looks over as Fid sets down a big cardboard box on the coffee table.

Filbrick sits down on Ford’s other side of the couch and puts an arm around his son’s back from the other side so his hand rests on Caryn’s shoulder. This is all more physical contact than he’s ever done with his family, but it has been the worst day of his life.

Fids pulls out the list of instructions on top that Stan left for him and reads it slowly once and then quickly the second time. Everything inside the box is neatly labeled so he’s able to pull out the first tape they all need to watch. ‘Stanley Pines Greatest Con’ seems a fitting label.

He shifts the box onto the floor next to the TV and turns it on with the tape player too. But before putting it in he turns around to face the three of them.

“This is hard. Really hard. But the first thing I need to tell you is that when Stanley wakes up it’s going to get worse. Right now, his being gone hasn’t fully hit you yet. Seeing him look at you all empty is going to hurt. But you can’t cry.” He moves around the coffee table and crouches down right in front of Ford so they are face to face. “You have his face. If he’s going to recognize anyone, it’ll be you. He’ll trust you because you can make him look in a mirror and he'll at least get it on some level. Okay? So, when he wakes up, whenever that is, you’ll have to handle it. Can you do that for him? Be strong for Stan?”

It hurts, and it's only going to get worse from here, but he sees what Fids is saying. They’re twins. If Stanley is going to trust anyone, it's someone with his face. Which has to be him. His voice is shaky as he nods, “I’ll try Fids. He was for me, so I’ll try.” And he does mean it. He’s not sure if he can do it, when the time comes, but he’ll try to hold it together.

Fiddleford stays there for a minute, searching Ford’s eyes and waiting for them to harden a little with a hint of determination. Because Ford can be like Stan. He has been before and he’ll have to do it again. After seeing an echo, he shifts back and goes to put the tape in. He takes the remote and sits in the chair next to the couch before extending the remote and hitting play.

Chapter 27: Stanley Pines Greatest Con

The tape opens with Stan sitting on the couch here in the living room in the middle seat where Ford is currently sitting between his parents. His crutch is set to the side and Stan looks nervous too, fidgeting with his watch before shifting forward towards where the camera was balanced on top of the tv.

“Welcome to Stanley Pines Greatest Con! I assume that if you’re watching this the world didn’t end and hopefully, if it went right, no one died.” His smile falters there. “And, well. If someone did die. It’s probably Ford. And if that happened, I’m sorry I failed to make things right.” He looks at the camera really sad for a second before clearing his throat and carrying on.

“Anyway. I’m going to pretend for the sake of this video that you’re all alive. Because it would be a real pain to make a separate tape just for the scenario Ford dies. I’m not going to let that happen. It's such slim odds that I’m not even going to think about it again. I’ve got your back Sixer, just like always.” He reaches a hand up to point at the camera, holding up his hand like he was going to give Ford a high six through the screen.

Ford lets out a noise, a quiet noise from in his chest like he’s dying but after he realizes it was him, he covers his mouth. He can’t cry anymore, because he’s out of tears, so instead he gets up and moves to sit closer to the TV, legs crossed on the floor in front of the coffee table but slightly to the side so he isn’t in the way. He wants to be closer to Stanley more than he needs the comfort of their parents.

Filbrick and Caryn both shift into the middle of the couch together as they continue watching.

“I don’t know who’s all watching this. Probably just Fiddleford and Stanford. But I guess he may end up showing this to Mom and Dad.” Off-screen the sound of a phone ringing can be heard in the kitchen and Stan lets out an annoyed groan getting off the couch. He leaves the frame, the ringing stops, and then he sits back down. “Sorry, their ears must have been burning. And, sorry. Everyone. I mean, I made a really big mess of things this last week. I scared Mom and Dad a lot and Ford you’re going to have to tell them something. I’ll have more details about that in your tape though. Let’s not waste time going over stuff I’ve already covered.”

His tape? Did Stan leave him a specific tape just for him? He wants to watch it now, hand twitching towards the box off to the side, but refrains. He wants to hear Stan’s story. Needs to know how he did this, this completely impossible thing.

“Alright. Let’s start at the beginning. Back in January Ford sent me a postcard,” He holds it up off the coffee table to show everyone on screen. “After ten years of silence, I would have been an idiot not to go. I packed up and drove two days straight from New Mexico to get there. But when I arrived, things weren’t right. Ford was looking exhausted like he was strung out on twelve cups of coffee, and he almost shot me with a crossbow when he opened the door.” The Stan on the screen brings a hand up to rub at his neck a little and shivers, like he’s remembering something unpleasant before continuing.

“He filled me in, mostly, about how he was building that portal downstairs. Said it would win him a Nobel Prize, and make him a famous scientist worldwide for creating interdimensional travel. But something went wrong and it wasn’t safe anymore. It was dangerous.” Stan reaches onto the coffee table and picks up the journal, holding it up so everyone can see the cover. “The whole time Ford has been here in Gravity Falls he was researching strange oddities. Crazy stuff, like that memory gun Fids and Ford invented together. This town is bananas.” It pulls a short laugh out of him but he keeps the journal in hand.

“I now know the truth or at least most of what was really going on. At some point during Ford’s studies here he ran into Bill. I don’t know if Ford summoned him, if he just showed up, or what exactly. But it happened and they met. Ford was alone, other than Fids, and susceptible to Bill's flattery. Believe me, that fucker can talk someone into flushing like a schoolgirl when he tries. At least, if that person isn’t experienced with getting tricked or doing the tricking.” Stan flips the pages of the journal until he lands on the page about Bill.

“They got along, probably became friends. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Ford and he were, you know.” Stan does a little wiggle of his eyebrows and then falls back on the couch laughing. A real and loud laugh that takes a minute to recover from.

Ford wants to just die of embarrassment at Stan’s joke but he can’t bring himself to ask Fids to pause it and stop that laugh. It's genuine, loud, and happy. Joyful even despite the awful topic. So, he deals, flushed bright red, and keeps watching.

“I’m mostly joking. I mean, he did refer to Bill as his muse, which sounds pretty corny, but whatever. I’m not a scientist. Anyway. Shit happened. Fids had an accident in the lab during a test run of the portal and saw Bill. It freaked him the fuck out, big time. He quit the project and cut Ford off entirely when Ford didn’t believe that the portal was bad. Ironically, not long after that incident, Ford figured out Bill’s true intentions.” He flips to the page in journal two on the portal and shows it to the camera.

“Bill wanted Ford to build the portal so he could come into our dimension and destroy it. Something was wrong with wherever he was, so he wanted to come here. Destroy planets, cause chaos, and generally just fuck around like a teenage boy at a frat party. Ford found out, luckily, before it was too late. That saved the universe, but it didn’t save Ford. Bill was giving Ford information, impossible math, and shit, by possessing him like a demon. Still not sure if he’s a god or a demon. Maybe a mix of both? Anyway. Bill started torturing Ford, trying to get him to finish the portal. But Bill can only possess someone without permission when they’re asleep if they’ve made a deal with him. That’s why Ford was so strung out on coffee, trying to stay awake so Bill couldn’t possess him again.”

It's like he’s back in university, glued to the lecture going on even if he knows all of it. Stan figured all this out, just from clues around the house and the journal. God, how could he have ever thought Stan was an idiot. He’s a horrible brother.

“Back to the present. So, Ford had the instructions for the portal broken up into three journals. He hid two of them and invited me here to take the third. Told me to get on a boat and sail as far away as possible with this.” He holds up the journal, his smile gone and replaced by a sad somber look.

“I was pissed, angry beyond belief, because I didn’t understand why then. Why he would invite me here just to send me away after ten years apart. I thought maybe he wanted to talk, fix things.” He stops, putting the book on the coffee table and looking down at his lap while he continues. “I started a fight. We fought, shoving and slamming each other around the basement. The portal turned on in the middle of it, somehow, and-“ Stan brings up a hand to cover his eyes for a minute while gathering himself to continue.

“I shoved him through the portal. And because the portal was already part-way taken apart it shut off after he went through it. I tried, God did I try, to handle things the normal way. I spent two days trying to fix that stupid thing on my own. But all I got was a handful of sparks. So, I turned his whole house upside down, looking for something that could help.” He reaches forward and flips the page back to the incantation ritual for Bill and shows it to the camera.

“This incantation to summon Bill myself was the only lead I found. And I know, it was an insane risk. Insanely risky, even for me. But I was desperate and I wasn’t going to screw up Ford’s life again. I’m an idiot, didn’t even finish high school, and it would have taken me decades to finish that portal even if I had all the journals and money in the world.” He puts the book down, not giving anyone time to read the page of the incantation.

“I summoned him and made a deal to get Ford back while letting Bill use my body to work on the portal.” He lifts his foot with a sheepish grin. “Clearly I didn’t come out unscathed. Fids, after this I want you to show them Ford’s possession tape. If it's more than just you and Ford watching anyway. And if Ford’s okay with Mom and Dad seeing him like that. I think seeing how bad it was, how bad Bill was, would be good for them. Make it more real. Because I know how crazy all this sounds. Sometimes I don’t even believe it myself and I’m living it.” He puts his leg back down below the view.

“It worked, fuck did it work. Bill is brilliant, possibly smarter than Ford even, and he started fixing the portal. By day he used my body in the basement and by night I was trying to find a way to handle him. Because I’m not stupid when it comes to tricks. No way he doesn’t come through that thing. It’s the whole reason he wanted it built. No deal was going to stop him from doing that.”

“I ran into Fids outside the library after returning some of Ford’s overdue ones. I pretended to be Ford and figured out they used to be science nerds together. Yahtzee. I needed a nerd to help me. So, logically, I broke into his house to see just how nerdy he was. I found that memory gun and it was like I struck gold. I was really scared there for a minute that I was screwed. It had to work.” He reaches down under the coffee table onto the shelf and pulls out the memory gun to show off to the camera.

“All you have to do is type in anything you want to forget, or someone else, and zap them with it. Bam, the memory is gone. So, if I erased all of my mind, with Bill inside. That should do the trick. On some level, Bill seems to operate in the mindscape anyway. So, I just needed to get him to possess me and get Fid’s to erase us both. I tricked him into coming over here and then told him the truth. Lucky for me Fid’s is nothing but a sucker.” He grins and looks off to the right like he knows where Fid’s is sitting.

“Sorry Fids, I know. You aren’t. You're actually pretty damn tough. I’m just lucky you would listen. So, he agreed to help me and suddenly everything wasn’t so bad. Still having nightmares, lots of bad nightmares. Still being tortured, semi-regularly.” He rubs at the back of his neck nervously and then puts the memory gun down, pulling out the same gun Fids had used on Dad downstairs.

“But we also had a plan A, which if you’re watching this I sabotaged, and a plan C. Plan A was a kill switch meant to cut the portal’s power after Ford came through. But I plan on putting a rock in the battery compartment so that falls through. Sorry Fids, but I just can’t live with Bill being able to get into my head after all this. He’s pleasant enough now that he thinks I’m on his side. But when he doesn’t?” He gets a grim expression on his face and just shakes his head.

“Ford will get it. Plan C is just in case the memory gun doesn’t work. It’s a last-ditch effort.” He holds up the handgun and points it at the camera pretending to fire it. “If the gun fails Fids is supposed to shoot me with this. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that, but if I have to die so Bill never hurts anyone again, I can live with that.” He puts the gun down on the coffee table again.

“I had to get crafty because Bill can see everything up here once you’ve let him in. Luckily this journal has a lot of information about the mindscape and it didn’t take too long to figure out how to alter, hide, and make fake memories to cover up stuff I didn’t want Bill to see. It’s the only reason he hasn’t killed me for conning him, pretty sure.”

Okay, yes, it's possible to hide memories in the mindscape, but making up fake ones? He’s never done that before. Never even thought to try. He’s looking at the TV with his mouth open a little. Stanley is so damn clever, so damn determined and. And. He can’t believe he’d do all this, go through all this trouble, just for him. After all the bad things he’s done. He doesn’t deserve Stanley Pines.

“His tune started to change about a month ago.” He pauses, thinking hard for a minute before looking back up. “My theory is that Bill really likes Ford. Not too sure on the why, exactly. But he does. And maybe, when Ford went through that portal, he ended up with Bill. If that’s true I’m so fucking sorry. I was only dealing with him mentally I can’t even imagine what he put you through if you were with him in person.” It's upsetting and Stan looks mad, mostly at himself.

“But if he was with Bill, I assume Ford was refusing to give. I hope so. Yelling, screaming, fighting. And I’m proud of you for that. Because I think, maybe, that’s why he started to trust me. Who knows, maybe he was trying to make his ex, Ford, jealous by dating his brother, me. Doesn’t really matter. He started to take a liking to me. Eased off the nightmares and torture. Even finally let my foot heal too.” He winces at that.

“Sorry Ford. I did use your health insurance, but I paid off those bills already. However, the damage done to my foot and the brain surgery I had will be on your medical records. Sorry.”

“Pause the fucking tape,” Ford says, sitting up and turning to look at Fiddleford. “He had fucking brain surgery?” He’s angry, pissed, mostly at Bill, for hurting his brother so bad he had to have his skull cut open.

After pausing the TV, he looks around at all three of them and can see them hoping he has all the answers. It makes him sigh, “Look. Stan only told me so much about what Bill did to him. He kept most of it to himself. But-“ He wishes Stan could have done this but of course, the guy would just drop brain surgery and leave Fids with the bag. “One of the first times Bill tortured him he stabbed a sewing needle into Stan’s skull.” He brings up a hand, leaning forward, to point out the spot for them to see.

“Then, he kept having dizzy spells. Constant headaches. So, when his foot got bad enough, I had to drive him to Portland for medical care. I argued with doctors for thirty minutes so they’d scan his head since it had been a month since Stan pulled the needle out and nothing had gotten better. They found a brain aneurysm and took him in for surgery to remove it before it burst. It went well, he was up and moving around within two weeks.”

Caryn leans over on Filbrick and starts crying again. How was it possible for Stan to even live through that? How had the lives of both her sons turned into such a horror movie in these six months? “Oh my god, Stanley.”

Ford is equally as upset, just staring at Fids for a while. These were just the things that Fids had been told which left a lot to the imagination about what else Bill might have done with Stan’s body. He can’t cry so instead he just sits there shocked for a minute before getting up and going over to where Fiddleford is sitting. He pulls him up into a tight hug because right now it’s the only way he can think of to thank him. “Jesus Christ Fids. You probably saved his life. Not just that time, but others too. Fuck. Thank you Fiddleford. Seriously.”

The hug is a surprise, because Ford hasn’t hugged him since college, but he returns it anyway with a small but still sad smile. “He told me that a lot. Probably three times. And, I just couldn’t leave him alone. He needed someone. He’s always needed someone even when he was alone for these last ten years. I’m pretty sure it's all he ever wanted. Just a family. Friends. He never wanted much.” He pulls away, putting Ford back at arm's length.

“Fids, I’m sorry. For everything. For not trusting you about the portal. You were my friend and my project partner. I shouldn’t have handled things how I did. Could you ever forgive me?”

In the time Ford was gone it's like he’s aged ten years. And maybe he has, mentally, because Stan certainly seemed to age quickly from all the stress. In these videos, he looks a lot like his dad, now that he knows what he looks like.

“With time, and if you do right by Stanley from now on, I think I could.” He agrees, sitting back down in his chair and picking the remote back up. “Come on, we need to get through as much of this as possible.”

Ford gets settled back on the floor, wondering how he’s going to explain the lack of scars and cast when he goes to the doctor next. Whatever, if Stan can trick a god he can find an excuse for some stupid doctors. Caryn and Filbrick take a minute with even Dad crying a little again before they settle and nod for Fids to resume the tape.

“Hah, I bet you all just paused the tape to feel sorry for me, didn’t you?” He laughs glancing around the area near the camera like he’s looking at them. “Don’t be. I’m okay, and getting a needle into your skull isn’t that bad. He put me through worse. But I’ll spare you guys the details.” He pauses, frowning a little. “Okay, well. I do have a letter about that. I’ve been through a lot in this body in the last ten years. And it's not like I’ve been to the same doctor twice. So, I wrote down everything. But I don’t want any of you to read it. Just give it to the doctor next time I have to go. And I swear to God, if you read it, Ford.” He raises a fist and winds it up like he’s going to throw a punch across the room at the camera. Then he drops it, shooting a glare at the screen before letting it go.

“Anyway. Back to the story. So, he started to like me. Right. Fids and I started working on these tapes. I filled up those old reject journals of yours Ford,” he reaches off-screen and pulls back one of the black journals without anything on the front. “I filled both of them with as many memories as I could think of so that hopefully I’ll have an easier time remembering. It’s been a pain in the ass filling these out so please don’t let me burn them or something. I’m not above asking someone to babysit me while I read them. And I know some of you are going to want to read them but I’ll ask that you don’t. They’re personal and these tapes are more than enough for you guys to remember me. Those journals are to help me, not you. Okay?” He waits, like he’s expecting everyone to agree. “I’m sorry, what was that? I didn’t catch that?” Another long pause.

It's like watching one of those interactive kids shows where they’re supposed to say ‘Yes Stanley’ or something and it makes Ford laugh. It shouldn’t, but it does. He missed Stan, so much, and now he’s gone. Gone, but not forgotten. They’ll fix this. They’ll help him remember.

“You guys suck. I just died and you can’t even give me a mumbled ‘yes Stanley, we won’t read about your innermost secrets’ or something?” But Stan is grinning wide like he knew all along no one would say anything.

“So, we made a bunch of tapes and prepared as much as we could for me losing my memory. Me a little harder than Fids, because I knew plan A wasn’t happening. But whatever. I was the one with the memories anyway, so it makes sense I put in more work. Bill kinda fucked off after my brain surgery and foot got put in a cast. Got tired of how slow I was, even though it was his fault. Hypocritical obtuse fucker.” He’s swearing a lot but it's his final con, so he feels allowed. He’s dead, it's not like anyone can yell at him.

“But I wasn’t done. I, well.” He gets nervous again, looking to the right towards Fiddleford and then back at the camera head-on. “I was spending Ford’s money to get by. Pretending to be him and all, it just made sense. It's not like I had any of my own. But I didn’t want to leave him in the hole because of my stupid mistakes. So, I made a second deal with Bill. He wanted me to join him when he came through to this side. Further supporting my theory that he was just trying to hurt Ford and make him jealous. The second deal was that I would have had to join him in trashing this dimension after he came through. And in return,” He reaches down and pulls up a lottery ticket out of his pocket with a shit-eating grin on his face. “He gave me the numbers for a winning lottery ticket. That’s right, you heard me. Not only did I pull the wool over Bill about me killing him. I also tricked him into paying me to do it.”

Stan grins, incredibly proud of himself, and lets some silence pass on the tape while he looks down at the ticket fondly before putting it down on the table with everything else.

Ford starts laughing, unable to help it, and can’t stop. Fids ends up having to pause the tape for a minute while he lets it out, doubling over his lap for far longer then he should after the day they had. Stan not only beat Bill, but he actually conned Bill out of some money too. When he turns around to check on his parents their both smiling too. Dad especially. He looks kind of proud.

If only Stan was around to see this, to tell the story himself and feel how proud everyone in the room is.

“You guys have no idea how hard that was for him at the time,” Fids says sadly, looking at the TV before glancing around as everyone looks over. “I’ll explain in a minute if he doesn’t. Give him a chance to talk.” He brings up the remote and hits play again.

“It was a ten-million-dollar jackpot, small compared to others, but a big win regardless. Half of it went to taxes.” He winces on screen and reaches over to pick up a smaller box and set it on the coffee table so it's in view. “I’ve committed a lot of crimes in the last ten years. Technically I’m banned from thirty states. And, uh, mom. That’s why I could never visit. I got banned from New Jersey before I was twenty.” He pulls out a piece of paper and holds it up to the screen. “Before I could claim my winnings, I had a lot of government fines to pay, a million and some change to be exact.” He puts the paper back in the box and looks back at the camera.

“But, with all my fines paid, I’m basically free. Over the next year, I’ll get confirmation letters in the mail as I’m cleared of warrants and stuff. Ford, or Fids. Whoever I’m staying with during my recovery? You’ll need to keep track of where I can and can’t go as the letters come in. At least until I’m a little more myself? Just make sure I don’t go anywhere I’ll get arrested. New me doesn’t need to know all the details. I put together a map,” He reaches back into the box and pulls out a rolled-up map bound with a rubber band. “It’s got all the states I’m banned in. You’ll have to cross reference all my crimes before marking a state green to be sure I’m safe to travel there. But if it's Ford doing it, I’m sure he’ll enjoy the tedious work. You are a nerd, after all.”

He looks around for the box, wanting to look at it and all Stan’s crimes, but doesn’t see it. “He put it in your closet in your room. Just wait until later to look at it.” Fids explains, eyes staying on the TV.

It’s a relief that Stanley left him some basic instructions. He can follow those and it gives him something to focus on other than having lost his brother. He needs to remember, they’re free. Really and truly free. All because of Stan and his insane plan. He smiles as the tape continues.

The box gets put back down on the floor with the map, “I also cleared up my taxes and paid those.” He pulls another folder, a dark blue one, from off-screen. “This one has all my past tax information.” The next on the pile is a brown one. “This one has all the tax information I’ll need for next year surrounding the lottery.” And a third and final folder, much thinner and smaller.

He pauses, opens it and looks inside, and then closed it. “Fids, get this folder out of the box for me. You get to play Santa.”

Fiddleford pauses the tape and gets up and goes over to the box, pulling out the same brown folder and bringing it with him over to the chair before hitting play.

“First on the list is brother dear. Fids, would you please hand him the paperwork on the left side?” And he does, smiling to himself before passing it over to Ford to take a look at.

“When I won the lottery, I knew I owed you. I figure killing Bill for you and getting you back would probably be enough. I just want to be sure you’ll let me stick around. So, I’m kinda bribing you a little.”

Ford is already reading over the paperwork but looks up as Stan talks. His brother is smiling, grinning, and he can’t miss a second of that.

“I paid off your house, set aside what you’ll need to pay in taxes on that too. It's in your original savings account. I also paid off your student loans. Figured I owe you that since you ended up at a crappy college because of me. Although honestly, if I hadn’t screwed that up you would have never met Fids. And I’m kinda fond of the guy, so sorry but not sorry.” Fids pauses the TV.

And Ford just stares for a minute, looking at the screen, and then fumbling around through the paperwork. He feels like he’s going to throw up and he has to put the papers aside and steady himself on the coffee table. Sure, the house wasn’t that expensive, but it wasn’t cheap either. Neither were his student loans.

Stan had to be working under the assumption Ford hated him, but he still did all this. It's too much. Stan has always loved so completely and right now it's suffocating in the same way it was when they were kids.

“Hey, stop that. I can see your brain running a mile a minute from here. Idiot.” Fids had unpaused the TV. He was getting pretty good at knowing when Stan was going to do a live interaction. Ford’s gaze moves back to the screen even if he’s pale. “I know. It’s too much. Fids said the same thing when I tried to write him a check. But I’m dead now. So, you have to act out my will no matter what. Suck it up and give me free room and board for a while. That’s all I ask.” Stanley grins, laughing for a second even, before continuing.

“I also opened you a high-yield savings account and deposited half a million in there. Give it a few years and you’ll be able to live off the interest. Oh, and I put all the money back that I used before winning. So, you're completely in the positive. Don’t cry over it. Come on, you're supposed to be happy.” But even Stan is looking at the camera with some sadness on his face.

“In total your cut adds up to just under eight hundred thousand. Then I already sent that envelope and check for two hundred thousand to Mom. Right Fids? The letter isn’t in there?”

“Nope, already mailed I guess.” Fiddleford is smiling, glancing at their parents, and then back at Stanley.

“Good. That’s mostly for mom though. She’s the only reason I didn’t kill myself a long time ago. Her kindness, the one we share, kept me going. If you are watching, I love you, Mom. Couldn’t have done this, or even thought about doing this without you. Ford, give Mom a hug for me if she’s watching this.”  He waits, sitting in silence on the tape and giving Ford time to get up and give their mother a hug for Stanley. This pause was longer than the others and Ford didn’t pull back until Stan spoke again.

“Alright, that’s good. You hug her too long and she’ll cry again. I’m sure she’s already done that a few times this tape.” Another pause gives Ford time to get back on the floor. “Next up. Dad. I don’t know if you’re watching this. I assume you will at some point or another. I hope to God Ford doesn’t mail this to you. Jesus that would be terrible. If he does, I’ll have to kill him. Anyway.” He gets quiet again, shifting on the couch like he’s uncomfortable.

“The other day, talking on the phone, I meant what I said. About loving you. I don’t think my family can screw up so bad I could stop. It's not an option on the dial. It goes to one percent but not zero. But I’m still mad at you. You were a bad father growing up, terrible. But you get another chance this time around. I’m going to be a blank slate and you can do better. Hopefully. I really did enjoy you teaching me boxing as a kid.” He laughs a little. “The only reason I was bad at it was because I was too tired doing my rounds and Ford’s for him.”

Filbrick has to sit back, reaching over for the remote to stop the tape for a second. He’s not crying again, but he’s emotional about that. He had no idea Stan had been boxing for both of them. How long had that been going on? No wonder Stan was always so damn tired after practice when they got home. Or why tournament weekends always knocked him out flat. “You shouldn’t have let him do that for you Ford.” He says quietly, not looking at his other son.

Ford shifts uncomfortably looking at Dad and then Mom. “I know. It was a deal we had worked out. I helped him with his homework and he did my boxing. But yeah, I know I shouldn’t have. I get that now.” He looks back at Stan and glares at him a little for getting him in trouble on his way out the door.

“Haha, did Dad just yell at you for the first time ever? I hope so. I’d pay to see that.” Stan laughs again but gets serious pretty quickly again. “If you’re in town for a little bit, and the new me seems up for it. I’d like you to teach me again. Fids brought up the idea of me making videos for myself. But why not let you do it? I know you're old, and I might give you some real trouble now. But I think it would be nice. You have to prove yourself as a father before I’ll give you anything. You haven’t earned it like everyone else.” Filbrick handed the remote back to Fiddleford and just nodded to himself, looking back at the screen to see Stanley smiling at him.

“If that’s a yes, then that’s awesome. I look forward to getting a do-over with you. If you said no, then up yours old man.” He holds up the middle finger and laughs again before dropping his hands. Ford cracks up too, unable to help it, and even Fids and Caryn crack smiles listening to Stan laugh for a good minute at his joke. And yeah, Filbrick smiles just a little bit too. It is kind of funny and just like Stan to use his loss of memory to say everything he wants without consequences. Can’t get mad at someone who doesn’t remember.

“Alright, and last but not least we got Fiddle-Ford H. McGucket.  My good pal who helped me in my dance with the devil Bill Cypher himself. I’d of destroyed the universe by now if it wasn’t for this guy. You guys don’t have to give him a round of applause, but I’m going to.” Stan starts clapping on the screen. Ford joins in with him, turning to look at Fids. And after a few seconds Caryn does too and nudges Dad until he does it. The whole display leaves Fiddleford red in the face and glaring at the TV screen. Damn you, Stanley Pines.

Once Stan stops, after what feels like forever, the rest do to, “Thank you for indulging me. He really deserves it. But I know he’s not going to willingly take my money either. He’s too nice. I can force Ford by sticking it in his bank account myself and Mom took it easy enough. But Fids? Nah, he’s a stubborn guy when he wants to be. I didn’t give you less because you mean any less. I just figured you wouldn’t cash a check for a million bucks. I know you too well for that.” He shifts open the folder and grins to himself pulling out a piece of paper.

“I wrote you a smaller check for twenty thousand dollars and a list of potential items in the future you’ll probably want to invest in. Those two days with Bill in the basement after my surgery? I spent the whole time trying to casually grill him about what the future would be like. Now, I won’t spoil anything. But you have the list of a couple of inventions that are going to take off. Do with that what you will. Invest in their stocks, invent them yourself, or do nothing. But don’t ever say I didn’t do nothing for you, got it?” Fids fumbles with the piece of paper left in the folder with the considerably smaller check with it and finds himself smiling.

This is a much more personal gift than just cash and it makes him smile and then look up at Stanley with a really sad smile. The first sad look he’d let himself make since sobbing down in the basement. Because Stan knew just what to give him and it's too nice. It’s a good thing he’s not here because he wouldn’t know what to say.

“Good, enjoy it Fids. You earned it by putting yourself through this with me. And for ending Bill’s stupid life. You're tougher than you think, you just have to believe in yourself.” Stan on-screen stopped, setting the folder aside now that it's empty.

“I don’t know if there will ever be a scenario where Schermie gets shown this. But, well. I don’t know what to say to him if he is watching. It wasn’t like he was around much growing up. Moved out pretty quickly. I love him, like all of you, but it would be weird trying to picture him in Ford’s living room being told all this. I’ll write him a card for his birthday and send it out a little early. Include a smaller gift, just something to get our nephew's college fund started like Fids. And if he isn’t watching this someone better call him and explain that the money is good and the check won’t bounce.” He laughs a little and shifts forward, a little closer to the camera while glancing at the clock off-screen.

Ford makes a note of it mentally to do himself or remind Mom about it later. Maybe the card already arrived and Schermie thought it was a scam. Hopefully not.

“Now that we’ve gotten past the lottery, that covers just about everything. I can’t say how the day will go bringing Ford back. You guys know better than me having lived it. But I’m going to do my best to make sure everyone is okay and safe. Just keep that in mind when you think about everything I did. Lucky for all of you I’m an expert at rolling with the punches. I’ll make it up as we go and just see what sticks to the wall.” Stan trails off now, running out of stuff to talk about with everyone and about the story. There isn’t much left. Any left.

“Mom, Dad. I’m sorry about not answering your calls. For freaking you out. I was trying to finish these tapes up and. I was just going to leave the mess for Ford to deal with. I can handle a lot, but you guys on top of Bill were just too much. Suffocating. I never know how you’ll react. And telling you this all over the phone? You’d of called the cops and had me arrested. Then Ford never would have made it home. So, my bad. But also, I did what I had to do.” Stanley on screen stops and thinks for a while just looking down at everything on the coffee table for a few minutes lost in thought before finally looking back up to finish up.

“Look after me, please. I don’t know what the new me will be like even with all the prep I did. Just don’t-“ Stan almost chokes and covers his eyes before making himself look again. “Don’t throw me out on my own. All these skills that have been getting me by for ten years are gone now. I probably don’t even remember how to drive my car. I hate to ask, because I hate relying on other people, but I need help this time. And-“ He actually starts crying on screen now, pausing to grab a tissue to dab at his eyes. “I just want this life to be different. To be happier than the last one. Can you do that for me? Please?”

It hurts watching Stan beg looking at the camera. But it hurts more knowing that Stan was actually worried he’d get thrown out again. Having gone through everything these past few months he’d rather die than have Stan leave here ever again. He wants to fix things or build something new if Stan never remembers. There is no universe where Stanley ends up back out on the street after all this.

He gets it now, what the other Stanley meant. About being sure you’d do anything for the other. He’s sure now, just when Stan needs him, and that’s never going to change again. You’d have to kill him.

Fids was already looking away, knowing what was coming more or less, and unable to stand Seeing Stan look so sad and scared again. He saw enough of that during the last two months. If it was up to him Stan would never feel this way again. Hopefully, he won’t in this new life.

Caryn’s heart breaks again, like down in the basement, seeing Stanley like this. She reacts instinctively, talking to the TV even if Stan can’t hear her. “You’ll always have a home back in Jersey with us Stanley, anytime you need.” She doesn’t have to look at Filbrick and doesn’t care if he agrees. That’s her son and she will not let him through something even close to this bad again. The squeeze from her husband around her shoulder is enough to know he at least isn’t objecting.

There’s more silence for a minute while Stan cleans up his face and blows his nose before he makes himself smile again. “Heh, I hope you all just made some really gooey declarations about how much you love me. That’s nice to think about even if it's not true. I love you guys, which is why I did this, so don’t be strangers. I might be, but you can’t. Make me remember.” He waves and then gets up off the couch, walking over to where the camera is set up to pick it up so it's right near his face.

“And just in case any of you are getting any bright ideas about stealing my money I’ve hidden the security question answers somewhere no one except a memory erased me will ever find!” He laughs with the camera right in his face for a minute, goes quiet, and just stays there for another couple of minutes like he doesn’t want to leave. Like this is a phone call and this is goodbye.

Because it kind of is.

“Alright, now I’m hanging up. Bye, everyone.” Then he does, ending the tape there with his face still smiling for a few seconds before the tape cuts to static and Fids has to pause it. He pulls off his glasses and wipes his eyes using his sleeve because that was hard, really fucking hard. Stan made it look easy, like everything hard he ever did, but it couldn’t have been.

Ford leans closer to the screen, like that will get him closer to his brother, even if it won’t. That was Stan’s story, but not the end of everything he left them. Fids got up and in the way before Ford could dive for the box. “Eh, don’t touch that. I’m the secret keeper of Stanley’s crap now. He entrusted me with it. Just wait a few minutes, alright?” He put his folder off to the side on the bookshelf to grab later with his gift and started rewinding the tape so he can put it back in the box.

“Ford, do you think you're okay with me showing that tape of you possessed? If not that’s okay, I won’t. But Stanley did ask me too if you were cool with it. And if your parents think they can stomach one more painful thing today.” He looks over at them on the couch and they look exhausted. Ford does too. Even he is. But he’s pushing through, because he’s gotta.

Ford winces at that and looks back at his parents for a second gathering his thoughts. “Guys. I really screwed up. Like, way worse than Stan ever did growing up. You guys always thought I was so smart, but I couldn’t even deal with Bill after I realized his true intentions. I wasn’t smart enough to stop him on my own. It took Stanley helping me and cleaning up my mess, putting himself through all this to fix things. So, I’m sorry for all this, because it's my fault. I was wrong, so very wrong. If you want to watch the tape, I’m not going to stop you. It’s the least I can do letting you see what Bill was like so you can understand what we both went through a little better.” He gets up off the floor and takes Fid's chair while the tape continues to rewind.

Downstairs they both saw Bill and felt what his presence was like, but that was his real form. Not whatever possession was going on with Stan and Ford. It was different. Caryn could go without, easily because she’s seen enough pain on both her kid's faces today. It's too much and she’s tapped out. It seems impossible, even to her, that Stanley managed all this. Because it sounds so damn hard, stressful, and emotionally draining. She looks to Filbrick to see what he wants to do.

The one good thing that came out of today is that at least he knows it's all up from here. Nothing in the future, other than maybe dying, could be worse than all this. He relaxes a little on the couch, just a little, knowing that. He sees everyone looking at him, making him decide, and his instincts say no. Hell no. The basement was bad enough. But they’ve seen what Bill did to Stanley. Only heard about what he did to Ford. Besides, this has to be the last bad thing of the day. Just get it over with. “Just put it on so we can get it over with. Then we can be done with it.” He grumbles and rubs at the space between his eyes. This has all probably given him a couple of new grey hairs.

It takes a few more minutes to rewind the long tape but afterward, he swaps it out for the one where Ford is possessed. He goes through the box while they watch it, picking out what’s next for everyone, and sorting it into small piles on the floor near the box.

Ford leaves the room, going into the kitchen, because he can’t look at this again. The kitchen is just as clean as the living room, if not nicer, and going through the fridge and freezer he sees the place is fully stocked with groceries. Stan must have done that in preparation too. How on Earth is he ever going to make all this up to him? It's just not possible. It's all too much, too kind, and he’s never going to measure up even close. He’ll just have to try. Somehow.

He makes himself a sandwich and comes back into the living room to see Fiddleford putting the tape away back in the box and his parents looking rightfully and freshly traumatized. They’re giving him the same looks they were just giving Stanley in the recording. “Hey, no feeling sorry for me. Go make yourselves some lunch. I’m going to need to figure out where you guys are sleeping since I only have one guest bedroom.”

He's not exactly hungry mentally. Not wanting to eat, but his stomach is yelling at him just looking at the plate of food. It has been who knows how long since he ate something. Since he was in the other dimension with other Stanley. This body hasn’t had food in. Three months? That’s how long it’s been according to the kitchen calendar.

Mom and Dad got up, heading into the kitchen, leaving him and Fids alone while he ate in the quiet living room. It feels weird, having the house be so silent and full at the same time. This place is warmer now, like the other dimension, and it has to be Stanley’s touch to the place. It won’t be so bad, having Stanley around, assuming Stan wants to stick around now that he’s forgotten.

That endless unlimited love might not be around anymore. And first chance, Stan might want to leave.  

Chapter 28: Hello, Goodbye

Instead of Mom and Dad making themselves something to eat at the house they both decided to leave and go into town for food. There was brief talk of them getting a hotel in town until Ford remembered the couch in the living room was a pullout and they’d be able to use that. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would do fine for the week they’d be in town.

They both needed some space to process everything and said they’d be back later before leaving Ford and Fiddleford alone waiting for Stan to wake up. It could happen anytime, and yeah, they both wanted to be there, but suddenly being swarmed by four people at once when you don’t remember anything would be overwhelming and they also didn’t want to make things worse for Stanley.

Fids gave them the letters Stan had written them both, the ones for if he lived but forgot his memory, and then it was just Ford and him in the living room. Right now, directly after everything, there were almost too many options for what to do next. Yeah, Stan had written notes and given a general order of things. But Fids didn’t want to overwhelm Ford by giving him everything at once. With Filbrick and Caryn gone he settled on giving Ford his tape to watch. It came with strict instructions for Ford to watch it alone.

Fiddleford left him in the living room, taking the box with him, and went down into the basement to read his letter and start the process of shredding all the notes they had made rebuilding the portal. Eventually, they’d tear it down again and properly dispose of the parts, but for now, getting rid of all the information so that no one could ever build something like this again was a good start.

After Fids left Ford stayed sitting on the floor just looking at the tape in his hands and the small shoe box Fids had put on the coffee table for him. This was all he had to remember his brother by. That and the first seventeen years of memories. Now all of that was gone for Stanley. Stanley was gone. Watching this, going through the box, would make it official and then there would be nothing else to learn.

Would Stan answer any of the millions of questions he had in this?

What about the ones he missed?

Those would just be left unanswered forever. Stan had died thinking Ford was mad at him right up until the very last moment when he physically couldn’t return that hug.

God that killed him.

Stan had taken a second out of his whole show to say goodbye and he hadn’t even been able to participate or appreciate it then while he still had him.

He desperately wanted to apologize and make things right with Stan after everything they’d both been through. But he couldn’t, because Stan wouldn’t remember. It wasn’t the same and he’d just have to keep on living with the guilt of it until Stan either remembered enough for them to talk about it or it felt like he’d done enough good things to make up for it all.

Stan had challenged and killed a god for him.

It would be almost impossible to top that even if he spent the rest of his life trying.

It was only ten or so minutes of just sitting and looking at the tape in his hands but it felt like hours before he finally got up the strength to stand and put it in the player. He held the remote in his hand but went back to his spot on the floor. This time he set up a pillow since he expected to be sitting there for a while. He didn’t know how long the tape was but he hoped it was long. He didn’t want to say goodbye.

He hit play and the tape started up with Stan back on the couch again still sitting in the middle like he had in the first tape. But he was in different clothes this time and his hair was held back in a ponytail. It looked slicked back but upon closer inspection, it was just wet, probably from a shower.

Stan didn’t look nearly as collected as he did in the first tape. No big smile, no joy in his eyes, just a somber look on his face right from the start.

Didn’t that just sum up their whole relationship?

“I hope this is just as hard for you to watch as this is for me to make, Sixer. Because I’ve restarted this nearly ten times now. I’ve tried following a script, winging it. Nothing feels right. Because there is no possible way I can have this conversation without you here. Not really. Not without splitting it in two different versions where one you still hate my guts and the other you’ve forgiven me for everything.” Stan moves around a piece of paper on the coffee table, looking down at it and then up at the camera again.

“I’m just going to start back at the beginning. Back in high school.”

The science fair. Ford has to steel himself for what’s coming.

“I don’t understand why you started to hate me, Ford. I mean, I like to try and blame Dad, and he helped, I’m sure. But way before the science fair you started to pull away. We used to be best friends, partners in crime. And then as we got older you spent more time with your nose in a book and it just got harder and harder to get you to talk to me at all.” Stan can’t look at the camera as he talks, looking at the coffee table instead.

“Growing up I always thought myself lucky because I figured I’d always have you in my corner. That’s the thing about twins, right? Universe knew I was so much trouble they had to give me a babysitter from the beginning. But then you just pulled away and stopped hanging out with me as much. More so starting senior year. And yeah, I get you were stressed. You always worried too much, but damn it. I was trying to help you. If you just let yourself relax for a minute- “

He stops and sighs to himself while rubbing between his eyes. Stan looks tired here, so much older than they are. They’ve barely just started and Ford already feels like crying.

“Anyway. You kept pulling away, for whatever reason you had. And I kept fighting, like always, to try and get you back. But it only seemed to push you further away until everything came to a head in the spring at the science fair. Now, looking back, I know you just didn’t want to bum around on a boat with me. You always loved learning, which meant college. I get that now, it's your thing just like mine was always stealing crap. But back then, I took it as a final straw. Like you were finally finding a way to get rid of me once and for all.”

“I was scared, as I always was, about losing you. You’d go away to school and then I’d get stuck in some dead-end job somewhere. Maybe I was jealous of your success too. I can admit that now since I don’t have to look you in the eye. Kinda makes this easier.” He shrugs, glancing at the camera and back down.

“That night before your presentation, I did go back to the gymnasium. I wanted to break it so bad, stop you from going away and leaving me in the dust. I was mad at you. Mad at myself too for not being better. I always felt like such a failure, still do a lot of the time. Hell. It took a deal with a god for me to turn a profit for the first time in my life.” He laughs bitterly.

“I slammed my fist on the table, right next to the project. I think I wanted that to be enough. For it to break while also not being directly at fault. A weird sort of loophole where I didn’t touch it even though I basically did. It produced a little smoke, and the little screwed-on panel popped off. But it kept spinning, moving like nothing ever happened. So, I left, thinking everything was fine. Or telling myself it was.”

“Knowing everything I know now I don’t know if I’d change what I did. Because if you’d gone to that school, you wouldn’t have met Fids. And he’s the only reason I survived this and was able to help you here. Because you would have ended up here anyway. I just know it, because I know you better now. Living in your house, going through your crap.” He cracks a small smile looking up at the camera but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ford has to pause the tape, getting up to go get a new box of tissues out of the bathroom to clean up with. It hurts because somehow Stan is right. In most other dimensions he did end up here. And very few of them turned out even half this good.

He should be grateful for all this. That he’s alive, his parents are here, and Stan is too. He doesn’t remember, but maybe he will. Or they can start over and try again. Which won’t be easy, but it would be kinder. Stan wouldn’t have to have so many bad memories or have all that pain in his eyes on the screen anymore.

All he wants is to hug Stan, tell him to shut up, and just be done with this. Because the details don’t matter, not after everything that happened. Stan’s a fucking hero, his hero. The world’s hero even if no one knows it but them. With a shaky breath, he resumes the video.

“And if I hadn’t been going through hell these past ten years? I never would have been strong enough to even think about doing what I did. Been crazy enough to try. The world beat me until my skin hardened and I adapted, letting me do this. And I wouldn’t change this for anything. Knowing you're okay, that I saved you from your stupid self, even if it meant I had to live a really crappy life the first time, that makes it all worth it. And hey, it's not all bad. I did come out on top overall what with my, sorry, our newfound riches.” He smiles a little wider and it sticks this time, melting into a softer upward tug of his lips.

“Things played out the only way they could of. Because if you hadn’t gone through that portal, if we hadn’t been so screwed up that I pushed you?” He pauses and winces. “I found that noose you had upstairs. I think I know what you were headed towards if I had left with that journal like you wanted. You were on a crash course for Bill killing you or killing yourself. Me pushing you stopped it and I can’t regret that. Because I love you, no matter how much you suck sometimes.”

He sobers up a little more, squaring his shoulders and sitting up straighter. “If you still hate me, after all I did for you. Then you really aren’t the brother I grew up with at all anymore. I really hope that’s not true because it kills me to think about, but if it is. Well. I have a backup plan in place that Fid’s got. So, if you want me out of your house, you got it. Just tell Fids and I’ll go. It's not like new me will feel the same pain I would, I think.” He looks up at the screen and Ford, glaring at the screen. “Just know that someday you’re going to be in over your head again, and I’m not going to be around to save you next time. Wouldn’t even if you asked. If that’s how you feel.”

There's a bit of an awkward pause where Stan just glares at the screen, and it hurts, and then his shoulders sag and the fight goes out of him over it like he had to force himself to be that angry at Ford over this hypothetical situation in the first place.

One that’s never going to happen.

The reverse? Possibly. New Stan might find out everything, eventually, and high tail it out of Gravity Falls as fast as he can. He might hate him with a passion stronger than the glare Stan just mustered. But now, Ford could never hate Stan. He never did and he’ll always live with the guilt that his brother thought he did right up until he was gone.

“That’s all I’m going to say about that. Because I just can’t make a whole tape trying to be mad at you when I don’t know. I’ll never actually know how you feel and that kills me. I’ll never get to hear your side of what happened.” Stan looks really sad about that, glancing around the living room.

“I’ll never know what school was like for you, other than what Fids was willing to share, or what it was like studying here before Bill. If there ever was a before him. You’ve got to get rid of all the triangle windows Stanford. They make it seem like you were in love with him or something.” Stan snickers a little at that, unable to help it.

“I’ll never get to know what really happened to you on the other side of the portal. God, I bet it was awful but I can only speculate. With Bill, things are always awful unless you fall in line and do what he wants. That’s part of what made it easier to trick him. He thinks he’s so smart, able to see the future, so he didn’t even think twice when I fed him lie after lie just telling him what he wanted to hear with just enough rebellion that it was believable.”

“Trick of the trade for you. If something seems too good to be true, it is. You just haven’t read the fine print. Second, if someone sounds smart, they’re probably secretly a moron. However, never underestimate an idiot either. Bill did, and it cost him everything.” Stan picks up a glass of water from the coffee table and takes a drink of it before continuing.

“I’m going to be naive when I wake up, my instincts might not be there anymore. So, you need to be smart enough for both of us. Which is a big ask, considering what a mess I just had to save you from. But I’m sure it made you smarter. All this has certainly aged me. I mean just look at this, if I got a haircut I’d look like dad for fucks sake.” That makes Stan shake his head, sitting back against the couch now instead of hunching forward while he talks. His shoulders relax a little too.

“I shouldn’t let myself get hung up on everything I’ll never get to know about you. I learned what I could from your house and Fids but that’s going to have to be enough. In a way, it was nice being here. I mean, sure I was dealing with Bill and all this crazy shit. But this is your place. We had so much pain between us that we couldn’t even be in the same room without fighting. But I could be around your stuff, echoes of you,” He flushes on the screen, “God that sounds stupid as hell. Fuck it. I’m not restarting again.”

“It was like you were here with me, the nicer parts of you I remember from before. And it helped it not be so bad.” Stan reaches over down into the drawer of the end table in the living room. “Like this. Which, by the way, is still in that drawer if you want to grab it. We can have a moment here holding it, if you want.” There’s a pause, and Ford scrambles up and around to the drawer where the frame is still sitting. He pulls it out and holds it, sitting where Stan is on screen.

“You can’t hate me. Not completely. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept this all these years.” He turns to show the picture of them on the Stan O’ War to the camera and Stan cries a little looking down at it on his lap.

“I got through all this, because of you. You and Fiddleford. So, I thank you for that. For leaving echoes and proof so I had something to fight for. They were small, but I’m pretty sure I could find love inside a damn marble if it was there.” He laughs a little, looking back up at the camera before putting the picture back in the drawer and moving back to the middle of the couch.

Ford moved back to his pillow on the floor, tearing up, and clutching the photo in both hands. It seems ridiculous that in their youth he had always thought Stan was stupid. Because he just isn’t. Nothing about any of this would suggest he ever was. Made mistakes, sure. But stupid? Not a chance. He just knows things that Ford never would have picked up on. If the roles were reversed, he probably wouldn’t have ever seen anything but an empty house. But Stan found more, little pieces, and made them out to be these big things. It wrecks him.

How alone and desperate was Stan to cling to such tiny pieces of hope. Because yes, he had always loved Stan, now more than ever, but back then it was buried. Down underneath anger, resentment, and guilt. But Stan dug it up like he had a map for it. Or a metal detector.

Maybe Stan didn’t die thinking he was hated. Somewhere deep down, Stan knew he was loved even if he didn’t know how much. And that has to be enough, because it’s easier to stomach than the alternative.

“Try not to hide it so much this time around, alright? We get a second chance to not screw this up again. Granted I can’t exactly do much on my end to contribute, but you can try. And if the new Stan is anything like me, he’ll try too. I think.” He smiles again, lifting the foot in a cast up onto the coffee table and then crossing the other over it.

“Okay, that’s not exactly true. I tried, really hard, to make it clear in my memory journals and letters how important you are. So, I did try, but I also talked you up a lot. Try not to let him down so he doesn’t start thinking I’m full of shit. The last thing we need is me not trusting my own word.” It's ironic, considering he is a liar at heart.

“Anyway. I think that covers all of our past issues? Mostly? Which means I can tell you a little more about me. I assume if you’ve made it this far you want to hear a little bit about what I’ve been up to. Both in more detail about Bill and about what I’ve been doing for the last ten years.”

For the first time since starting the tape, he feels his shoulders relax even if he’s still clutching the picture between both hands. He was worried Stan would talk about their issues and that would be that. But he does want to know more, whatever Stanley will tell him now. Stan has a pretty accurate timeline of his life over the last ten years, it seems only fair he gets one back.

He catches himself about to ask a question and then closes his mouth frowning and letting out a defeated sigh.

“Alright, let’s go way back then to right after we parted ways. Just keep in mind, that my story isn’t exactly happy. There are a few okay parts, I got along, but it’s still pretty tragic. I won’t lie. I’m still pissed, and a little jealous, at you for living it up here in the woods with your grant money while I was doing drug trafficking to get by sometimes. But, again, things happened so I could do this. Sucked, but I’m mostly over it. Just had to tell you, in case I remember it one day and randomly sock you in the jaw for it.” Stan smiles at that and shifts his legs out of the way on screen. He grabs the same box Fids had set out for him and moves around to sit on the edge of the coffee table closer to the camera so it's just his upper half in view now.

It irritates him, distantly, with his annoyance flaring at Stan’s words. It's an old habit of getting mad at Stan for being jealous of him or knocking anything he did. Sort of a defense mechanism slash him still thinking he’s better and more deserving. But it's just a flicker of what he would have felt before all this crap. Mostly he just feels sad. Because he could have helped Stan a lot sooner, he could have been here with him this whole time, if he could have just gotten over himself and stopped being unable to admit he was wrong years ago.

“Fids should have set out this box for you with the tape. Go ahead and pull it over so we can go through it together.” He waits, giving Ford a minute to pull it over after setting the framed picture aside on the floor. Ford gets it in front of him but is reluctant to open it, just watching the screen instead like that will stop this.

This shouldn’t be how things are.

He has to pause the tape and sit there looking at the box for a while. If Stan hadn’t sabotaged plan A things could have been so different. He could have replicated that bracelet for Stanley from the other dimension to protect him from Bill. They could have left Gravity Falls together and Stanley never would have had to go through all this. It could have been different.

Crying is getting old, but he ends up doing it again anyway. In all likelihood, he’ll never get to tell Stan about those other dimensions he visited, about how awful it was and great at the same time. Who could he tell? Fids, maybe, but he doesn’t seem particularly friendly right now. Which is fair, he deserves that for being the cause of all this shit.

It would be nice, so nice, to just talk to his brother about their experiences and he shifts forward to pathetically lean against the paused TV screen because it's as close to a hug as he’ll get right now. Stan is the only person who understands, or understood, what dealing with Bill was like.

It's selfish, but he hopes someday Stan can remember, so they can talk about it. It would help, maybe they’d even bond over it. That’s a nice thought.

After a while sitting against the fuzzy screen gets old so he shifts back, blowing his nose again, and gathering himself.

Yeah, things could be better, but they could also be a million times worse. A billion times worse.

He needs to stop taking all this for granted, especially after Stanley worked so hard for it.

Now he’ll just have to work equally as hard to help them reconnect. Stan is screaming it through this whole video, but not begging like the last tape, and he’s going to do it. Even if it kills him.

He hits play again.

“Alright, go ahead and open up the box and I’ll talk you through everything you see. Keep it organized though. This is my mementos box and the new me is going to go through it later too. I just figured you’d want to hear about this stuff. The tape I made for myself is supposed to be watched alone like yours, but I don’t mind going over these twice. You’ll probably appreciate this more anyway.” Stan smiles on the screen before looking down at the box he’s holding on his lap below the camera.

Ford finally lifts the lid to look inside while Stan keeps talking.

“Off on the left, you’ll see two tapes with a notepad on top. Those are copies of all the infomercials I did over the years. The notes just cover the dates, when I had the idea for the product, and maybe a fun fact or two. I didn’t want the new me trying to start a business with something that already failed but otherwise kept the details of the failures vague. Gotta protect my pride a little bit. They’ll be funny to watch, maybe if you’re all feeling sad and missing me you could pop one in and watch me embarrass myself for a couple of hours.” He glances up at the tv screen and finds himself smiling with Stan.

Even now, erased, Stan’s still thinking of them trying to cheer them up.

“Next in the middle, there is my photo album. I didn’t take a whole lot of pictures over the years, but I have a few. Pick that up and we’ll go through it together.” Stan shifts the box off to the side as he picks up the photo album while Ford does the same, excited at what he’ll see.

“Starting off strong we have the last pictures of our ship. You know I tried to do the whole pirate thing myself, seemed like a waste of all our work, but without actually knowing how to sail it's lucky I didn’t drown.” The picture is one of Stan red with a sunburn but looking no older than when he was kicked out. Stan’s out on the water, somewhere, awkwardly holding the camera out with the wheel of the ship, the sail, and some of the ocean sunset in the background. Other than being a little dark the pictures are almost professional-looking.

It makes him feel sad and guilty, but it's nice in a way too.

“Sorry to say she ended up sinking before I got far from the coast. Guess she wasn’t as watertight as we thought. But I got a couple of nice pictures out of it. That’s the only one that wasn’t too blurry with me in frame. The next two are of that same sunset and the boat before she went down.”

Ford flips through the next two pictures. It was a beautiful scene even if the result of the ship sinking was sad. The whole album looks worn like Stan had looked at these pictures a lot.

“Here we have me posing with my first wanted sign in Pennsylvania. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back there. They really didn’t like me. It was fun while it lasted though. Then in that next one, I was working on a crabbing boat for a little while in Maryland. That was my boss there in the picture with me. His son took it for us on my last trip out with them before I left town. You know, if that town wasn’t so damn boring, I might have stayed there. It wasn’t a bad job and they were good people.”

Ford has to fumble to pause the tape looking at the picture of Stan and the older gentleman standing in front of a still-full crab trap.

That’s him, that’s Stanley’s adopted dad!

He wants to yell, to call someone over to show them, and explain how crazy it is that Stan met the guy who would have adopted him in another life. It makes his chest tighten up and bubble over with an emotion he can’t exactly explain.

Despite everything the two men had crossed paths anyway and, in the picture, Stan looks really happy. He’s grinning wide in the rubber overalls with his hair a mess because of the ocean wind. God, if only Stan remembered everything so he could tell him about this. About their other life. Although he could probably leave out the married part. That makes him flush as he hits play again with the remote.

“Next to that, we have a picture of me at a car shop in Florida while I was down there for a while. You’ll probably watch the educational tapes I made about my car knowledge later with new Stan and I talk a little more about this place there. Learned a good number of tricks there and had a coworker who taught me about scrapping cars. Made some good money finding abandoned cars gutting them for scrap and parts for a while.”

In the photo Stan is leaning over against a metal support beam in an auto shop with an old car from the twenties they were working on in one stall and a more modern station wagon in the next. He’s wearing a shirt that has the logo for the shop but it’s stained by grease and oil is smeared on Stan’s hair and face like he just got in a fight with someone during an oil change. It makes him laugh for the first time since starting the tape.

“Buckel up, because these next ones are some of my favorites even if they’re a bit of a jump forward. I’m a couple of years older in these ones compared to twenty in Florida.” They both flip the page and Ford laughs harder, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

“That’s right, for a little while I was in a biker gang! Very briefly, but it was fun as hell. Those guys loved taking pictures, especially the fourth one there from when they let me do a whole ride with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.” The photos vary from Stan posing with a couple of guys with a few bikes parked in front of them to one taken from behind Stan while they must have been driving around a scenic outlook.

He looks back up at the screen and Stan’s flushed a little, probably embarrassed to be sharing the picture, but it just makes him smile and pause the tape. Stan looks older, because he is, in these pictures. More filled out, and wearing leather looks good on him. The bike he’s driving around is red, just like his car, and he finds himself looking at the pictures for a while.

It's nice to know that it wasn’t all bad for Stan. He had good moments in the mix of all his troubles. There were some memories worth remembering from those ten years, otherwise he wouldn’t have kept this stuff. While Ford was nearing the end of his college studies Stan was off enjoying himself too. It's good.

He resumed the tape and then flipped the page to the next two pictures.

His heart does a weird little flip in his chest like it can’t decide which emotion to feel looking at these.

“You know I still talked to Mom, after I left home. And she told me about your college graduation. Begged me to go, to see you. Said it would be a good chance to reconnect. Plus, she’d be there, to help ease things a little?” Ford looks up wide-eyed at the screen and Stan looks a sad sort of happy.

“I went, drove all the way there. Even paid the stupid admission cost to watch. That first one is of you walking the stage from where I was sitting.” Stan sighs, looking down at the pictures as he talks. “I missed what was supposed to be our high school graduation. And since I was already only a couple hours away, I felt like maybe I could do it. Maybe I could finally face you. But then I got there and saw how happy you looked and-“ Stan drifts off, taking a second before sighing.

“I got close, close enough to turn around and take a couple of pictures with you and Mom in the background. That second one is the only good one out of the batch. Then I got scared, worried I’d ruin it by showing up. It was supposed to be a good day of celebration for you and I didn’t want to bring my dark cloud around raining on it.”

Then Stan just shrugs, like it's no big deal, “I’m glad I have those pictures, I’m glad I went, but I’m also kinda glad I didn’t talk to you. Would have been too weird and not the right time.”

He has to pause the tape, again, to look at them. Because yes, that’s him and mom right in the middle of a crowd of other families. They’re smiling, he’s wearing all the tassels and stuff for his degrees and honors. Mom and him are hugging and this photo was taken probably seconds before Mom pulled out a camera of her own. Stan was barely five feet away, taking the picture from an upward angle to get everyone in the shot, and then he’d just walked away without saying anything.

How was it possible for Stan to get so close and then give up? Had they looked right at the back of Stan’s head and not recognized him? That seemed ridiculous but it had to be true. This was the proof right in front of him.

Rather than feeling upset, or regretting Stan not saying anything, he just smiles. He knows now that Stan was there, even if he hadn’t at the time, and it makes his chest hurt. Stanley really really loved him. And he did so openly. Ford could stand to learn a thing or two from him.

“Anyway, enough about that. These next three are from my time in Mexico. The first is from a surfing class I took while I was down there. I just had to try it once and they have some really beautiful beaches down there by the coast. The second one is of a prison I did some time in.” Stan snickered on screen, “Although I didn’t know it then. I was just being touristy. And the last one is just a mural I liked and thought was neat.”

The water did look crystal clear and Ford’s smile widens seeing Stan sitting on a surfboard. He looked happy if not a little nervous and was throwing up a peace sign to whoever was taking the picture. He brushed over the prison picture, not wanting to think about it anymore then Stan seems to want to talk about it, so he focuses on the mural instead. It's vibrant and full of color depicting a school of fish swimming around in open water. It's very abstract.

This is nice. Being able to see things from Stan’s point of view, see his view of the world a little after being apart for so long. It made sense Stan would want to try surfing what with his lifelong love of water, but these pictures suggested Stan spent a lot of time down in Mexico. Did that mean he used to speak Spanish?

“I was down there for almost two years including the time I spent in prison. Picked up a good amount of Spanish,” Ford jerks up a little to look at the screen when Stan answers his question. Maybe they weren’t as far apart as he’d always thought. “Actually, I made a tape for that. I don’t think new Stan will ever need to relearn it, but if he wants to, I put together a crash course for him. No better person to teach me something than myself.”

“Then mom sent me a couple of pictures of Shermie and Mary from their wedding. And a picture of them with our nephew from two years ago. I’m sure she sent or told you about the same ones. But like I said, I don’t have a lot of photos. Well, not a lot of good ones. I used to have a lot of bad ones, but no sense keeping rejects that didn’t turn out right or are about something I’d rather forget completely.”

They’re only halfway through the photo album now but when he turns the page there is only one more photo in the next slot, leaving the rest of the pages empty.

“The night of the lottery drawing Fids insisted we take a picture together with the winning ticket. That’s the last picture I have. But it’s a good one. We were so excited. I couldn’t believe Bill kept his word. It gave me hope that you would actually come back alive when the portal was finished.”

They both look ecstatic standing up from the couch with Stan holding the ticket in one hand in front of his chest while the other is wrapped around Fiddleford’s shoulder in a vice grip. Stan looks even happier in this picture than he did in any of the other ones. Stan always looks happiest in pictures with other people rather than the ones he's standing alone for.

Ford looks at it a moment longer before turning his attention back to the screen. The album getting closed and tucked back into its spot in the box.

“You know, I worry that I’m going to forget Fiddleford. I mean, I know I will. Because I’m going to forget everything. But I’ve only known him for two months compared to you. I’ve been hiding so many memories with him up here,” He points up at his head still looking down at the picture sadly, “that it might take a long time for those to come back, if ever. He’s a great guy Ford, the only real friend I’ve had other than you. If you can, try not to let me forget him. I wrote about him for myself, of course, but still.” He shrugs a little and then finally closes the photo album with a soft thud, putting it back in the box and grabbing the last thing. It kinda looks like a planner but thicker and has color tabs along one side for organizing whatever is inside.

“This is the hardest part of this little mementos box, because its nothing but ugly. This is the meat of what I’ve been doing for ten years.” Stan swallows. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, made a lot of enemies doing it. This is my contact book. It includes every criminal I’ve ever worked with or for. Both those I’m still on good terms with and. Well, those I’m not. I was able to go through my old film cameras for some pictures and then public records online for the rest. But I put a picture next to every contact in there.” Stan looks rather uncomfortable now looking down at the book, flipping through pages before looking back up at the camera.

“Look. There are at least a couple dozen criminals who’d probably pay to see me dead. The guys who I’m on bad terms with, you need to memorize what they look like. Because even though I might stay here with you they could still show up. And some of them are really bad news. And- “

Stan stops for a long minute because he’s panicking a little, nervous to tell Ford about this. It’s not easy admitting and actively showing Ford the bad people he’s been involved with.

“On the small, terribly small, chance we decide to go sailing, because I would still love that, one of us needs to be aware.” He rushes through it, like he thinks it’s a ridiculous thing to suggest but has to spit it out.

But it’s not. Up until now, he’d very nearly forgotten about what he’d been planning while in that one nice dimension. It would be perfect. They could build a boat and go sailing together. He’d need to do more research into water-based anomalies, but if the other Stan and Ford could find them surely they could too.

“If we go traveling around the odds are much higher you run into these guys. Some of them would shoot you on sight just because you look kind of like me. Sorry about that by the way. Just. Do me a favor and learn what the red tabs look like. For both of our safety.”

Ford can tell this makes Stan very uncomfortable asking him to keep an eye out for the enemies he’s made in the past. It’s good that he’s being practical, at least, putting their safety above pride rather than just burning this book or something. That would be foolish. This isn’t too hard for someone with a near-perfect memory either. “I can do that, Stan.” Now the tape has him talking to himself, great.

Stan doesn’t smile, still looking tense, but after a beat, he nods. “And if you ever need something illegal, I’ve probably got a guy for it. Not in Oregon, but close enough down in California.” It's only half a joke but he smiles like it's funny even if it makes Ford scowl.

“Yeah, yeah. You are no fun. I’m just saying. Oh, and I want you to take that one out of the box. In the early stages of trying to remember I don’t think the new me needs to know a good coke dealer or anything like that.” Stan laughs a little nervously. “If he ever asks about my blood book, which is what it's called, then you can give it back. But otherwise, he’s better off not knowing about all this.”

Ford carefully starts flipping through it. There are a lot of people in this book but nothing goes into too much detail. Red tags mean bad but all the rest are tagged green. Names come with a picture and then one or two sentences about what they can do. A lot of them have something to do with drugs but there are a few who specialize in stealing, burglary, and forgery. A handful across the book are more sinister though. Kidnapping, torture, murder. Part of him wants to know, but in the end, he’s glad he can’t ask why Stan knows people who can do those kinds of things.

He sits, flipping through the book, going from red tag to red tag to memorize what they look like. Stan has pissed a lot of people off apparently. There are over thirty red tags to look at. At least half of them have an updated status of being in jail along with the day they get out, but still. It makes him scowl again closing the book and shaking his head at Stan.

He didn’t even realize he hadn’t paused the tape so when he looked up to see the tape was still going, he jumped a little. But Stan had been silent for a little bit, looking off-screen at the floor of the living room. It makes him frown because he can’t see what Stan is looking at.

Or worse, Stan is thinking long and hard about saying something.

Come on, you can say it, whatever it is. Don’t leave me wondering for eternity.

“When I made my deal with Bill. I didn’t have anything to offer him. Not really. I’m not smart like you so it was putting all the work of the portal on Bill. So, the only thing I could offer him in return for you was,” Stan sighs, reaching forward and adjusting the camera, “He liked torturing you. Said it was fun. But he also didn’t want to hurt you too much because you were ‘unique’ in his words. Too important. So, I signed up to be tortured in exchange for him fixing the portal. And I know you're going to yell at me, tell me it was stupid of me, and you're right.”

Ford remembers to pause this time and just looks at Stan on the screen in a mix of shock and horror. Okay, maybe Stan could have kept that to himself. But it did explain a lot. Bill only tortured him after he refused to continue work on the portal, never before then. It made him feel even worse about all this. Bill and everything about him was Ford’s fault for summoning him in the first place. Now Stanley being tortured for fun was also added to the list. It seemed he was going for a new record for how much emotional damage he could take in one day.

He could try fast-forwarding the tape to skip this part, not wanting to know these details. His finger hovered over the button but he couldn't make himself press it. He couldn’t make himself skip anything Stan had to talk about. What if he had a point for telling him this? Something important? He clicked resume instead for what felt like the millionth time.

“Look. Bill isn’t the first person to torture me. You don’t end up with a blood book with that many names and that many red tags without almost getting killed a couple of times.” Stan sighs on screen, running a hand over his face. “I lied, in my health records about my teeth.” Stan opens his mouth on one side, the left side, and lifts his lip so you can see the gum line for a second before letting go of his lip. They look normal. “In my dental records, for when I go to the dentist next, I said I was in a boating accident and lost this whole upper left side. But that’s not true. Just nicer sounding.”

Stan fidgets again with his watch, his arm moving the sign of the nervous tick, “In reality, I was kidnapped and locked in the trunk of a car. Pretty sure they were driving me to a shallow grave to shoot me. That’s the story behind how I chewed my way out of a trunk. Destroyed that whole section of teeth and hurt worse than anything Bill ever did. In comparison, he was a cakewalk. Not to say he took it easy. I mean, a needle in your skull isn’t nothing. But for pain, not too bad.”

“My point is, don’t feel too bad about it. About what I had to do. I think he only hurt me eight times not counting my vivid dreams? Then things smoothed out when he started liking me. Although, I still think he’d pick you over me. I’m just a consolation prize.” He shrugs and goes quiet again.

Is Stan feeling bad about the torture he just discussed or Bill liking Ford more? Surely, he means the torture? Because Stan picked him, not Bill, despite having every opportunity not to. Still a horrible thought to contemplate, but it doesn’t seem like Stan is going to elaborate further. Instead, he reaches back for the piece of paper on the coffee table and picks it up, holding it so only the top part of the paper is visible while he checks whatever sort of list he’s going off of to keep this cohesive.

“Alright. Now we’re getting to the miscellaneous section of this tape. First off, let's talk about nightmares. I’m sure after all the crap Bill has put me through, I’ll still have them. Maybe that’s how I’ll get some of my memories back. Or maybe it’ll only happen after I start figuring things out about myself. Either way, you need to be careful. I’ve been known to get violent sometimes in that in-between state of awake and asleep and I don’t want to hurt you.” He flushes a bit.

“I never did anything to hurt someone too bad. But the worst I ever did was choke a guy out. It took him going limp for me to snap out of it. Not saying I’ll still be like that, but just be careful. Don’t let me keep anything sharp near my bed. Fids has already been given instructions to keep my handgun until I have a good number of memories back. At which point I’ll get a safe to store it in. Actually, I should add that to the list.” He reaches forward and grabs a notepad from near the camera along with a pencil to write something down.

It makes sense, knowing the horror of Stan’s life even before Bill, that there would be nightmares. Huh. He’ll probably have those too, won’t he? Not something to look forward to.

Stan stops writing and sets the pad of paper down again and refocuses his attention, “Sorry. I’m recording this the day before we open the portal. I keep thinking of new things I should add to my list of things I want to do or buy after all this. Buying a safe for paperwork and my gun is a good idea, practical. Of course, new me might not want to buy or do those things anymore. It's more of a suggestion list than anything.”

For the first time in ten years, Stan is going to have a home again where he can put things. There is only so much you can store in a car but now he has a whole room. He’s itching to see this supposed list and wishes Stan had left him a copy or something.

“Anyway, the next thing I’ve been thinking about is potential ways to jog my memory after all this. Fids remembered Bill just from looking at a picture of him, but with the whole mind being gone we can’t be sure it’ll be that easy. It might take something more. I found those childhood films up in the attic when I turned your house upside down and moved them into your bedroom closet. Watching those would be a good start and I’d like you to start with that after my introduction letter to myself and the tape I left myself. Seeing us as kids is the first thing I want him to watch before he starts reading the memory journals. Then he can put our childhood faces to all the stories I wrote about us.” Stan is smiling a little more now talking about a lighter subject.

“Music might help too; I’ve got my mix tapes out in the car all with their accompanying letters talking about them some. Just let me just spend an afternoon in the car reading those and listening to stuff? I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m just thinking. Trying to figure out what would draw up the most emotions for me.”

“You could also try bringing me up somewhere high up. After Bill put me through exposure therapy so much during his torture I’m not as terrified as I used to be but it’s still not pleasant. Might bring up bad memories. But any memory is better than nothing, right? Maybe something high adrenaline like drag racing. Like when we were teens?” Stan laughs for the first time since the tape started even if it's short-lived. The smile touches his eyes too.

But then Stan goes quiet again, like earlier when he was reading through the book and forgot to pause the tape. The silence drags for a minute and then Stan gets up, grabs his crutch, and walks over behind the couch to pace back and forth still in view. Stanley looks like he’s thinking about something really hard or maybe debating saying something again.

After the last thing being torture, he’s leaning towards no, but the more Stan paces with his crutch making repetitive clicks over and over on the floor he starts to wonder. Stanley is wasting precious time purposefully showing him walking back and forth instead of just pausing the recording and having a cut somewhere.

It can’t be more than five minutes of pacing back and forth but the suspense is killing him when Stan finally comes back and sits back down. His face is a little red but he can’t tell if it's from the walking or embarrassment. Both?

“Listen, Ford, since it's not likely I’ll ever get another chance to tell you this-“ Stan cuts himself off, rubbing at his face again and letting out a groan while covering his eyes. “God, this shouldn’t have to be so hard!” Stan looks back at the camera and he’s got that pleading look on his face again like he wants Ford to just read his mind without him having to say whatever he’s trying to spit out.

“Never mind. I can’t do it. I’m a coward and I can’t. Never mind.” He gives up, dropping his hand down.

Stanley, you can’t just say something like that all ominous, and then go ‘Oh, never mind guess you’ll never know’ like this. He wants to reach through the screen and shake Stan so he’ll just spit whatever it was out. So he’ll say it.

But he can’t.

“Listen, I’ve run out of things to talk about here. Which is fine because it's not like the tape has a lot of time left anyway. Just know that I’ll miss you, Pointdexter. Obviously, look at all I’ve done for you.” He throws on a smile but Ford can tell it's fake, even the light in his eye is artificial.

“Here, we can’t exactly hug through a TV, but we can high six.” Stan puts up his hand, moving it to a specific distance so it's almost the same size as it would normally be in person. Ford shifts closer to the screen and puts his hand up to it ignoring the fuzzy static against his hand.

A long silence passes like Stanley is struggling to spit out a goodbye. Good. He doesn’t want this tape to end or for Stanley to stop existing even if it’s only like this.

But then Stan drops his hand and reaches out to pull the camera closer to him so it's only his face in the frame and Ford has to drop his hand so he can see him.

“I love you, Stanford.” The fake smile falls into a deeply sad barely held-together one with his voice breaking on saying Ford's name. But Stan ends the tape before the tears there fall and he has to pause it when the room is deafened by static.

For a minute he sits still with his heart breaking for the millionth time today.

“I love you too, Stanley.” He whispers in the silent room as if Stan could hear him from yesterday.

Chapter 29: Stanley's Introduction; Part One

Notes:

Sorry, this took so long. I underestimated how hard it would be to write someone with amnesia, big time. This is probably about the fifth or sixth time I scrapped this chapter and started over. Feels like the tenth, honestly. But it's finally here! So enjoy!

Chapters might be a little slower though because of the memory loss I have to compensate for, but we'll see! I want to do it right, not fast. XD

It took Fids finding him still sitting on the floor by the TV for him to get up. It just felt so impossible to say goodbye even though it was the third or fourth time he’s had to do so. He was tired of it. But it did spur him into getting up and taking his things upstairs to his room. The book Stan gave him while the tape went back in the box.

His body may not have smelled like he needed a shower but it certainly felt like he did. Ford took a long one and after getting changed he was a little more collected. Technically he could still use sleep, but he had better uses of his time. Like putting a little more furniture in Stan’s new room.

Other than the bed and the dresser there wasn’t much inside leaving the whole other half empty. Fids seemed more than happy to help him dig some old chairs out of storage and a non-dangerous rug so the floor wouldn’t be so bare. They set it up as a second sort of living room facing the far wall with the chairs a good distance away.

All that was missing was a TV.

That resulted in a little bit of a problem. Ford did not want to leave Stan home alone with Fiddleford just so he could make a trip to the store. But, he also wanted Stan to be able to watch his tapes upstairs since their parents would be taking over the living room. They could move the TV upstairs, but Ford was pretty sure that if Stan would want anything from that list of stuff to buy? It would be a TV. Surely.

After a little bit of back-and-forth, Ford managed to convince Fids to take his car and wallet and go into town to buy the stupid thing. Fids didn’t want to miss Stan waking up any more than he did, but he also seemed to get that Ford was trying to do something nice and didn’t want to stop that either.

If they weren’t geniuses with so many math degrees between them, they never would have been able to get the damn thing upstairs. It was amazing the workers at the store had been able to get it in the car to begin with. The TV was bulky and heavy, but eventually, they got it plugged in and set up on the far wall of the room. And the time Fids was gone wasn’t wasted since Ford took the time to set up a movable sheet for the projector that pulled out in front of the TV as needed.

Fids put the memory box in the room at the end of Stanley’s bed and Ford set up the projector and left the box of film reels on the floor between the two chairs for later. Everything was ready for whenever Stanley woke up. He’d been asleep for hours now but Fiddleford didn’t seem too worried. He was breathing, he had a pulse, and his eyes were responsive when opened and had a light shined on them. Stan just wasn’t ready to restart, or whatever.

Ford had the most difficult time waiting, pacing back and forth out in the hall and generally unable to sit still. He wandered the house and every time he went into a different room he was reminded of his brother. Even his study had been cleaned! Books were organized, papers were put in stacks, and everywhere was dusted, swept, and moped. How had Stan even found the time to do all this cleaning much less the ability with his broken foot?

Their parents coming home shortly before dark made it a little easier. Something else to focus on rather than pacing up in the hallway. Other than going to get food at the local diner they’d also made a trip to the store. Mom had bought baking supplies to try to recreate some memories from when Stan used to help her in the kitchen around holidays. Making fruit cake, pumpkin and apple pies, and cookies too. Dad on the other hand went and bought the supplies for boxing.

It still shocked him, even after listening to some of the messages on the answering machine, that their parents had gotten so worried about both of them that they’d flown out here. He’d been under the impression that until he sent money back home, he was effectively disowned just like Stanley. Sometimes it was nice to be wrong.

The boxing supplies consisted of tape, gloves, and a punching bag. He was pretty sure they didn’t sell those in town at the local store, but he wasn’t about to question exactly where Dad had got them. All that mattered was it gave him more to do. They cleared out the smallest of the storage rooms, moving boxes into the large one at the other end of the house, so they could hang the bag. It was a pretty sad-looking home gym, but it was a start. And at least with the curtains pulled aside it would get plenty of light.

By the time bedtime came around he’d run out of stuff to do again. The pullout bed was made and their parents had plenty of blankets, they’d eaten a bit of an awkward dinner together in the kitchen, and Fids was set up in his room too.

He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Not just because he was worried about Stan and how long he’d been out but also because of his own time beyond the portal. Nightmares were waiting for him and he didn’t want to find out what they would entail. Instead, he set up an old cot from storage with a pillow and sleeping bag in Stan’s room. It let him stay in the room with Stan until he eventually woke up.

If it didn’t happen by the time a full day had passed, they were going to need to bring him to the hospital. There was only so much they could do here at home and him being out this long was already well outside the documented reactions to the memory gun. Typically, you didn’t fully pass out from the memory gun in the first place. It just left you dazed and forgetful. But neither of them had ever fully wiped someone’s mind before. Or deleted a god in the process. Anything was possible.

Neither of them had wanted to say it, but it was also possible Stan might be in a coma.

Hopefully not.

So, there he was, set up with his cot tucked away. He tried reading but quickly found he couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he brought a couple of notebooks from down in the lab and spent a while writing out much of the work he’d read about in that other dimension. It gave him something to do, repeating math equations and words down onto a blank page. It would also ensure he wouldn’t forget them. Not when they were so important. Ford did eventually fall asleep like that, drifting off with the notebook open on his lap and pencil in hand while he slumped back in one of the two chairs.

*

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was that his head hurt. It felt kind of like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer or maybe driven a knife straight down the center. Both maybe.

When he tried to turn over in bed that only made it worse, causing his nose to brush up against the pillow and sending a fresh wave of pain across his face and through his head.

Why did his face hurt so much? And his head?

He slowly opened his eyes and was relieved to find it was mostly dark. The bedside lamp was on but it was dark outside beyond the curtains leaving a soft glow that he adjusted to quickly.

Where was he?

Looking around nothing seemed familiar. There was the bed he was lying in, the bedside table and lamp, a dresser with a mirror on it against the wall across from the bed, and then a sort of living room set up making up the other half of the room.

Who’s that?

Someone was sitting in one of two chairs, head tilted back and snoring a little bit. They were sleeping and from here he couldn’t see what they looked like.

Was this his room? Maybe a hotel?

He looked around the room again and this time he spotted an envelope on the bedside table below the lamp addressed to ‘you’ whoever that was.

That made him pause.

Who was he? What was his name?

Why didn’t he know his own name?

He shifted so both legs were over the side of the bed and frowned seeing he was wearing one shoe and sock while the other had the pants leg rolled up just below the knee. None of this was making any sense. Why couldn’t he remember? He tried not to panic and reached over to pick up the envelope instead, turning it over.

‘Yes, you. Please read this.’

He glanced around the room, over towards the door, and then back at the sleeping guy.

Okay, so this letter was probably for him then. He opened it, removing several pages, and a single old worn picture of a family. A mom and dad and two teenage boys grinning at the camera with an arm slung over each shoulder. They looked happy. But who were they?

He put the picture down on the bedside table and shifted closer to the lamp so he could read.

 

Hello!

I’m going to start this letter off by saying not to panic or be afraid. I know you’ve gotta be really confused right now. Why can’t you remember anything? Your name, where you are, your whole life! But don’t worry, it’s all okay. Seriously. I’m you, past you, and I wrote this to calm your worries and give you some basic information to start. Our name is Stanley Caryn Pines and we recently lost all of our memories. The reason behind that is very complicated and you have a lot more other stuff to remember before you’ll be ready for that part of our life. So, for now, just know we did this by choice and that I’ve prepared for it. It’s going to be okay. :)

This room you’ve woken up in is our room inside our brother’s house. We have a twin! His name is Stanford Filbrick Pines and he looks just like us. Except he’s a nerd who needs glasses. If you couldn’t guess, we’re the cool twin. If someone is in that room with you now, that’s probably him. He’s probably worried sick!

Anyway. We live in this nice little town called Gravity Falls in Oregon state. It’s a little weird but because of all the rain it gets year-round the whole place is lush with greenery most of the year. We’ve traveled a lot of places but this is the first place that’s ever felt like home. I hope you’ll share the same sentiment as you refamiliarize yourself with the house and town.

Originally, we’re from New Jersey, a small town called Glass Shard Beach. That’s where we were born to our parents Caryn Romanoff Pines and Filbrick Elmer Pines. Although we were born second. Ford is fifteen whole minutes older making us the youngest of three boys. We have one other brother, Shermie Pines, but with him being seven years older than us we didn’t know him that well growing up and that divide has only gotten worse with age.

He's married and has a son, our nephew, but we’ve never met the kid or his wife. But maybe at some point, you/we can change that? Family is really important to us. It's one of those core values I’m supposed to fill you in on during this letter. We’d do anything for them. Which, actually, is how we ended up losing our memory. Or it started out for family. It's really complicated.

On top of loving our family, we’re also painfully loyal, brave, and a fighter. We’re strong and tough as nails, and I’m sure that hasn’t changed. Even if you’ve forgotten who we are. Which is how I know you can do this. It won’t be easy trying to remember, but you’ll have Stanford and our friend Fiddleford to help you the whole time.

How could I forget! Fiddleford H. McGucket is our next closest friend beyond our brother. He’s the guy who helped us put together all the tapes I’ve left for you. And he was there for us when we needed him. He’s a really good guy even if he’s kind of a nerd. And his name is only the most southern thing I’ve ever heard, which is saying something! We usually call him Fids for short because his name is so long. And speaking of nicknames, we have a lot of them for our brother. We only use his full legal name when we’re being serious or trying to annoy the crap out of him. No in-between. Ford is for everyday use while Pointdexter is when he’s being especially nerdy. He loves all things sciencey and math so you’ll get to use that one often.

OH! You get to learn this for the first time! That’s kind of fun, since I’ve always known. Our brother has a rare genetic condition that gave him six fingers on each hand instead of the normal five. It’s the only way our parents could tell us apart when we used to try to switch places growing up. Hiding our hands was the tell. But, anyway, because of that we sometimes call him Sixer. And high fives? They’re called High sixes!

Enough about him though, even if he is important, I’ll tell you a little more about you before wrapping this up. Our hobbies and interests include working on cars, cooking, and boxing. Our car, the Stanley Mobile, is outside and I made you a whole tape series about her history and how to take care of her. So please, don’t crash her. Seriously. Cooking is something we learned from Mom growing up since no one else ever wanted to help her in the kitchen. It was nice since it meant we got some alone time with her. And boxing? That’s something our dad stuck both us and Ford into at an early age. Thought it would toughen us up. And it worked, more or less.

I didn’t make any tapes on boxing since you probably won’t need to know how to fight anytime soon. Our life should be a lot calmer than it used to be moving forward. But if you and Ford ever go visit our parents in Jersey you should ask Dad to teach you some moves. Careful though, we’ve got some serious muscle now and he’s old. HA!

I included a picture of the four of us so that you’ll know what our family looks like. Sorry it's old, the four of us haven’t been together under the same roof in a long time for some very complicated reasons. I’ll explain those a little more in your tape. Just get up and check out your face in the mirror then you’ll at least know what your brother looks like now. And yes, I know we need a haircut. We just haven’t had time for it recently. First chance you get you should go into town and get it cut.

There's a whole box of letters about our life and body and in the letter about scars I’ve included a couple of magazine clippings for inspiration for your new hairstyle. But it’s your body so feel free to get it cut however you want. Or don’t, I’m not around right now to tell you what to do! Hopefully, with time, I’ll come back. Until then you’ve got the wheel. It's your life! Have fun with it and please, for my sake, give Ford a big hug the first chance you get. He could probably use it after everything he’s been through recently. And honestly, you probably could too even if you don’t realize it.

That’s just about all I can fit into this letter. More details and information coming soon! Oh, and if someone isn’t in the room with you just head straight down the hall and down the stairs. That will bring you to the living room and kitchen. Someone should be hanging around there, otherwise just sit in the living room and they’ll find you eventually!

Okay, one more thing, in the bedside drawer we have two meds we have to take. I don’t know how long we’ve been asleep, but you probably need to take one of each come morning. Luckily once this prescription is empty you won’t have to worry about it anymore, but please take them. I promise they aren’t poison. Long story short, we had brain surgery. Those meds are just a precaution to make sure our recovery goes smoothly.

Finally, that’s the last thing. Take some time to gather yourself and maybe fix your clothes. You’ve got a new life to live!

-Stanley (We go by Stan) Pines

 

Reading the whole letter makes his head hurt and it takes him a long time to get through it, having to take several breaks to close his eyes. But this letter is helpful. He can’t remember any of this, but it gives him a general idea of who he was before. It also raises more questions, but time should answer most of them, right?

For a while he continued to sit on the edge of the bed, just holding the letter, hoping that the headache reading all that caused would go away. When it doesn’t, he finally tucked the letter and picture back into the envelope and put it back on the bedside table. Opening the drawer, he pulled out the two pill bottles and set those next to the letter. Otherwise, he’d probably forget.

There isn’t a clock in the room but upon closer inspection of himself, he realizes he can check his watch. Is this real gold? Or is it fake? It feels heavy, so maybe it’s a realistic dupe. It's half past three in the morning, the middle of the night, but he’s wide awake now.

How long was he asleep?

These are all questions he just can’t answer right now. So instead, he does something he can control, removing the one shoe and sock he’s wearing and rolling down the pants leg on the other foot. There, now his clothes are fixed. He leaves them discarded on the floor near the bed before getting up and walking over to the mirror to take a look at himself.

Jeez, his hair does need to be cut. It looks like something straight off of a romance book cover compared to-

To what? What is his hair supposed to look like usually?

His nose looks like it recently took a good beating, maybe it was broken, and has a bruise forming across the bridge and below both eyes. That explains why his face hurts at least, and maybe even a little bit of the headache. Though most of the pain probably has something to do with him forgetting literally everything.

No memories come flooding back looking at his face, it looks like one of a stranger except he’s standing behind it. That’s him. It's weird to know it while also not knowing it at the same time. It's just a face, his face, and it looks fine. Probably better if it wasn’t busted.

The sound of movement pulls him away from looking in the mirror and his gaze darts over towards the chair where the guy has shifted and turned around. Instead of sitting in the chair facing mostly away, he’s up on his knees looking over the back of the chair, staring at him.

Glancing between the mirror and over at the guy he knows this has to be Stanford, his twin brother, because they look mostly the same. Except Ford has shorter hair. He looks like he needs a haircut too. And he’s wearing the glasses other him told him to look for.

For a minute all Stan does is look at him, trying to will himself into remembering the guy. They grew up together. They live together at the moment. He should recognize the guy just like how he should recognize his own face.

That is his face! Just with glasses!

“Stanley, are you okay? How are you feeling?”

Ford had been awake for a minute or two, listening to Stan move around and half watching him flip through the letter he’d left himself on the bedside table. Waiting for him to get up and see himself in the mirror before moving.

Would him speaking startle him? Had he noticed he was in here? Did the letter even mention him? Surely.

Still, watching Stan stare at him blankly made his chest ache. Back and forth between the mirror and over at him like he was trying to work out who he was. This hurt, but he could do this. He’d help Stan figure it out.

There’s a delay in Stan’s response caused by another glance between the mirror before he nods, “Yeah, I think so? Head and face hurt like hell though. I should probably ice this, shouldn’t I?” He raises a hand to point at his nose without touching it.

At least Stan isn’t in a coma, it just took him a while to wake up. That’s all.

He’s okay.

And Ford is an idiot again.

“Shit, yeah. Here, you left yourself a tape to watch. Why don’t you get settled in one of these chairs and I’ll go get you some ice and probably something to eat? I don’t know when the last time you ate was.” His movements are slow getting up from the chair but when Stan doesn’t flinch, he heads for the door, stepping out into the hallways to get what he needed from down in the kitchen. Being mindful of their sleeping parents.

Stan takes the opportunity to move over to the two chairs, sitting in the one that had been empty this whole time. There’s a TV against the wall across from both chairs that he couldn’t see before. And a sheet? And a projector set up just behind and between the chairs. A box of film reels is on the floor right below it. That must be part of him remembering.

On the other side of his chair is another large box labeled ‘memory stuff’ which has a set of two tapes right on top labeled ‘Stanley’s introduction, part one’ and two. While waiting for Ford he brings both over to the TV, turning it on, and putting in the first tape. Then settles back into his chair holding the remote.

He probably doesn’t have to wait for Ford to come back but now that he thinks about it, he is hungry. Ford tried waiting up for him to wake up, falling asleep in his chair. He cares, a lot, so Stan can wait for him to come back.

It only takes a few minutes for Ford to gather up a sandwich, water, and an ice pack for Stan before coming back upstairs. He was still distantly worried that Stan would disappear. He’d gone through losing his brother too many times over the last several months not to worry, even if this world felt like it would stick and he knew it was real. This was home.

Still.

Sleeping would probably always be difficult. Being away from Stanley too.

“Here, I also got you some Tylenol for your headache from the bathroom.” He passed Stan the plate and ice pack first before handing him the glass of water. The TV is already on with the first tape in. Was Stan waiting for him to come back? That makes his chest hurt again but he sits down, watching Stan.

It makes sense why Ford is hovering, because that’s what he’s doing, but it's still a little unsettling to have a guy he barely knows watching him so intensely. He takes the pain pills and drinks the glass of water, setting it aside on the ground where he won’t knock it over. The pack of ice gets set off to the side with the remote so he can focus on the sandwich.

Except Ford is still just staring at him making it impossible for him to focus on anything else. But, when he looks over it makes Ford look away like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It makes him sigh, “I get it, you’re a little paranoid after whatever happened to me. It's nice of you to worry. But can you stop staring at me like I might vanish if you look away...You’re still more or less a stranger to me. How about I start the tape, that’ll give you something else to look at?”

Rather than waiting for a response he just picked up the remote from where it's resting on his leg and adjusted the volume some before hitting play. It worked, at least, and Ford’s eyes shot over to the TV instead of on him. It makes him relax a little bit.

On the screen, the bedroom comes into view with the bed the focal point like the camera is set up on a tripod facing it. That’s him except the him in the video has a cast on his leg and there’s a crutch leaning against the bed like he needs help walking.

Where did the cast go? He wasn’t asleep that long, was he?

“In a way, this is almost harder and weirder than making all the other tapes and letters for my friends and family. Because your me, but you also aren’t. I’d like you, us, to be me again. But only time will tell if that’s even possible.” The Stan on screen lets out a laugh, smiling more than he ever did in Ford’s tape.

“These tapes require a little more soul-searching and introspection than I’ve ever done before. Because I could tell you all the facts about our life. What we did, who we spent time with, and I will. Those things are all written about in the memory journals. But I’ve gotta be completely honest with myself, you, and that’s not something I’m very good at. We are a liar. I lie all the time. To everyone, especially myself. Ourself.”

“But I’ll try not to for the sake of this tape because if I lie then you won’t be me, us.” Stan pauses to grab a hair tie out of the bedside drawer to put his hair back in a ponytail before continuing. “I’m going to stop doing that. Using we and us. You know what I mean by now. I’ll give myself a headache trying to use the right grammar. That’s Ford’s strength, not mine. Anyway. Let’s start by going back to the beginning. I won’t tell you all the little stories, just the main points and how we feel about them. This will sort of be like a therapy session, I guess. Even if I think that kind of stuff is garbage.”

“We grew up in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey with Mom, Dad, Ford, and Schermie for a little while. Though Ford and I spent almost all of our time together while Schermie was busy with school growing up. We went on adventures all over. I’d shoplift us snacks sometimes. We’d scam people together too, when the opportunity presented itself. And it was the greatest. Sure, we didn’t have the best childhood. We weren’t well off by any means, but we had Ford. We had a partner in crime, and a family. And to me, that might as well of made us rich.”

“Ford will show you some old films of us on those old film reels when this tape is done, but you get the gist of it. Two boys causing trouble, having fun during what felt like an endless summer. Sure, we had school, but it's so hot in Jersey that you can barely tell the difference. But the main focal point of all those memories was this dream we came up with. We found this old worn-down shipwreck. A wrecked boat discarded on the beach. We spent the whole afternoon, maybe it was a weekend, playing on it. Making up stories, and plans, to sail around the world. We dubbed it the Stan O’ War and promised to sail around the world together once we were old enough. It would be nothing but treasure, adventure, and babes for us.” Stan’s smile tapers off now, getting a little sadder the more he goes on.

“But, well, I guess no childhood can last forever. It wasn’t just a dream to me; it was a plan. I made it into a promise inside my own head. That we’d follow through on those ideas even if we came up with them when we were barely nine or ten. As we got older, we worked on it, actually fixing up the old ship on our little corner of the beach. But, things change. Ford changed. It's part of growing up, I guess, your plans change and you grow as a person. We were just stuck on that idea, that dream. While Ford started growing up without us little by little.”

“I’ll be honest with you. Sugar coating it, yes, but still honest. We were the problem child. Getting into trouble, picking fights. I thought about hiding that from you. But it's such a core part of who we were that you might not find us again without it. We sucked at school while Ford excelled. He was a genius and our parents gave him every opportunity to do well. We just sort of fell to the wayside. At least in Dad’s eyes. Mom never forgot about us, because she’s the best. I don’t think she ever had a favorite, unlike Dad.”

Stan has to pause the tape. He’s finished his plate of food now, setting it down by the empty glass of water, but his headache is flaring again. Applying the ice helps some but it doesn’t seem to matter what he does. Eyes closed, open, head hunched over his lap, anything. Nothing makes the pain stop. So, he just grits his teeth with his eyes closed waiting for it to fade again, like he did during the first letter.

It's gotta be all the new and old information clashing together. It just needs to soak in and then he’ll be fine. Or whatever. Distantly he can feel Ford looking at him again, probably concerned. But he can’t bring himself to care or offer a defense towards why he paused the tape. He just needs a minute.

Ford is torn between enjoying the tape, because he gets to see his brother again, while also hating it. Hating how Stan talks about himself. Hating how it's accurate. Mostly. Yes, he was given every opportunity to succeed academically, but Stan inadvertently was given other opportunities. Like boxing. Even if their father had never said so he’d been proud of Stan near the end of high school over that, if in nothing else. Stan was good at it and in another life, he probably could have gone professional. And that made Filbrick proud, just in a different way.

God, he was awful for being jealous of just the little bit of pride Stan had earned from their father. Especially since he rejected that same opportunity when given to him!

Stan is doing the same thing he did over the letter on the bed, closing his eyes and scrunching up his face in pain. It's hard to tell if his head just hurts and he has to take breaks or if the new information is directly causing the pain to be worse. But maybe that’s good? Maybe that means he’s remembering? Kinda?

He waits and watches for several minutes until Stan presses play again.

“Boy did our dad screw our life up. Kinda. I mean, we didn’t help, and I don’t think it was exactly intentional, but he made it easier to happen. We were the brawn and Ford was the brains. Ford did well in school and we boxed, fought bullies, and just.” Stan on-screen sighs, shaking his head and looking at the floor for a minute before carrying on.

“We gave up. Too fast we got it in our heads that we were stupid and worthless. That without Ford we had nothing else. So, we clung to it, to him. And it only pushed him away. I still don’t know why, but I don’t feel like I need to. We were suffocating him, trying to make ourselves better just being around him without actually doing anything to improve. Eventually, all that came to a head out senior year. The Stan O’ War was ready to sail, since we’d been working on it that whole time, but Ford had other ideas. He wanted to go to college. God, our brother is such a nerd. He loves learning. And he wanted to get out of that crappy little town a different way.”

“He wanted to go to this school, West Coast Tech, all the way in California on the other side of the country. There was a science fair and Ford entered this Perpetual Motion Machine. He won first place, but that school had some scouts coming by the evaluate him for a scholarship and admission.” Stan stops talking for a minute, avoiding continuing, but eventually, he has to. So, he looks right at the camera as he does.

“We fucked up. Big time. Clinging to that dream ruined our whole relationship. We went back to the school, to his project, and we broke it. We damaged it and by morning the thing had stopped moving, costing him the opportunity of a lifetime. All because he swore he’d go sailing with us if he didn’t get in.” More silence passes while Stan gathers himself. It should get easier repeating this again and again, but it doesn’t.

“He got pissed and told Dad on us because it was a big deal. Maybe not to us, but to him it was. And that was selfish. We hurt Ford. And yeah, he picked himself up. He ended up going to a backup school and still killing it. Has twelve PHD’s in whatever science jargon he’s been up to, but still. We made it harder for him.”

“We got thrown out, that night, into our car with a bag of clothes and a few small belongings I was able to grab on the way out. Which signals the start of the last ten years, before we ended up here in Gravity Falls. We bummed around all over the place. State to state, city to city, and even country to country sometimes.” The Stan on screen pulls out the same shoe box from Ford’s tape over onto his lap within view.

“This contains everything you need to know about those ten years. We were essentially a traveling salesman, trying to make it big and earn enough money that we could rub it in Dad’s face. Make something of ourself so that we could say ‘Ha, I didn’t need you, I didn’t need anyone, I made it all on my own’ or something like that. But we didn’t do a very good job.” Stan opens the box, holding up the notebook with one hand and the two tapes with the other.

“These tapes have all our old infomercials on them for every business idea we ever had. I just wanted to make sure you don’t go inventing something that already failed. Heh. And this notebook has all the details. Original notes, a couple of facts about the product.” He puts both items back in the box before continuing.

“As you can imagine, we didn’t get by selling stuff. It was more of a cover than anything else.” He lets out a sigh on the screen, shaking his head. “We did a lot of crime. I’ll leave the details intentionally vague because the truth is, you don’t want to know. I’d rather soon forget all of it so I’m not going to make you remember. We got in trouble as an adult just as much if not more than when we were kids. We’ve been to prison in three different countries. Don’t try to visit Mexico or Cuba for me. We won’t be welcome in either place.” He lets out a sad and tired chuckle.

He clicks the remote to pause the tape again. Both because his head is hurting more and because he needs a second to process all this. He’s a criminal? Or he was a criminal?

This tape is making him think of his past self in a drastically different light than that letter led him to believe. He doesn’t sound brave or strong. He sounds stupid and arrogant.

He tries to shut up his racing thoughts and focuses on the pain instead. He can ask all the questions he has, after finishing this. Because the rest of the tape probably answers most of the ones currently bouncing around upstairs.

This break is longer, and the pain in his head is worse, but he appreciates Ford not saying anything and just waiting while he continues to rest and ice his nose. Hopefully this pain isn’t going to be a constant problem. Maybe in a few days, it’ll go away? Wishful thinking. Is he an optimist?

He hits play again.

Next Stan picks up the photo album out of the box to hold up, “This has twenty pictures from the last ten years. That’s all I have for positivity in that time. We didn’t do a lot of good or joyful things. Most of it was bad. But there were some good parts. I put letters corresponding with each group of pictures in that box so you can read all about the stories behind them. The people we met, the stuff we did, and the fun we had. But I’ll go over all that with you in more detail in part two. I want to get the details of our relationship with Ford out in this part.”

“So, to do that we’re going to jump ahead again to this last January.” Stan pauses, shifting the familiar shoe box out of the way and pulling a different one out from under the bed up onto his lap instead. “We were apart from Ford for ten years. And while we were traveling around, making trouble, he was busy too. He went to school and afterward, he got a huge grant to come up here to Gravity Falls and study the weird and unusual things here.” The first thing Stan pulls out of the new box is the journal which he holds up, starting at the first page.

He spends a while flipping through the pages just talking about Ford’s research, explaining dozens of the weird creatures and anomalies in the town. Then he closes it again, resting it on his lap with the box off to the side.

“So. Now comes the hardest part to explain. Please, knowing now that this place has all kinds of supernatural stuff going on, try and bear with me. Because I know how insane the rest of this story is going to sound. But I’m not lying. I haven’t, this whole time, and I’m not starting now. In fact, I’ve got a couple of pieces of proof that I’ll have Ford show you after this one and before the second tape.” The Stan on screen puts the journal aside and grabs the old familiar postcard out of the box.

“After ten years apart, Ford finally reached out to me and invited me here to Gravity Falls…”

The story is long, spanning over the rest of the tape, and it makes Stan’s head hurt just listening. This causes the headache to flare constantly and require more and more rest periods for longer periods. But slowly they get through the rest of the story little by little.

And old him is right, the whole thing sounds crazy, beyond insane. But it doesn’t sound like he’s lying. He’s pretty sure he’d be able to tell since he used to be an expert on lying. The story only makes that clearer. He used to be really good at it, painfully so, and acting too. Why on earth did no one ever bother to notice that? Notice him? That makes his chest hurt along with his head to think about, probably old emotions cropping up even if he doesn’t know what exactly they're connected to.

By the time the tape is winding down, he feels a little better. He recognizes the guy on screen. None of these memories he’s been told about come back, his mind still blank other than what he’s been told, but that’s him. He knows that. And looking in a mirror now he’d be less put off to see that face looking back at him. It's familiar, like it should be, and that’s good. That’s something, which is better than the nothing of before the tapes.

“Alright, now about that proof I promised you. Originally, I went out and bought a four-hour tape that can store more so you wouldn’t have to swap out the tape in the middle. But, I came up with a better idea. Ford? Are you watching this with me? I’m going to assume you are. Otherwise, new me, go get someone so they can listen to this part.” There is a pause while he waits, giving new him a chance to pause the tape or yell for someone. Then he goes on.

“I set up Fids tape recorder down in the right-hand corner of the basement behind a black sheet with just the lens visible through a hole to record everything that happened. I want you to go get it and bring it up here for me to watch. And yeah, I know this is something really heavy for me to watch right after waking up, but he needs to see it. To understand what happened and to give him proof that I’m not lying out of my ass this time. There’s a pretty good chance that seeing it might help him remember too. So go get it, please. I’ve got some stuff to talk about with myself alone anyway.” The Stan on the bed made a shooing motion like he’s encouraging Ford to leave the room.

Just when Ford thinks Stan has run out of surprises, he’s proven wrong. It's good exposure therapy, being wrong constantly, but it still makes him sigh and shake his head. And yeah, having himself watch that? Terrible idea, possibly the worst idea ever. But if it might make Stanley remember? Maybe it's worth it. So, he gathers up the plate and cup from the floor and leaves the room. It's early now, past six, but he’s still quiet heading down the hallway and towards the kitchen and taking his time.

“Is he gone?” Stan asks on screen right before his face splits into a grin and he lets out a short laugh. “Good, now I can tell you some stuff I didn’t want to spill while he was here. Like that, he’s an idiot. An absolute moron. This whole time I’ve been calling him a genius, but after all this? I’m starting to think we were the smart twin all along. I mean, come on, ‘my muse’ I really think our brother was boning a triangle. It hurts to say, because that’s low, but I’m pretty sure it's true!” Stan shakes his head, shifting forward on the bed a little closer to the edge.

“Look. I figure if you’re watching this and he’s there with you he’s forgiven us. I did all this, originally, for him. To save him. To fix all of our terrible mistakes in one big swoop. I bet everything, literally, to give myself. You. A second chance at this. Because that’s what this is. I’ve cleared up all our old debts, taxes, and money issues. Sure, you still can’t travel to some places, but Ford will handle the details of that as those restrictions lessen. You don’t have to worry about it.” On-screen, Stan grabs a glass of water and drinks it, thirsty from talking so much.

“By the end of all this? I was doing it for me, us, too though. Bill hurt us in ways I won’t explain. You're better off without those memories. But he made things personal. We have a tattoo on our shoulder. He gave it to us while we were possessed one night. It’s a big L made out of a hand with six fingers. Pretty sure he got it with the intention of hurting me. Breaking us. But it didn’t work how he wanted it to. I wanted him dead. For hurting Ford, for hurting me, and for every other person’s life he ever ruined or planned on ruining. And we did it. And I’m so damn proud of us for that, even if I’m not there anymore.”

“Anyway…” He trails off, looking down at his cast for a minute, “Talk to him, when he gets back, for me. Make sure all is forgiven. Because I’m pretty sure it is, but only you can be sure. That’s all I have for this tape. The next one will cover more basics about yourself to keep putting yourself together. But our story with Ford is a core part of who we are and I needed you to understand that. I’ll see you on the next tape. Right after you watch how badass we are taking on a god.” Stan gets up off the bed and crosses over to the closet, grinning, before ending the tape.

He pauses the tape again, stopping the static that had come across the screen, and just sits there staring at it with the ice still pressed to his nose. It's long since melted, a little more than slightly cold, but he feels stuck.

All of that was so…. Heavy. Heavy and painful. His life was so hard, from the sound of it, and lonely too. His chest has a dull ache that started up about halfway through and never went away. His head is still throbbing and he has to close his eyes.

Is he crying?

Pulling his hand away from his face reveals he is. It doesn’t sound like he’s the type of guy to cry, but that was a lot. A lot a lot. He’s tired, in pain still despite the meds, and this is all too much. Is he expected to watch all of this at once? Because he doesn’t think he can. He needs to stop here, take a long break lying in bed, and pick it back up later after his head stops hurting.

Will it stop hurting? It hasn’t since waking up just getting worse or better depending on what he’s doing or looking at. Maybe erasing his memories with that gun has given him a permanent headache that won’t go away. That would suck, really really suck.

The tape and camera were right where Stan said they would be. He would wonder how they didn’t notice it sooner but in the dark with the black sheet neatly secured with tape and nails into the wall, there was almost no give making it look almost identical to the shadows around it. He brought the camera into the lab but left it there for now just bringing the tape back upstairs.

He takes his time so that Stan has some time to finish the tape before knocking quietly on the door and entering. The TV is bright with the color of static but paused while Stanley has gone back to covering his face and eyes in pain. The tape already has a label ‘Bill’s demise’ which is fitting. He heads over to swap out the tapes when Stan speaks for the first time in hours.

“Wait. I think I need a break. This headache seems to have only gotten worse since waking up. Can I watch the rest later?” His voice sounds strained and exhausted.

“Did the pain meds not help any?” But he’s already turned it off, hoping the lack of light from the screen might help with the pain while he goes back over to his chair. “But yes, of course, we can watch the rest later. Is it really that bad?”

The question is so stupid that it pulls a short-pained laugh from Stanley even if it makes it worse. God, maybe I am the smart twin. "Yes, it really hurts. You try having your mind erased and then your life story shoved down your throat within the span of twenty-four hours.”

Ford winces but bites back, “You haven’t said anything in hours! Just sitting and watching, how was I supposed to know? You should have asked to take a break sooner.”

“I couldn’t, you idiot! I needed to get through that part. Because for whatever reason you are important to me! Even though it sounds like you never did a damn thing for me, I’m supposed to care about you!”

That shuts Ford up, the usual fight rushing out of him. He shouldn’t be arguing with Stanley right now. And it hurts to hear it come directly from the source, even if the source can’t remember everything. He knows enough after watching the tape, enough that it feels like a stab through his chest that knocks the breath out of him.

It's too early for them to be yelling either. They might wake up Fiddleford which wouldn’t be good. Stan seems like he wants to be alone right now. So, he stands, gathering up his notebook and pocketing his pencil. “I’m sorry, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone. I’ll have Fids or Mom bring you up breakfast but otherwise, just rest. You aren’t in any rush to get better. I just want you to be okay.” He turns to head for the door.

“Wait. Don’t be so damn dramatic Stanford,” He finally drops the hand from in front of his eyes so he can look at Ford where he’s standing mostly hidden by the chair halfway to the door. At least the guy stops even if he doesn’t say anything else. It makes him sigh, “I don’t get it, not right now, about why I seem to love you so damn much. Why I would put myself through all that hell and pain for and over one person? Maybe he’ll tell me, in one of these letters, or maybe he won’t. Or maybe he just loves people so damn much that he would do that for someone. I don’t know. There are lots of things I don’t know right now. But you don’t have to leave. I need a minute, to get the throbbing to settle again, and then I want to hear what you have to say. I’m not him, and I don’t remember, but I get the idea. So, we should talk.”

It’s more words than he’s said the entire time he’s been awake so far, but it's true. He wants to hear Ford’s version even if it's only brief and short compared to past Stan’s. He keeps his eyes open, watching Ford, right up until he moves to sit back down. Then he lets his eyes close and his face drops back into his hand. There’s some light coming in under the curtains in the room now but without the TV on it's more bearable.

It's not the request that makes Ford stop on his way out the door, but who it reminds him of. It reminds him of other Stanley, except this is his Stanley. The one he grew up with. But his voice is collected, lacking the same anger Stan always had whenever they tried to talk before. It must help that he doesn’t feel or remember everything. Otherwise, he’d probably have a matching broken nose.

Maybe. But then again Stan’s reaction upon him coming through the portal was to hug him, not hurt him until the time was right. A single paper cut isn’t much of an injury.

He’s trying to will the headache away on its own, but the pain isn’t going anywhere. It’s frustrating just having a constant migraine that won’t go away no matter how long he keeps his eyes closed or how still he sits. The throbbing continues and after a long time, he just gives up. He opens his eyes again and throws his hands up with a frustrated groan.

“Fine, whatever. Don’t go away. Talk, Stanford. Say your piece. Who knows, maybe it’ll help the headache. Silence isn’t doing jack shit for it.”

Now that, that sounds like Stanley. It makes him perk up a little bit in his chair and lean forward some. Another beat passes and he remembers he’s supposed to talk. He didn’t think this far ahead. He was so focused earlier on having lost Stanley and then trying to overcompensate helping him through this, that he didn’t come up with something prepared for this.

He can’t wing it. That always goes terribly. They end up yelling and fighting. That can’t happen again. But Stan is looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to start. Damn it.

“What, did you lose that bite you had before? Get on with it.” The frustration at his headache is leaking into his voice without meaning to. It's not directed at Ford, not completely.

Ford’s just gotta start talking and hope for the best here.

“None of it matters, Stanley. Yeah, you screwed up both our lives. There is no denying that. But it wasn’t all on you. Growing up, Dad put me on this pedestal with everyone else. I was supposed to be somebody, and do big things. And the more people told me that the more I believed it, thought I had to prove them right. One of the side effects of that was leaving you behind.” He winces and stops for a second, looking away at the floor.

“I screwed up this time. With Bill, with ever coming here to Gravity Falls. I just wanted to do something great on my own. I isolated myself and made it so much easier for Bill to trick me. You would have seen right through his lies and empty promises and saved us both a whole host of trouble.” He knows that for a fact but doesn’t say as much.

“I’m sorry, for everything. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, the pain and trouble I’ve caused you. I don’t even understand why you did all this either. Yeah, we’re brothers. We were best friends at one point, but come on. No one can love someone that much. It's not possible, it shouldn’t be. You should have cut your losses and left me here to die instead of showing up in January, dedicating yourself to fixing my own stupid fucked up mess. I- “

The more Ford talks the more he finds himself smiling. Ford isn’t looking, but it's there. He thinks he knows why he’s smiling, because he should be happy to finally get an apology. An acknowledgment of playing a part and forgiveness for his own all at once. Stanley would be happy to get one, to hear this, and so is he. Maybe they aren’t as separated. Sure, he doesn’t remember. No vivid memories come up over all this, but he’s got the information to piece it together.

He gets up and walks the two steps so he’s standing in front of Ford’s chair, causing him to cut himself off in the middle of rambling. “Apology accepted, moron. Come here, I think we’re long overdue for a hug.” Stan opens up both arms, holding his breath.

Ford gets stuck in his chair for a second. It can’t be that easy, because it shouldn’t. After everything, all he’s done. All both of them have done. Stan can’t just accept it like that. There should be conditions. Right?

It doesn’t matter. Just like all the details, it doesn’t matter.

He gets up and wraps both arms around Stanley nice and tight like he’s worried this is a trick and he’ll pull away. But Stan doesn’t and instead just returns the hug just as tight, both of them tucking their heads against each other’s shoulders. It’s quiet other than the distant sound of birds outside.

And then his chest stops hurting. His head still does, considerably, but not as much too. It’s like there’s an ease of pressure somewhere and his head feels less like it's going to pop anytime now. His chest feels warm and less painful, and his shoulders relax into it. This doesn’t feel like he’s hugging a stranger like he thought it would.

It's familiar like his own face on the TV became over time, and he’s willing to bet Ford’s face will look familiar too when they eventually pull away. Not that he expects that to happen anytime soon. This hug and reunion has been a long, long time coming and Stan doesn’t plan on being the one to pull away. It feels like it helps his headache, soothing it the longer they stand there.

Ford manages to keep it together longer than expected, but eventually, he does break down again and starts sobbing quietly into Stan’s shoulder. He talks too, “Stan, I didn’t. I really didn’t think I’d ever get back here. I’m so damn proud of you. You're insane, and you better not ever do anything like that ever again, but you did it. By God, you did it.”

It makes him laugh a little bit and tighten his hold on Ford a little more, running one hand back and forth across his shoulder for comfort even if it only makes his brother cry louder. “Heh, you need to learn to believe in me a little more. From what I’ve gathered, everyone does. Hell, maybe I wouldn’t have turned into such a criminal if someone had treated me how they treated you. I mean, look at that level of acting. I could have been on Broadway!”

In the middle of crying Stan makes him laugh, loud, and he’s a mess of tears from pain, relief, and joy all at once. It's good, it feels good having Stan make him laugh again for the first time in over a decade.

“I’m serious! I mean, if I can commit to a role like that to kill a demon god or whatever I bet I’d make a great actor! Picture our face on Broadway! Or maybe in Hollywood! Wouldn’t that be something? I could be the next James Bond. Sure, my face is a little busted now, but wait until this nose heals, I can just tell I’m a stunner. Was I good with the ladies? Wait, don’t tell me. I want to read about it in my stuff. He’ll tell me the truth.”

It's like Stan is really here, egging him on and making him laugh so hard his sides start to hurt and he’s the one to break the hug because he needs to sit down or he’s going to pass out from being unable to breathe. And when he looks up and over at Stanley, he’s grinning that signature grin with the joy even reaching his eyes. It looks like Stan, like he’s back. He’s not, but it's almost like he is.

“Would you shut up? You’ll make me pee myself over here if you aren’t careful.” But he’s still laughing. And he could see it. Maybe in another life, Stan could have been on TV. Still could, he’s still young.

Still no memories, nothing tangible, but he knows Ford’s face now just like his own. It's familiar and he’s relaxed now. Head still throbbing, but not as bad. Maybe that’s what was causing the pain, he almost remembered, and after he did? It lessened. He shuts up and sits back down in his chair still grinning.

He waits, letting Ford get his laughter back under control before saying so. “When I woke up, I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. It was a stranger looking back at me, like this wasn’t my body, you know? But after all this? I can see myself, even if no memories are attached. I know this is me. And I know your Ford, you’re my brother. The rest of it can come later, for now, that’s enough. Makes my head hurt less too, after getting it to click.”

“So, you’re saying I helped?” His voice is hopeful and he’s leaning forward in his chair again to be closer to Stan.

It makes him snort and laugh again, “Oh don’t think you did this by yourself. The tape helped, don’t try to hog all the credit. But, yes. You helped, some.”

Ford can’t remember the last time the air was this light between them and he finally relaxes sitting back in his chair. The exhaustion hits him too. Emotionally and physically he’s out of energy. He should have tried to get some real sleep while Stan was out last night.

A comfortable silence falls between them and Ford almost starts to drift off during it before he feels Stan nudge his arm and he jerks upright.

“Woah, easy. Here, go sleep on your cot. It’s still early, maybe we could both use a little bit of sleep, eh? Long couple of days, but we aren’t in a rush to get up for anything, right? I don’t have a job, from what I gathered, and you probably don’t either after being stuck in super hell for three months?”

He laughs again but he stands up shaking his head, “Super Hell isn’t a bad word for it. Alright, I’ll sleep. But you wake me up when you wake up, alright?” He notices how Stan follows him over to the cot, making sure he lays down, before turning to head over back over to his bed across the room.

“Fine, sure thing. Just try not to snore or I’ll throw a pillow at you.” Stan turns off the light on the bedside table so that the room is completely dark other than the little light coming from under the windows.

The darkness makes staying awake impossible so he quickly fails to come up with a funny retort and instead passes out within seconds.

Figures Ford would go right back to snoring as soon as the lights were off- There he goes again. Sometimes thoughts attached to what must be memories come without the context attached. But it’s getting easier to just accept. It's himself, just the himself he can’t access yet. With his head hurting less it only takes a few minutes to drift off again himself with a smile still stuck on his face.

Chapter 30: Burning Man

Notes:

Trigger warning for implied/reference drug use. Gotta add that to the tags. Enjoy!

It was a lot brighter out when Stan woke up again but a glance at his watch proved that it had only been two more hours of sleep making it barely eight. But Ford was still fast asleep snoring away on his cot in the corner on the other side of the room close to the TV. It made him smile, and his head didn’t hurt much for a minute either.

But now he was awake, wide awake, and he needed something to do. He wasn’t going to keep his promise to wake up Ford. He needed the sleep and it wasn’t doing anyone any harm so long as Stan didn’t leave the room. For long anyway. He did get up to use the bathroom, finding it only because the door was open to the hallway, and then returning to his room.

Past him had wanted him to watch the other part of the tape, the showdown with Bill, and the home videos with Ford next. But he couldn’t do any of those things while Ford was sleeping. So, he skipped a couple of steps and dug out the two memory journals from the box before lying back in bed to read them.

They kept him busy for hours. Occasionally he’d have to stop and muffle his laughter over the two boys in the memories using a blanket so he didn’t wake up Ford. This had to be a more detailed and personal rendition of those film reels Ford was supposed to show him. Matching the picture over on the dresser of the two boys in front of their boat.

It was good to find out he had always been funny, even as a child. Or maybe these memories were tinted in Stan’s favor because they were written by him twenty years after they happened? Whatever, it was nice.

He’d gotten a good way through the journal reaching the beginning of high school when the peace of the room was disturbed. Ford was still asleep. No, the disturbance came when the door into the bedroom opened a crack, interrupting him in the middle of one of his past self’s stories. He grabbed the letter off the bedside table near the pills that he had remembered to take and used it as a bookmark before looking towards the partly opened door.

A guy was standing there, barely visible, but he didn’t recognize him. That was getting easier, at least. He knew, more or less, who he himself was. Who Ford was. The rest? It would happen with time. Hopefully. Just like how the memories would come back when they wanted. Eventually.

Still nothing for now. Just what Stan had written about and told him.

The guy was wearing glasses and was looking at him funny as he stepped a little further into the room.

 OH. Fiddleford!

That must be this guy, right? Probably.

That was his other friend, the one who erased his mind?

How nice of him to check up on them.

Stan got up out of bed, leaving the memory journal behind, and walked over to the door while motioning Fiddleford out into the hallway to talk. Ford was still sleeping, snoring annoyingly loud, but he didn’t want to wake him yet unless he had to.

They both backed and walked out of the room and Stan quietly closed the door before stepping a little ways away so their conversation wasn’t directly next to the door. A glance at the time said it was past noon now. Okay, maybe waking up Ford would be a good idea. Six hours of sleep was good enough, especially if the guy wanted to sleep tonight. “What’s up Fiddleford?”

This was not the Stanley he’d been prepared for. He was supposed to be empty, a husk of his former self. This…wasn’t. This was almost normal looking even if his posture was still wrong and Stan was using his full name for the first time since they met. What had happened between early this morning when he heard the twins yelling and now? Did he remember? Was it that easy? Surely not.

“Uh, Stan? Why do you sound so normal? Did you watch the tapes you made for yourself? And those reels with Ford? Do you remember anything already?”

Stan shook his head but didn’t stop smiling, “Nope,” the P at the end of the word made a loud popping sound. “Not a thing. I haven’t had a single memory come back to me. Nothing. But I’ll tell you what, I can recognize myself in a mirror now. At first, it felt like I was looking at a stranger, like I was just borrowing this body. Now? I can see it. I don’t have a bad face either, for the record.”

Stanley is entirely too cheerful considering what happened just yesterday. But there’s no way Fids could bring himself to ruin the joy even if it doesn’t make any sense. He’s still confused, endlessly. “If you haven’t had a memory come back to you, how are you possibly talking like yourself? Acting like yourself? And why are you so cheerful? You do realize you still don’t actually know anything, right?”

His smile gets dialed back some, just a couple of watts, “Just because I don’t remember anything doesn’t mean my head is empty. Old me left me a letter and Ford and I watched the first half of my tape last night before my head started to give me too much trouble. I kinda get who I am, sort of. As for the acting like myself…I don’t know. Sometimes when I say things it's like it's connected to something I can’t see. Old memories, emotions maybe, or whatever. It’s behind a wall that I can’t reach. But it still bleeds in, I guess? Or maybe I’m just a great actor and picked all this up from his tapes subconsciously.” He shrugs, not knowing the real answer any more than Fiddleford probably does.

Fascinating. All of this is endlessly fascinating and not at all what they’d expected would happen. He’d been prepared to deal with something closer to someone with Alzheimer’s or at best a more fragmented version of Stan. This. Isn’t. He doesn’t know what this is, exactly. But its nicer. Easier to handle. Stan’s smile is contagious and it makes him smile too, just a little. “Okay, well is there anything else you recognize or is it just your face? And tell me in detail. That will make it easier to try and reconstruct the formula so we can do it again.”

He laughs, “God, you and Pointdexter are nerds, aren’t you? Treating me like a science project? Fair enough. Since you’re trying to help me, I’ll humor you. I recognize Ford too. Not anything in particular about him, just that I know him. He’s my brother even if there aren’t any memories attached. But boy, I skipped a couple of steps while Ford got some much-needed rest. Those memories of us as kids? Hilarious. I’ve almost woken him up only about six times just laughing.”

“Okay, well what allowed you to recognize him? Tell me everything. How did it feel? Does your head hurt? Other than your nose. And was it anything specific he said?” Fids fumbles in his pocket to pull out a notepad and pen to start taking notes while they talk, ignoring how it makes Stan snicker.

“Well, my head hurt from the moment I got up, and still does. It got worse reading the letter I left myself. And even worse watching the first tape. Nothing made it stop for a while. Just taking in all that information made it hurt. But I think maybe that was a good thing? It eased up a lot once I recognized Ford. After we had our long overdue heart-to-heart? It was good, allowed me to get back to sleep for a little bit while Ford rested. And, I think I can still feel things? No memories come up looking around, at people. But I get feelings? In my chest kinda? I get the suspicion I was an emotional guy, guess that hasn’t changed even with the board wiped clean.” He shrugs, glancing back towards the bedroom door like he expects Ford to wake up and notice he’s gone. He could, but hopefully he won’t.

Fids writes down everything Stan says, mind racing while he thinks over everything. Every bit of it makes him smile wider as he rambles on, making little notes on the side of the columns with his own thoughts for a few minutes while they just stand in the hallway. “So, your head hurting happens and gets worse, right before you remember something? And that’s started with the concepts of people, familiarity, rather than solid and standalone memories?” He clarifies.

Stan nods even though he’s still thinking it over, “Yeah, that sounds about right. I don’t remember you though. I just know what old me wrote about you in that first letter. You helped me set all this up and zapped me, right? Thanks for that, I guess? I don’t feel mad at you, and I know I wanted that to happen. Just doesn’t feel genuine saying it now when I don’t fully get it.”

He stops scribbling notes on the paper and pockets it with the pen, “Ah, about that. We had a little snag right before everything happened. Your guy's parents showed up out of the blue. Flew in from Jersey because they were worried about both of you. They saw and know everything,” He pauses, frowning, “And, I wasn’t the one who erased your memory either. It was your dad that did it. I-“ He’s about to go on apologizing. He promised he’d do it, that he’d be strong enough, but Stan doesn’t even give him a chance.

“Seriously? They’re here?” His voice is louder than it should be, “Jeez, that makes me really happy to hear Fiddleford. I mean, less so that my dad was the one to erase me. That brings up conflicting feelings. Dad in general does that. But this is good. We’re all together again! I’ll tell you what, I’m going to go wake up Ford. Then we’ll meet you guys down for lunch? Who knows, maybe if they talk enough over the meal, I’ll get familiar with them too.” Rather than waiting for a response he just turns, grinning, and goes back into the bedroom, letting the door slam on his way back inside.

Maybe he didn’t need to be so quiet all morning since the slam doesn’t even make Ford flinch. He must be really tired. To bad. He can’t sleep all day, not when their parents are here. It's easy to imagine this is what Christmas would feel like. “Up and at 'em Ford! Time to wake up!” He doesn’t touch Ford, worrying if that might cause a bad reaction after everything, but he does hover very close to the cot he’s sleeping on ready to dump him onto the floor if he doesn’t get up.

For a minute Fids just stands in the hallway listening to Stan in his room. He’s still thrown for a loop over how similar the two are without the new one having any real recollection to base his actions and speech pattern off of. Stan should be gone, his habits and specific phrasings out the window.

But through just two moments of familiarity, he’d almost sounded and looked normal. Having Ford stay with him last night just might have been the best bet after all even if it woke everyone up with yelling in the early hours of the morning. He finally turned to head back downstairs to the kitchen to brief both Filbrick and Caryn on these new developments.

Hearing Stan almost yelling makes Ford shoot up on the cot and accidentally fall off and out of it onto the floor in his attempt to sit up too fast. The sound of Stan’s voice and its urgency was what pulled him up out of a dead sleep and had his heart racing. It took a few moments of lying on the floor just looking up at Stan to calm down and realize there was no imminent danger. Stan was just being an ass. “What the hell Stan! You don’t need to yell! I thought something was wrong!”

For a second his smile faltered and he frowned deeply looking down at Ford on the floor. A tight pain happens in his chest and for a split second, he thinks maybe Ford is actually mad at him. Maybe. But then the feeling passes and he extended a hand down to him. “Haven’t you heard? Our parents are here! That hasn’t happened in like, a decade! Get up and go get dressed so we can go see them. You can sleep more later tonight at an appropriate time. It's already noon, you’d sleep the whole day away if I let you.”

Stan doesn’t look like he’s been asleep for a while. And upon further inspection, he’s smiling a lot, more than he did last night. He sounds like himself. It throws him for so much of a lope, giving him whiplash, that he just stares up at him for a long minute before registering the hand being held out to him.

Finally, he takes it and makes a sort of surprised noise when Stan hauls him up briefly yanking him up off the floor completely and causing him to flush. “Stan!” He hisses, letting go of his hand while taking a step back to put more space between them. “Why are you acting like this? Did you remember something while I was asleep?”

It's kind of annoying that everyone is questioning this instead of just being happy it's happening. He could just as easily ignore the feathers of thoughts that pass at the back of his head whenever someone says or does something. At least he thinks their thoughts. Maybe ghosts of the past? Old memories just outside of view? Instincts? He doesn’t know.

“No, I didn’t remember anything. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Fiddleford. I just, have these whispers. Not a voice. That sounds bad. I mean, sometimes, when someone does or says something, there’s a gut reaction and If I let it, it comes out like this? Like the other me is hiding behind a curtain? No, that’s not right either.” It makes his smile falter again and his shoulders slump a little now that he’s overthinking it. “Look, if it’s too off-putting I can stop, it’s not difficult to ignore. But it feels, right?”

“No, Don’t!” He surprises himself with how loud that was so he clears his throat and tries again. “It’s good. A little weird and not what any of us were expecting, but you don’t have to stop. Just, keep us updated when you remember things. Dreams, flashes, or anything. So we can track your progress.” That was much better, less embarrassing even if he’s still flushed a little from being pulled up off the floor like a rag doll.

Did he lose weight while he was gone? Or maybe Stan put on muscle. He’s too tired for this.

Ford’s gut reaction triggers his and he snickers again, stepping forward and pulling Ford into a brief hug. “Awe, you do care about me.” But just as quickly as he initiated it, he pulled away. “Now get out of my room. I need to change and so do you. Your clothes are across the hall.” He makes a shooing motion, just like on the tape early that morning, and just grins at Ford waiting for him to leave.

A lot has happened in only the span of a minute since waking up and he can’t come up with a good retort right now. So instead, he just scolds and bats Stan’s hand away and down before turning to leave the room in a huff as dramatically as possible. The laugh that pulls from Stan as he closes the door forces a smile back onto his face.

Please let things stay like this.

When Stan comes back, remembers everything, let him stay happy and them be able to joke and poke at each other like this without someone risking the loss of an eye.

It becomes obvious very quickly that he doesn’t own that many clothes. Why doesn’t he own a lot of clothes? There are T-shirts and a few very ugly-looking suits. Even a few plain dress shirts. But the whole wardrobe takes up maybe half the closet not giving him a lot of options. What are you supposed to wear the first time you see your parents in over a decade after almost destroying the world the day before?

He doesn’t need to overthink this of all things. Its clothes. He puts on an old rock t-shirt that he doesn’t recognize and some jeans. That looks good enough, doesn’t it?

Is that him overthinking it or other whispers him?

He straightens out his hair using a brush from inside the bedside table but gets stuck at the mirror again. Up or down? It's annoying how the long hair catches on clothing and sometimes gets in his face. But…

He wants it up, so he puts it up instead of worrying himself in circles. They flew and traveled all this way for him and Ford. They probably aren’t going to be reading into why his hair is so long much less why it's up in a ponytail.

Ford didn’t have nearly as hard of a time getting ready after a trip to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth. (He’d been gone so long his old toothbrush grew mold??) After getting dressed in his room he then went to hover outside Stan’s room. He was still inside, moving around and making noise, so he was reluctant to knock. Did it take Stan that long to get dressed? “Stanley? You alright? You didn’t get stuck inside a shirt, did you?”

Hair and outfit decided he had gone over to dig through the memory box to look for the letter on his body. That would explain to him all the scars he’d noticed in the mirror as well as the additional tattoo on his other shoulder. He’d been warned about the first one, but not the second weirder one. What was that, alien gibberish? It looks like it. “Come in, I’m decent. Just looking for something.” He called over to the door, pulling out the letter he wanted and going to sit on the bed with it.

Looking for something? Stan doesn’t even remember anything; how could he have something to look for? Entering the room the place doesn’t look torn apart. Instead, Stan is seated on the bed with an envelope in one hand and a letter opener in the other. “Hey, you’re skipping at least four steps opening whatever that is.” He argues, heading over towards the bed.

“Relax, I’m just curious about what my scars mean.” He holds up his arm where there is a very clear burn mark from just below the elbow to about three inches below the wrist that goes all the way around the arm almost in a perfect cylinder shape like it was done intentionally. “Stay over there, I have a feeling I didn’t want you reading whatever this says.” He gives the opened envelope a wave and shoos Ford off again before pulling out the letter.

Yesterday and even today he hadn’t had a chance to look at Stanley. He had been wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a hoodie over it the day before when everything had happened, covering up his arms. Now without the extra layer and in the light of day the scars on Stan’s arms are painfully visible.

Sure, Stan had always been the more physical between them. Getting into fights, working out sometimes, doing car stuff, but clearly, Stan had gotten up to a lot since the last time he’d seen his brother’s bare arms. His hands were covered in callous on the inside and the knuckles had lots of old healed scratches and cuts. Some newer, probably from working on the portal?

His arms had additional marks, most of them faded with the most obvious being the burn mark new Stan had pointed out. It didn’t look very old. Like it had only finished healing recently in the last few months. It reminded him of the branding that would surely be there on Stan’s shoulder from their fight in the basement.

Every new thing he learned about Stan just made his chest ache knowing that it was his fault. Everything having to do with Bill at least. He could give himself some grace that before that Stan had made a lot of his own stupid choices, but that grace ended when Stan showed up on his doorstep. So, in all likelihood, that burn was his fault too. Many things in that letter probably were.

As soon as possible he and Fids would need to start tearing down the portal in the basement. Maybe they could use some of the metal there to build that ship he had loose plans for? He’d need to go to the library and pick up some books on boats to refresh his memory before drawing up sketches.

That made him feel a little bit better, just a little.

He couldn’t fix or take back what Bill had put Stan through. What the idiot had done for him, but he could build a boat for him. And maybe if they got along well enough, he could give him their dream too. Maybe it would be okay, eventually.

 

Hey me!

How’s it hanging? So, you’ve finally gotten around to taking a shower? About time, we’re probably gross. Or maybe you just changed? Yikes. I’ve been dreading having to tell you all about this stuff. Our body has a lot of scars. I’m not going to give you the full stories, just a brief description so you get the point.  

The cuts across our chest were from a car crash and the large cut on our side was from being stabbed. Our right arm has a round kind of messy scar from being shot and that same arm has a burn running between the wrist and the elbow. That one was caused by Bill using the stove. Enough said on that. Same with our foot? Still not sure if I’ll be able to convince Bill to fix our foot when he comes through. There might still be a scar? If so, that’s from getting stabbed with a knife. Also, Bill.

Next. Shoulders and back. We have some deep scars around our lower back that kind of look like scratches? That was from a very passionate weekend in Vegas that even I don’t fully remember! They’ve faded a lot though, so hopefully in another couple of years, they’ll be gone. I’ve been lying and saying I got attacked by a raccoon. Feel free to use that, it's less embarrassing.

Our shoulders however are not nearly as fun of a story. The one with all the circles is a burn mark Ford gave us that day we fought down in the basement before pushing him into the portal. I punched him, he shoved me. There just happened to be a hot exposed symbol there? No idea why he would have an exposed hot whatever that symbol is in the lab, but whatever. It healed nicely so it barely looks like a branding mark.

The other shoulder is a tattoo from Bill meant to torment us, I think. I’m still not fully clear on what his goal was? It might have just been for fun. You never know with that guy. The scar on the top of our head is from when we had brain surgery. There's a shaved patch of hair that’s shorter than the rest, that’s how you’ll find it. Luckily the long hair hides it nicely.

The rest are all small and unimportant. Rough hands from working on the car, the portal, and other random stuff I don’t remember. We have a small scar across the bridge of our nose from getting it broken by a crowbar. Yowch. That one sucked. Do me a favor, don’t fight someone with a crowbar again.

I think that’s mostly it? Some burn marks that are really faded on top of our shoulders? Some needle injection marks on our inner elbow from when we briefly did drugs. Incredibly briefly. Like, maybe five whole times total. But the marks still haven’t gone away. We’re really bad with needles.

There are more details in the envelope about our health history. However, I recommend you don’t read it. Just give it to the next doctor you visit. It has everything they’ll need. Meds we’ve taken, accidents, surgeries, the works. Even loose dates on when what happened. You don’t want to know how much crap I’ve put our body through.

Also, in the envelope are those inspirational magazine cutouts for our new hair. Enjoy our shower!

-Stanley Pines

 

Jesus, he’s been through some shit. Car crash? Drugs? Stabbed, shot, stabbed again? What hasn’t he been through? Slowly he closed the letter back up and into its envelope, tucking it into the bedside table, before turning over both arms to look over the scars there. Distantly, he’s aware of Ford watching, but he doesn’t pay it much attention. He just has to be careful of where he looks.

Yeah, Ford doesn’t need to know he used to do drugs. That can stay a secret. All of this is better off staying buried. If they’re lucky he’ll never remember the exact situations that caused them. He doesn’t want to know the extent of everything else not mentioned if this is just the highlights and what he can see.

Ford has to physically restrain himself by crossing his arms to keep from snatching the letter while he watched Stan inspect himself. Part of him wants to know every story about every scar immediately while the other part of him knows it would only make the guilt and the pain he feels worse. Stan keeping these secrets would be better for both of them, if he could let it go. He’d try. “So, what caused the burn on your arm then?” His voice sounded stuffy because he was trying not to let how upset he was leak into his voice.

Stan drops his arms and finally looks up and back over at Ford where his expression is unreadable. “Just about what you’d expect. Something to do with Bill and the kitchen stove.” Was it just for the hell of hurting him or was this Bill’s attempt at cooking him to eat? The surprise stuck on his face drops into a deep frown with a mix of anguish and he has to bring a hand up to cover his face.

That, was a horrible thought.

He took a deep breath and let it out, or he tried anyway. But taking in air wasn’t as easy as it had been moments before. The room felt hot and suffocating but when he tried to look at and over at Ford, not wanting to hide and feel so alone while his chest constricted, he isn’t there. Here.

He's not upstairs anymore.

He doesn’t recognize where he is, but he knows enough to work out he’s sitting on a kitchen floor. Is this a memory? Why is he having it now? It feels real, like he hadn’t ever been sitting on the bed upstairs.

Someone was crying, sobbing, and when he turned to look it made his head spin. One second, he was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, hearing himself crying, and the next he was the one crying, sobbing over his arm that felt like someone had cut it raw with half a dozen razor blades until there wasn’t anymore skin left to slice. There was blood on the floor, on his lap, and he still couldn’t breathe between sobs.

It hurt, worse than anything ever, which he supposed didn’t mean much because he still can’t remember anything. Just this.

“Don’t worry, here, I’ll help you. We can’t have you bleeding out now, can we?”

The voice makes him flinch and then he’s getting up, just watching himself stand from behind his own eyes without having any control over it. But he can’t do anything, can’t stop himself as he walks over to the stove and turns on the burner, removing the metal cover so the flames where exposed.

No. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real, he didn’t actually do this, did he?

No, he did. Not himself. But it happened.

It’s happening again and the bedroom feels a million years away right now as his arm moves closer and closer to the flame, still dripping blood all over the floor and the counter and now over the stove, dripping down into the fire too, making it flare.

At first, it isn’t very clear what exactly is happening. Stan looks much like he did the night before holding his head in pain like he’s close to remembering something.

That’s bad.

His first real solid memory should not have anything to do with his scars. Those are ugly and painful.

So, he moves to sit on the bed with him, carefully putting an arm around him. “Hey, maybe you shouldn’t try and remember this. Just, forget about it for now. We should head downstairs.” But then Stan doesn’t move or respond at all. That’s bad too.

Thus far Stan has always been able to talk even if only minimally when his head is giving him trouble. Is Stan breathing? He watches for a few seconds but it looks like Stan is holding his breath locked in this position being completely unresponsive.

It makes fresh panic, like when he first woke up, rise in his throat. “Stan, Stanley, wake up!” He gives him a shake, which admittedly is not the best response to have. But he’s panicking because Stan isn’t taking in air and that’s bad. It reminds him of the last time he saw Stan this still and frozen, dead.

It hurts. There probably isn’t a good enough word in the English language to describe how much it hurts. To have an exposed wound running a third of your arm, sliced open with a razor, burned on all sides. Enough to cauterize the wounds and stop the bleeding, melting flesh together back into one layer so the wound is sealed. It burns and it feels like someone is cutting his arm off as slowly as possible with a rusty knife.

Or maybe this is what it would be like to have it cut off using a crosscut saw. With two people going back and forth on either side over and over in rows, giving up and starting over at a new spot every time they are just about to hit bone.

He screams, at first, and Bill laughs. It's loud, like the sizzling of the fire and the smell is awful, making his nose burn. But he can’t turn away, Bill doesn’t let him. He’s forced to watch as his arm is rolled, burning the back half and both sides like it’s being spit-roasted over the fire.

Eventually, the screams melt off into sobs and it feels like this lasts forever. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes at most since waking up on the floor holding his bloody arm but it might as well of been years. The concept of time doesn’t matter here and now.

Even when the pain, the burning, stops. It doesn’t. Because even when Bill lets him go it still hurts. Old him, the one in the memory, stumbles over to the sink afterward almost slipping on some of the blood on the floor. Running it under the cold water barely helps.

How long had he lived with this pain? Days? Weeks? Did he sleep? How could he have after this? There was no escaping the pain much less getting comfortable.

Stan sucks in a deep and long breath, dropping his hand from his face, and keeping his eyes shut. The memory, the images, are burned into his eyelids. Opening his eyes wouldn’t make it stop. He’s sobbing now, barely aware of the change in orientation from standing in front of the sink to sitting back on the bed.

What felt like hours only lasted a minute or so, had to, because most people can’t hold their breath for any longer than that. It’s still a brief relief when Stan does it, taking a deep breath. But he immediately gets slapped in the face with more pain and guilt because then Stan is sobbing confirming his worst fear. He remembered how he got that burn, what Bill did. It’s awful, torturous.

He still has an arm around Stan while he curls into himself, clutching the arm with the healed burn to his chest while keeping his eyes locked closed. How can he help? What is he supposed to do? Stan doesn’t even seem to realize he’s here. But he can’t just do nothing, he has to try something. But what? He’s frozen, mind running in seven different directions trying to solve the problem and getting nowhere over it.

If this is just the tip of what his body has been through, he hopes it never comes back. That this is the only thing he recalls at all. Because that was awful. No person should ever go through something like that. The phantom pain, burning, on his arm slowly fades but he continues to sob anyway still reliving it. It’s the only tangible real memory he has and it’s awful.

Ford has to force himself to move, pulling Stan over into a tight hug against his chest while he cries. Perhaps touching him will make it worse, but he does deserve a punch to the face if it happens. “Your okay, it’s alright,” It isn’t, but saying so won’t pull Stan back, “Your right here, in your room. Not there, not with him. The burn has healed now, the pain is gone. I’m with you Stanley, come back.”

Stan cries for a while, leaning in against Ford’s chest while he lets it out. He cries until he can’t anymore and his face and neck are flushed bright red. It helps, being held. In the memory he was alone. At least physically, and Bill wasn’t exactly a comfort. So having someone else here grounds him. The sobs subside and he’s just left sniffling against Ford’s shirt.

While Stan cries, leaning into him instead of hitting him, he makes a note not to ask about scars again. Not to bring it up unless Stanley does because he won’t be the reason for more and more pain if he can help it.

However, at this point, he’s not sure he can stop.

A lot of Stan’s worst memories are his fault. To hell with what the video Stan said, Bill is a thousand times worse than being kidnapped. Stan being here is a ticking time bomb waiting for more memories like this to crop up and resurface. How could Stan of ever found comfort staying here when this was the very place Bill used as their playroom?

He should get up and go get Stan some tissues, move, get away from him. For all the pain he’s caused he should be the absolute last person Stan finds comfort in. But, at the same time, if he does, wouldn’t it be worse to refuse him that?

It’s not clear if he’s actually thinking of Stan or if he’s being selfish again.

Finally, Stan leans away, loosening the painfully tight grip he had on Ford with one arm around his back. His hand hurts from clenching it so hard for so long and he uses it now to clean up his face, brushing away the tear tracks while sniffling again so he doesn’t leak snot down his face.

He wants to just curl up and go back to bed. The joy found at the idea of seeing his parents has faded, all but gone, and now he’s just tired.

So very tired.

“Well. I guess I remembered something. Not the best memory, but that’s still progress. Right?” Now he’s the one with a flat voice but he manages to glance over at Ford even if his instincts tell him to keep them on the floor. Ford looks about on the verge of crying now too so he moves his arm back, reaching over to pull Ford back into a half hug.

“Hey, don’t do that.” Ford is leaning over against his shoulder so he misses the frown his own words cause. He should be angry at Ford right now. Because even without his memories he knows this is Ford’s fault. It’s his mess that caused the pain. But there isn’t any anger settled in his chest. Not even a little bit of resentment.

Why?

Why is that?

He should be pissed and want to break Ford’s nose so they match and maybe give him a black eye.

But instead, he’s comforting Ford over a memory he didn’t even live through! He wasn’t there!

It makes him sigh, annoyed at himself. His old self. Because apparently, that’s the only person who gets any say about what he feels. He’s here, using this body, but the mechanics and feelings belong to someone else. Like the actions he can pick are limited. Maybe he lacks free will? He’s not technically a person, just a ghost of one.

Damn it. Yeah, even if he means well, he’s still selfish. Because Ford just melts right into Stan’s shoulder and lets it happen. He accepts the kind gesture even if it makes him feel worse and better at the same time. He always was a weak man when it came to Stan. It's part of why they ended up so far apart.

“We can’t both go downstairs and face everyone looking like we just got our nuts stomped on. Come on, there it is. There's that smile.” The comment pulls a snort out of Ford and it melts the tension too. And yeah, Ford is a little red in the face but not a single tear falls so he’ll take that as a win. It makes his chest a little lighter again and lets him put on a sad-tinted grin when Ford pulls back.

“You’re an idiot. Go wash up in the bathroom so Dad doesn’t see you like this. I’ll meet you downstairs.” He is smiling a tiny bit even if his shoulders are still slumped. “I’ll, uh, have everyone eat in the living room for lunch today.” He gets up, they both do, and almost bump into each other both heading for the door before he lets Stan head out into the hall first.

Ford waits until Stan goes into the bathroom and then takes a minute to compose himself in the hallway taking deep breaths so his face doesn’t look so red. Still, it doesn’t make the weight of guilt on his shoulders any lighter when he finally makes himself go downstairs. He needs to get the stove replaced. Immediately.

Chapter 31: Invisible Ink

While cleaning up in the bathroom he took extra care not to look at himself or his scars. Experiences like that were probably unavoidable, but he could try. Had to try. It hurt, a lot. The whole experience had made his chest hurt worse than anything he could imagine. And his head still hurt too. On some level, it seemed like he would always have a constant headache.

He took some meds from the bathroom cabinet and washed up with cold water to help clear up the flushed skin. He could do this, meet his parents, and face whatever other horrors would come just from walking around the house. If just looking at and being told the brief one-line story about his arm was enough to trigger a memory, couldn’t anything? Why that one and not a nice one? Like something with Ford. Or Fiddleford? They probably had some good memories, right?

Or was the universe just that awful? Making him remember the worst first and the good ones later? He didn’t have any control over it, so these questions were pointless.

He left the bathroom, ignoring how his face was still a little red and went downstairs. The hallway and stairs weren’t familiar which he’d take as a good thing. Nothing jumped out at him. No memories surfaced in the short walk. At least that was one good thing so far today if nothing else.

Fiddleford was waiting there for him to guide him into the living room through one arch instead of the other. He caught a glance of Ford in the kitchen, blocking the stove, but quickly looked away, turning to follow his other friend.

Ford being the only person he remembered was kind of annoying. Because now he was standing in the living room with the equivalent of three strangers. Sure, he’d spoken with Fiddleford earlier before he’d remembered, but he didn’t feel anything looking at him. Or his parents. Not now that they were in front of him. His curtain self had been excited upstairs. Now? He seemed to have vanished in the wake of that awful memory.

There were plates and bowls set up on the coffee table with grilled cheese and tomato soup set out using coasters and a makeshift tablecloth to create the illusion of a dining table. People don’t usually eat in the living room. This had Ford’s doing written all over it. It made his shoulders relax some and he resisted the urge to scratch at his arm where the burn was.

“Stan, these are your parents, Filbrick and Caryn Pines.” Fids introduced them, resting a hand on his shoulder while the two people got up and came around the couch to stand and face him.

The reaction in his chest flared and it took a lot of effort not to make a face when looking at the man who was supposedly his father. There were similarities, clues that provided familiarity even if he couldn’t remember. They had the same jawline and the same nose. Those shared features however didn’t qualm the anxiety that danced in his chest just seeing the guy.

Filbrick stepped forward and offered a hand out to shake, “About time you boys got up, Stanley.” The guy looked awkward and seemed to be trying for something in the direction of a smile but it wasn’t working for him. It looked more like a scowl with his lips facing the wrong way. Then there was the hand being offered to him. What kind of parent extends a handshake instead of a hug?

Stan took it and gave it a shake anyway squeezing a little tighter than necessary. The anxiety relaxed some when he caught Filbrick shaking his hand a little bit afterward and more of a genuine smile cropped up too.

Unlike the awkward and weird reunion with his father, Caryn didn’t hesitate to step forward and pull him down into a tight hug as a greeting. That felt normal, better. Stan returned it tightly, resting his head on her shoulder and enveloping her for the most part.

“Oh, Stanley. I’m glad you're okay. But do you have any idea how stupid that was of you? I mean, you almost got yourself killed, all of us! The world could have ended!” She’s yelling and hugging him at the same time. Oh. And crying too. “You never should have tried to put this all on your shoulders. You should have called, asked for help, something!”

Over the last day while Stan was sleeping, she’d had time to think over everything that had happened and deep down she knew that Stan had done only what he could. Calling for help with something like this would have sounded crazy, it still did, and they wouldn’t have had the resources to help anyway. The money from Stan was the only reason they could be here at all and that had been obtained around the halfway mark of her sons’ nightmare. She had to remind herself not to feel too guilty. Stan was alright, mostly, and they would fix this. They’d help him as a family and get him to remember as much as they could before the end of the week.

The yelling died off and instead, she just cried on his shoulders and into Stan’s chest.

This was all making his head start to hurt again, but she just kept talking.

“We’re all so proud of you, I mean, what you did was impossible. Absolutely unthinkable. Only a madman would have even tried! But you did it,” She pulled back enough that she could look at him, “You saved everyone and I’m so proud of you. I always knew you two boys would do great things, didn’t I?”

Stan has to pull back, letting go of her to cover his face again as his headache started to throb more insistently. It had gradually gotten worse after walking into the room.

“Are you okay? Stanley?” Caryn hovered, resting her hands on his shoulders and looking over at Fiddleford for a clue at what was going on.

That made it worse. This was his mom, the only family member to greet him with open arms and a hug. They had to be close, right? Their relationship seemed good, better than the one with Dad. So, remembering this couldn’t hurt, right? It should be good. His chest didn’t feel anxious or tight like it did with Dad. It felt lighter, like it had with Ford when they’d eventually hugged.

“What, specifically, is causing the pain, Stanley? Is it your mother?” Fids can’t help but sound excited, moving around so he can see Stan while talking.

“Her talking, I think. Especially with my eyes closed.” He hoped he managed to say without sounding like his brain was about to explode. He couldn’t hear that well with the blood rushing in his ears. That was new.

“Mrs. Pines, keep talking to him. I don’t think it particularly matters what, just talk at him, to him. Anything.” Fids encouraged, pulling out that same notepad from his coat pocket for observational notes.

Ford didn’t want to pull out the blacklight in the house.

Based on what Stan had willingly told him about his time with Bill there would be a lot of evidence. It made him queasy just to think about checking the stove. But he couldn’t sell this stove and replace it without making sure the blood was cleaned off it. And he doubted Stan had thought to look himself. The blacklight hadn’t been moved from its spot in the basement.

He went and got a curtain to cover the doorway while everyone else was in the living room to make the room as dark as possible before plugging in the blacklight. It took him a minute to get up the nerve to switch the light on, terrified of what he’d see.

This was infinitely worse than anything he could have imagined.

Yes, there was blood on the stove, but it was also everywhere else. It dripped down off onto the floor where there were trails all around engrained in the wood despite Stan’s efforts to clean it up. It looked like a damn crime scene. The largest was in front of the cabinets near the stove creating a puddle with evidence of Stan sitting in it. Then the blood trailed up to the stove, getting everywhere, and right to the burner Bill must have used.

Ford could even see the outline of a razor blade on the floor when he shined the light close enough. It made him sick, causing him to throw up in the sink, to see the visual proof of how much blood Stan had lost. And this was just the one incident. The one round. What else would he find if he went around the whole house?

Upon further inspection, unplugging the light, and moving to a different outlet, he found another much smaller puddle near the heating vent in the room. What could this one be from? It looked kind of like-

The needle.

That could have been the first, fresh in the middle of Oregon winter when it was freezing outside. Stan must have woken up outside, head bleeding, freezing cold, and stumbled inside. He would have been cold because Bill had a distaste for dressing properly. There was a small trail from the vent to the kitchen doorway and one of the blood stains was smeared by a hand.

Stan had crawled inside. With a needle in his head!

Biting his tongue held back the bile this time but he did almost drop the blacklight. God. Even at the worst of times, Bill had never been this bad, never maimed him so spectacularly. Other than the threat up on the roof, always threats, he’d never really been that close to death.

It looked like Bill enjoyed putting Stanley there.

Caryn Pines talked for a living, so she didn’t need to be told twice to do so for her son. Especially if it didn’t matter what the topic was. “Well, I suppose we should figure out what to do with the rest of the day. Fiddleford already gave us a tour of the house. It's very clean. I didn’t know you knew how to do that. You were always so much messier than Ford growing up. I’d have to remind you to clean up your room and pick up your laundry. It was awful. And I’m pretty sure Ford did a lot of it because otherwise, the bedroom you shared would have been a pigsty.”

It makes her frown because it looked like the pain was getting worse. Stan’s face was a little bit red again and his nose scrunched up with his hand covering both eyes. A glance at Fids revealed he was busy writing though, not seeming concerned.

“Keep going.” Stan almost choked out. It was far less controlled than before but he was just glad it wasn’t a scream. This hurt a lot more than it had last night and he was starting to think maybe this wasn’t a good thing and he’d been wrong with his suspicions from before.

Maybe he was just dying.

“We, we never actually got rid of all your stuff either. It’s just sitting around in boxes back in Jersey. Ford took some of it like those film reels, but the rest of it is up in the attic back home. We did clean out your room though, and turned it into a guest room for when Shermie, Mary, and Charlie visit. It's usually just around the holidays. Oh! You’ll both have to come this year. Or maybe we could all come here for Hanukkah or part of it. You guys do have a bigger house. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Stan? Stanley?”

Just like last night the pain did come to a head, but it was different this time. It stopped getting worse and then started to fade, but when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the same living room. He wasn’t anywhere he recognized. It was another living room, kind of, with an open floor plan including the kitchen and dining room all in the same space. There was also a staircase behind the couch, where he was sitting.

But he wasn’t alone, like the last memory he’d been thrown into, here his mom was sitting on the couch with him and-

Is that Ford? He could almost laugh seeing what Ford looked like as a teen. He’s all legs, skinny as a stick, and his hair looks like it needs to be brushed, more than usual. The living room doesn’t have a lot of decorations, just a couple of streamers and lights hung from the walls. And on a small table over in the corner a Candelabra with a handful of presents under it.

“Come on Stanley, you always cheat, it’s not fair!” Young Ford complained, glaring at him from across the table. They couldn’t be much older than fourteen, or fifteen?

“Hey, I did not! And you don’t even like chocolate! I’ll trade you for some jellybeans.” The words roll off the tongue with an ease that he hasn’t had since waking up. The tone is more sure, more. Whoever he was.

There's a dreidel on the table, another small remnant of the holiday that must be happening. Except Dad isn’t here, for some reason. Makes sense, the guy doesn’t seem much of a family man. Too cold for it.

“Fine, but I also get to open the first present,” Ford argued, a small smirk coming across his face.

“Oh, like hell you are.” Memory him is getting up off the couch, intending on heading over around the coffee table until Mom stops him. “Boys, boys, would you stop it? You can both open them after dinner. Come on, you can both help me finish up dessert before your father gets back.” She wraps an arm around Stan after getting up, dragging him with her for a second before he stops fighting it.

“Language, Stanley,” Ford mutters when they both fall behind Mom to follow her the short distance over to the kitchen. He shoves Ford who shoves back and they both end up in a fit of laughter by the time they’ve reached the counter with the ingredients for whatever they’re supposed to be making.

It's so nice, warm, and happy that he almost forgets this isn’t happening. Just like in the kitchen, the memory is brief even if it feels like forever. It feels like hours of bickering and shoving at his brother while Mom interrupts, dragging them away to help with the donuts they’re going to be frying, but the banter never stops. Where one of their words ends the other picks up, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Coming back to reality is just as jarring from a nice memory as a bad one. His eyes fly open and the change in scenery leaves him dizzy, or maybe that was from him holding his breath. He’s panting and mom has moved closer now, concern clear on her face.

Everyone is looking at him and he can feel that more tears have escaped. Damn it. He didn’t want to cry in front of Filbrick. Whatever, that doesn’t matter right now.

She’s familiar now too. That didn’t seem like much of a mom memory since it seemed so focused on Ford, but looking at her makes his chest light up and a grin splits across his face as soon as he’s caught his breath. He pulls her into another even tighter hug, lifting her for a split second. “I remember you! Not just familiarity, that was a real memory. A good memory! I didn’t even know we were Jewish!” He’s laughing, not letting her go as the hug is returned.

He gives them a moment, just watching Stan hug his mom tight, and uses the time to scribble more notes on his paper before finally launching into his series of questions. A lot just happened, “What was the memory? And who was all there, was there anything different this time after the feeling of familiarity? What made this one morph into a memory rather than just a feeling? Take your time, I need precise answers.”

Stan finally loosens his hold on her but keeps an arm around her shoulders with a laugh as he turns to Fids, “You nerds. You can’t even give me a minute to be happy I know who my own mom is?” But he’s not mad, he knows it's coming from a good place. Besides, he might forget if he doesn’t answer now.

Is it possible he forgets things again? He better not.

“Alright, alright...” He stops to gather his thoughts and find the right words, “It was Hannukah, we were maybe fourteen or fifteen? We’d just finished playing spin the dreidel and Ford was complaining that I cheated. Mom was there, stopping us from bickering. Or trying.” He couldn’t stop the ear-splitting grin on his face if he tried. “Filbrick wasn’t there, not home yet? But we were frying donuts for after dinner.”

This looks like Stan. Whole and completely. He’s grinning, just how she remembers, and his eyes are lit up too. Caryn keeps an arm around his back, watching him as he talks seeming all too eager to retell the only good memory he has so far. The two of them had been bickering, messing with each other, all evening only stopping long enough to open their presents after dinner. Filbrick had been happy too, later in the memory, he just hadn’t shown it. That’s how he was though. Or used to be. Now she could see the hints of a smile even if no one else was looking.

“This time the pain felt worse, got more painful and I could hear blood rushing in my ears. Not sure if that was real though.” He jumped a little when Fids stepped forward and grabbed his free hand to check his pulse. But he doesn’t pull it away, letting him check whatever it is. “Anyway, I guess her mentioning the holiday finally gave my head something to bring up? Something concrete to show me? I don’t know for sure though. It might have just been a memory involving her? But she wasn’t exactly the focus of that one since it was mostly Ford and I goofing off.”

After dropping Stan’s wrist and checking his heart rate he went back to writing down more notes. The four of them just stand in silence for a minute before he finally looks up to see everyone looking at him. Stan’s still grinning, they all are. At least Filbrick doesn’t look upset, maybe a little curious?

He fixes his glasses, “That memory had the three people you recognize and stopped just short of your father coming home, right? Maybe it was triggered by mentioning the holiday and your mind provided something of complete familiarity. You, Ford, and Caryn all at once. Which could mean nothing, or it might make it easier to get more of those to come back. I’ll need to discuss this with Ford and see what he thinks. Why don’t you all sit down and eat? Maybe tell him some more stories between bites though, so he doesn’t accidentally choke or drop his soup. I’ll be right back.”

Fiddleford turned to leave the living room, heading straight for the kitchen where Ford had last been after briefing them on not mentioning Stan’s scars. Something about a bad memory, but he hadn’t said anymore. Why is there a curtain over the kitchen doorway? He didn’t bother knocking and just walked past it into the dark kitchen. Or it looked dark from the hallway.

Once inside he froze in place seeing Ford standing over near the stove. It takes almost a full twenty seconds of them staring at each other from across the room for the scene to process properly. Ford had set up a blacklight on the hood above the stove and it's shinning down on the room below, illuminating the-

No. It couldn’t be blood, it just couldn’t be.

There was so much of it.

But then what else was it?

A bad memory. And now Ford was cleaning, scrubbing, the stove using a blacklight to see the mess that was otherwise invisible. He felt sick and he had to slam a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up or yelling. Maybe both.

Ford didn’t want anyone else to see this, what Stan had gone through. This was their shared pain to shoulder, not their parents or Fiddleford’s. His job was to clean up and wipe it away so Stan could forget all about it without having to be reminded ever again. He could do that for him, hopefully.

But Fids just had to come in at the worst possible time.

Best to be glad it wasn’t mom or dad. That would have been worse. “Over to the sink if you’re going to hurl. I already did, please don’t do it on the floor.”

He closed his eyes but could still see it, the outline on the floor and the drips across the front of the stove currently being scrubbed where Ford was kneeling. It took almost a full minute before he felt in control enough of his mouth to try talking. “This was the memory then? All this blood. Bill…”

This made the needle to the head and the stab to the foot look tame. It looked like this should have killed Stan from blood loss even with only a shadow to go off of.

Ford resumed scrubbing the front of the stove using the solution he’d mixed up in the bathroom, a washcloth, and a bucket of hot soapy water. “Yes, it appears Bill cut up his arm with a razor and then cauterized the wound on the stove giving him that nasty burn mark. He relived it upstairs because I asked about it. So, I’m going to clean this up and replace the stove. Make it look like it never happened. Maybe even restain the cabinets to make the kitchen look different. I haven’t decided yet.”

When Ford first came back things had been awkward. He’d been unsure if he could trust Ford with Stan. They’d been at each other’s throats for so long that Stan’s small doubts created big ones in Fid's head, that Bill wouldn’t be enough to gain forgiveness. Ford was stubborn, stuck in his ways, and always had to be right. But since coming back it was becoming more and more clear something about him had changed.

Unlike before, when he hadn’t even mentioned he had a twin, he seemed to have completely flipped the script. He was spending money, energy, and lots of time thinking and trying to do what was best for Stan. Trying to make him happy, all this easier, and fix things. First, the TV, which had been expensive, and now a kitchen remodel just because it might hurt Stan to look at?

Or at least that was what he wanted to see here.

The TV could be temporary, an excuse for Ford to later move it across the hall to his room? Except Ford didn’t care for just watching TV. He only used it for the news sometimes. And maybe this was painful for Ford to look at, knowing what had happened here between Stan and Bill. It certainly hurt him to see which was why he’d redirected his gaze to the dining table which looked clean in the glow of the blacklight.

He needed to know, had to be sure of Ford’s intentions.

“Ford,” He hesitated, still scared of his ex-friend despite how strong he’d been this whole time. With more and more of Stan coming back it was getting harder to keep it up. “Are you doing this because it hurts you or are you doing it for Stan? Look, I know you said you’d be better. And you are, because everything you’re doing is good. But before, you were incredibly self-centered. Selfish. Arrogant. That’s not what this is, right?”

That makes Ford pause in his scrubbing, dropping the rag in the hot water and drying his hands on a dish towel by his feet. It's time to stop lying to Fids, especially if he wants to fix things. “I don’t know. I want to help him. God, that’s all I want. It's what he deserves. He deserves to be happy, whatever that means to him. I’ll give it to him if I can. But I see your point.” Halfway between his lap and his hair he catches the old habit of tugging on his hair and drops it back onto his damp pant leg instead.

“I ask myself that constantly. If I’m doing it for him or if I’m doing it for me. Am I making him feel better or just trying to soothe my guilt? I don’t know. I think it's both, I want it to be for him. Because you are right, I am selfish. I’m a horrible, awful brother. And none of this would have happened if I hadn’t. If I had just-“ He shakes his head and turns back to the stove, rinsing out the rag again and spraying the stove with shaking hands to continue scrubbing. Crying doesn’t help Stan; it doesn’t help anyone. He needs to finish cleaning before someone else comes in and sees this.

Being around Stanley for two months taught him a thing or two about lying and seeing through deception. Now wherever he goes he can see fibs and lies. They happen all the time, and it's like Stan gave him a fresh pair of glasses that point them out. Little quirks, hints, that tell you everything.

Ford isn’t lying here.

He’s being completely and painfully honest, appearing on the edge of breaking down again over his guilt and using cleaning as an excuse not to face it. That tells him all he needs to know about how Ford actually feels. Sometimes things aren’t always black and white. It’s possible, though surprising, that Ford is trying to help both of them. Himself and Stan. Right now, both their needs line up. Possibly for the first time in decades.

They both need help.

Damn it. Maybe Stan was right all along, he is a pushover with no spine. He’d never said that, explicitly, only joked. But it seems kind of true. Too nice for his own good.

It pulls a long sigh from him before moving, turning around to head back to the living room. They’re all eating, and Caryn tells Stan more stories while they eat. Fids briefly interrupts, telling them to stay out of the kitchen for now before going back to Ford’s side. On the way he stops in the hall closet, grabbing some toothbrushes and more rags, before joining him on the floor to start scrubbing at the old blood stain to make this all go much faster. The mixture pulls up the blood quickly and he doesn’t want to know why Ford knows a good liquid for getting up old blood.

“It’s good that you feel guilty. It means you care about him. That you aren’t being completely selfish, I think. You’ve both been through a lot. I don’t even want to know what was going on inside the portal, I’m just not strong enough for you to tell me. But I can help you with this. It’ll be alright, eventually.”

Ford looks like he’s crying again, silently, and they work without saying anything for a while. The stove is clean now and after moving the blacklight they scrub up the mess on the floor and cabinets using the rags and toothbrushes little by little.

“I can see why Stan tried to write you a check for a million bucks.” Ford finally speaks, drying his hands and wiping away chemicals before touching his face. “I mean, he broke into your house.” It makes him laugh even if it's dry and sad. “And you still helped him. I almost ruined your life. But you’re here anyway, helping me clean up my mess even when I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of it. Even after everything’s okay, I’m never going to be able to make it up to anyone. You or him. Because I screwed up so badly.”

They’re both paused, most of the mess cleaned up, facing each other on their knees in the light of the lamp Ford has set up to see by. It makes Ford look small and he’s never seen him like this. Not even that time he accidentally failed an exam because he overslept staying up late studying. “Changing will have to be enough for yourself. Because yeah, maybe you can’t. You can’t invent something to snap your fingers and make this all go away like you want.  But you can grow and change as a person. Honestly, that’s probably what Stan wants most of all. Just you, caring about him. I mean, look at him. Whatever you’ve been doing? It's working. He just had another memory in there about you and his mom on Hannukah, and he looks almost the same. Just a million times happier.”

Which was saying something, especially after the lottery win? Stan had always been smiling whenever they were together. But this was a special kind of joy, not tainted by pain and suffering. Maybe that’s what siblings are? A slice of childhood that stays with you as you age. A relationship that isn’t supposed to change too much in a harsh and difficult world. If that’s true, it would explain why Stan was so desperate to get it back.

It’s a relief to hear someone tell him he’s doing okay. Not making things worse and moving somewhere in the right direction. His shoulders slump a little from where they’ve been tight and stiff but he picks up the toothbrush and spray to clean up another spot on the underside of the cabinets he noticed looking at the floor again. But that only puts off looking at Fids for a second.

He has to take in a deep breath and let it out, relief settling in his chest while some guilt fades. A small piece. He can do that, no problem. Because he’s always loved Stan and just never let himself have that. It's what he wants most and it almost makes him break to think they share the same need for it after so long apart and so much pain. “I can do that Fiddleford. After everything that’s happened and all the mistakes we both made, I think it would be a dream to have my brother back. When he comes back. Which he will, we’ll figure this out and he’s going to remember. At least the good things.”

“I don’t know if I can protect him from the bad memories with him living here. I have no idea what’s a trigger and what isn’t. Sure, I can check with the blacklight, but that’s only half of it. I wasn’t there.” But having their parents here should help, keep Stan distracted with good memories of their childhood in Jersey. That gives him time to tear out and change anything covered in blood. Everything involved with Stan’s pain, with Bill’s games.

“Bad memories might be unavoidable Ford. He didn’t tell me much about what Bill put him through, but-“ He glanced around at the area they just cleaned. “He was dealing with it for months. Nightmares on top of the torture. If he’s going to remember what he did, the pain will have to come with it. It’s a very sad fact of who Stan is. His life was hard and he’s a good person despite and or because of it. But I can still help you try. Tonight, we can maybe get your parents to take him out or something and go through the whole place and make a list of what needs to get done?”

To hell with it. Despite how cold Fiddleford has been he moves forward anyway and pulls him into an awkward hug over the space they’re both kneeling over. Amazingly, the hug gets returned even if it seems hesitant. “Thank you. For helping me, for helping him. And please, if there is anything I can do for you to make it up to you, just name it.” Ford pulls back and starts gathering up the supplies to move the lamp and clean up near the vent and door across the room.

Anything? That’s an open-ended offer. But Ford is a genius and together they’ve proven they can build almost anything, impossible things. Like the memory gun.

He’d gathered it up where Filbrick had dropped it, breaking the glass. It just needed the bulb replaced but otherwise, it was undamaged and tucked away in the bag full of his clothes upstairs.

Part of him still wanted to give up. To break his promises now that everything was done and leave. Sure, Ford was a mess, but his parents were here. They’d be fine, right? They could handle Stan and get him back to normal without his help.

Despite everything. Because of everything.

He still wanted to forget.

This whole project had stopped him from using the gun on himself for months now and while that had a good impact on his marriage overall, he was still sleeping on the couch. His nightmares kept him awake, made it hard to sleep, and it took sleeping pills to get anything close to good solid rest.

This was all only supposed to be temporary. He’d help and then leave, go back to forgetting. This was a business deal initially, one made out of guilt and pity for not doing more to stop or help Ford after the accident. He’d been obligated morally to do something, to erase Stanley.

But he hadn’t even done his one job. That had been passed off to Filbrick since he couldn’t get up the nerves to aim the stupid gun. Couldn’t stop his hands from shaking long enough.

That left him feeling like he had to do more to make up for that failure. Trapping him here in hell with the rest of the Pines family. Which was an awful way to look at it, because Stan wasn’t bad. The center of all this pain, but he wasn’t evil. It just seemed to follow him.

It would all be so much easier to just walk away and forget. To have permission to do so from someone. And it sounded like Ford would give it to him if he asked right now. All he had to do was ask, say he couldn’t handle it, and leave. It wasn’t like Ford knew what he wanted to do or like he’d care much to stop him.

Sure, they were helping Stan now, but that didn’t make them friends again. They just had a common goal. Just because something had made Ford see his brother differently, cared more, didn’t mean that directly translated to them. That these apologies were sincere.

Or.

Maybe he was just saying that, talking himself out of believing Ford could change. If Ford could change, and really feel sorry, then he’d feel bad for turning away and forgetting instead of forgiving back. Even if Ford didn’t deserve it.

He was a pushover, but the line had to be drawn somewhere.

It was just really blurry and felt like it was constantly moving.

“When all this is over, what are you going to do? I mean, after Stan’s okay. After the portal is torn down. Are you going right back to your research?” He finally gets up, following Ford over to the vent where he’s set up the lamp across the room, scrubbing at a different puddle. Being lost in thought meant he missed the whole picture which was probably for the best. He didn’t want to know.

The puddle of blood is cleaned up and now he’s just getting the train between the vent and the door. He doesn’t have to think much about his response because he’s been itching to tell someone about what happened even if only just the good part. The only good part of this whole thing.

“When I went through the portal- I know, I know. This isn’t bad. Well, it is, but it's not. Just trust me. It’s nothing that will give you nightmares. Just listen.” Fiddleford had started making a face as he looked up but when no objection came, he continued.

“Bill kept my body in his house, in the nightmare realm. That’s what the area between dimensions is called. Where he lived. Anyway, he found joy in swapping my mind around with other Fords from dimensions he’d visited in the past. Most of them were bad, but one of them was brilliant. In that dimension Stan and I were separated at birth and raised apart, meeting in college. We both went to West Coast Tech and,” he barely catches himself from saying the part about them being married. He scrubs a little harder with the toothbrush, blushing a little, but continues.

“And, we were best friends. Instant connection, which made sense considering we were brothers. In that world, they moved here together. We worked together in part on my research while Stan started up a tourist trap using the weird stuff in town. Other me was a genius. He made me and you look like idiots in comparison. He had hundreds of inventions, too many to count, and they were so, so.” He gets up, gathering up the cleaning supplies to go dump the water in the sink now that the kitchen is clean. The lamp gets turned off and the overhead light back on.

It’s like nothing ever happened.

“They were so fun, whimsical. Freeze Ray, a real working mood ring, and I think other me had a grey set of morals because he was working on some clone vats too.” That makes him snicker and he can see Fids is interested, fascinated, following him across the kitchen. “It’s like having Stanley around gave him ideas that we’d never think of. Stuff a kid would wish for that seems impossible. Their whole house was just so joyful because of Stanley. He made it a home. And they were happy, really truly happy. They even handled Bill far better because in that universe Stan saw the con from a mile away!”

Since coming through the portal, he hasn’t seen Ford smile once. He’s been cold, sad, mad, guilty, and heartbroken most of the time. But talking about this world seems to revitalize Ford, making him look ten years younger again like they’re back in college and they’re discussing another impossible idea that just might not be so far-fetched between them.

And he sees it and gets why Ford came back different. He got a first-hand look at what life could have been like if things had been different. If Ford hadn’t been such a tool about his broken project or if one of them had reached out in the many years after.

It shocks him that Bill would show Ford something that now seems to drive him, something good. But more surprising is that Ford wants that. He wants a life like the one he’s describing. And maybe that’s the point of this story, the end goal. Probably just without all the crazy inventions since it sounds like the other Ford blows them out of the water even together.

“They even live our dream. Stan grew up in Alaska, working on a crab boat. So, they have a ship that they take out, exploring the world together. Researching anomalies or whatever else there is to do on a boat for three months out of the year. That’s what I’m going to do after all this crap is fixed. I’m going to use scraps from the portal, cannibalize more of that spaceship, and build us the best and fanciest boat money can buy and my degrees can design. Then, we’ll go.” Ford is just standing in front of the sink now while he talks. He’ll need to start laundry to wash the rags. For now, he grabs a different chemical from in the cabinet to wash the toothbrushes they used.

“If Stan still forgives me when he remembers and wants to go, we will. We’ll finally get to live the dream we always wanted and that I denied us for selfish reasons. During my time in that other dimension, I read up as much as I could about the crazy advanced systems other Ford designed for theirs. Hydroelectric motor, water collection and sterilization system, advanced radar, automatic sail controls, and some of the first aid other me developed too. He went back to school, med school, after Stanley almost died during a fishing accident from blood loss. I read up on those too.” He brings up his still-wet hand and smacks himself in the forehead. “I’m an idiot! An absolute moron! There's a paste for scars!” He turns, leaving the sink running, to leave the kitchen.

Fiddleford has to grab Ford’s shoulder to stop him from running off now that he’s worked himself up like this.

It's insane. The whole thing from how perfect it sounds to Ford memorizing inventions for Stanley. Whenever this was, maybe months ago, that was when he decided this. Before he knew what Stanley was planning or saw the sacrifices he would make. His priorities, himself and his research, have changed. Ford changed, drastically and it seems for the better. Of course it's for the better, it’s a Stanley focused life one where both of them are together and happy.

Two halves of his mind are fighting.

The one that says the two of them will be fine without him.

And the other that desperately wants to see the math behind some of these things Ford is talking about.

Good thing he doesn’t have to decide right now which one wins.

“Ford, calm down. Look. All of this sounds great, and the first aid stuff especially, but you need to wait. Stanley isn’t back, so you shouldn’t go having his doppelganger making permanent changes to his body. Yes, it’s a good intention, but it's possible Stanley won’t want them gone. He used to talk about his scars with a sense of pride in a weird and sick way.” Yeah, likely, he’ll still want at least the burn gone, but he needs to make that decision, not this still broken version of him. “Maybe just have it ready, make it later, so you can ask first thing when he comes back.”

It takes a lot of effort not to look annoyed to be stopped. Why on Earth would Stan want to remember any of this? Hell, he took the easy way out using the memory gun to escape it all. He won’t keep the scars. They only risk the possibility of more memories coming back.

But, morally, Fiddleford is right.

He stops. Because Fiddleford is just like Stan in this way, knowing what’s right and wrong before him. They both have better emotional intelligence and social awareness. He needs to work on that, but for now, he just needs to listen.

That isn’t easy for him. Stan is worse at it than him, but as he’s aged this aspect has only gotten more similar. But he’ll try because he’s going to fix things. And maybe, just maybe, Fids could forgive him too. If he’s careful.

“Alright, alright,” He sighs, stopping and holding up his hands in defeat. “Fair point, that makes sense. I don’t like it, but that’s not my call to make. I will, I’ll write out the recipe and make some to keep upstairs in the first aid kit down the hall for when he’s closer to himself. Then he can decide.”

Ford must be trying to give him whiplash with how drastic of a change he’s undergone. Maybe he should have attempted to talk with him sooner. This is good, really good, and it’s making the argument upstairs louder. Providing a stronger argument for the part that wants to see the math.

Stanley is the good liar, not Ford. So, this can’t all be a trick. It sounds too genuine. He’s not just trying to earn forgiveness; he’s genuinely thinking before speaking. Understanding how his actions affect others. “Are you sure Bill brought back the right Ford? Because you sound nothing like him right now. How do I know you aren’t an imposter?” But he’s grinning, letting go of his shoulders and giving him a playful push.

The joke throws Ford off for a second, not able to remember the last time he heard Fiddleford make one, but he smiles again and a little more guilt vacates his chest. “The wrong Ford wouldn’t remember this.” He steps back and turns to head into the pantry off the kitchen, rummaging around before coming back out with a Moon pie. After their fight, he hadn’t been able to just throw them out, but he hated the damn things. So, they got tucked away for a rainy day.

“Here, I’ve still got the whole box. They might be a little old, but I don’t think they’re organic enough to ever go bad. Kind of like a Twinkie.” He throws it over to Fiddleford smiling wider at the surprised look it causes.

Sometimes during long nights working in the lab, when things had been good, Ford would occasionally surprise him with one of his favorite sweet treats. Reminded him of home even if it was a little ridiculous. He’d always assumed Ford just picked them up at the store or something that day. If he’d known there was a whole box, he might have been willing to stay late more often.

It pulls a nervous and almost ridiculous laugh out of him holding the thing and he can barely shake his head. “Fair enough, I believe you. But don’t make any funny moves. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” He goes to pocket the treat for later and then remembers the whole reason he came in here in the first place.

“Right! I wanted to get your opinion about the latest memory Stanley had! Here, read over my notes. I want to get your opinion and see if you think it could be a pattern. Granted two memories aren’t much of one, but you mentioned the burn and he remembered. Then your mother mentioned Hanukkah, maybe coming out here and the family getting together, and it happened again.” Pulling out the notepad they meet back in the middle of the kitchen for Ford to look at it, flipping through the pages to read and think it over.

“It certainly looks like a pattern to me, but we’ll need more data to be sure.” He glances around the kitchen at the cleaning supplies he needs to put away. “Here, go see if you guys can get it to happen again, I’ll be in after I finish putting this stuff away. Later, maybe tomorrow, I’ll go into town to see about getting a new stove.” Gas stoves have a more exact temperature dial but after what happened having any stove with an open flame might cause problems. An electric stove could be the best bet. Is there sandpaper and wood stain in storage somewhere? He’ll have to look for that too. It can’t be that hard to refinish cabinets.

Fiddleford takes the notepad back nodding, “That’s what I thought. I’ll go see if they managed to replicate the same outcome while I was gone.” He turns and heads for the door, leaving Ford to finish cleaning up in favor of checking on Stanley.

It isn’t just the knowledge that the blood is cleaned up properly that makes the kitchen feel lighter. Telling Fids a little about his time through the portal helped too. Having someone to talk to.

For a minute, things feel okay. He can do this. Help Stanley come back, earn forgiveness, and maybe even find some happiness of his own along the way. And if he’s really lucky, Fiddleford and him can be friends again. Just maybe.

Chapter 32: Stanley's Introduction; Take Two

Despite his parent’s best efforts over lunch, they didn’t manage to trigger another memory. They both made a real effort between bouts of silence when they ate. Mom more than Dad, since he only had two whole stories to share, but it was the most he’d heard the guy talk so far.

But nothing happened. It was still nice, to hear about holidays, birthdays, and the occasional family trip. Like when they’d been young and would go visit their grandparents.

Fids seemed slightly puzzled that nothing else had come to him, muttering under his breath and writing some more notes before leaving the room again. It didn’t really matter that no visible memory was coming back to him. He still couldn’t stop smiling and looking at Mom. The fact that he remembered her almost immediately was the only clue he needed to know that she was the only family member he’d always been on good terms with.

There were no bad feelings, other than the slight headache he still had. But he was getting used to that the longer it was there. The pain of an annoying dull headache didn’t compare to the memory of having his arm burned in the kitchen anyway.

Eventually talking got tiresome, and when Stanford came back it was time to decide what to do for the day. Mom and Dad were only around for the week so the obvious option was to spend time with them. But he still had a whole other tape to watch not to mention those film reels from their childhood.

He let them argue for a while, discussing as a group what they should do, before interrupting that he wanted to watch the other tape and the film reels with Ford. Surprisingly, no one argued with that. Instead, Ford suggested their parents go into town to the history museum and learn more about the town. Technically, this was a vacation for them so they might as well do the only touristy thing in town. Fiddleford ended up getting a ride back into town with them so he could stop by and see his wife and son before coming back later. Which just left him and Ford home alone.

Back upstairs in his room, they got settled sorting out the next tape, “For now I don’t want to watch the tape of what happened with Bill. Let’s just skip to the second half of my introduction.” He went over to the tape player before Ford could just to be sure he got his way.

It was probably incredible, no doubt, but after this morning he was worried more and more about what seeing Bill could cause. It might bring up other bad memories rather than slotting his mind back into place like past him seemed to hope it would.

It just wasn’t worth the risk right now.

Maybe after he’d gotten a few more good memories back, but not now. Ford didn’t have any objections and instead just sat down in his chair with a nod. He probably carried similar concerns. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see Bill either. Not after whatever had happened on the other side of the portal.

He should probably ask about that, and let Ford talk about it. But he was still a ghost at the moment. Ford deserved to share that with a real person. And, okay, maybe he also didn’t want to hear about it. His personal feelings and desires were few, most of them coming from somewhere else, but he could have that one.

When he hit play on this tape the view was completely different than it had been previously, showing the exterior of the house from a wide view with Stanley standing in front of it with his crutch. The camera was less steady too, like someone was holding it without the use of a stand. Everything was in focus at least.

“Welcome to Stanley’s Introduction; Take two! Sorry about the cut, but to start off this section I’m going to give myself a tour of Ford’s house. The whole place is probably unfamiliar to you. Hell, I hope someone has the decency to show you where the bathroom is. Anyway, Fids here is going to follow me around while I talk, hence the shaky camera.” Just like in the first tape Stan is grinning wide and standing kinda sideways so more of the house is in view.

“Hey, you try holding a camera perfectly still. I could just leave you to do it yourself with the stand and a rope you know.” Fids says from behind the camera but his voice sounds more amused than insulted. “Or maybe you could use one of the carts downstairs in the lab, give yourself a view of your butt the whole time.” That makes both of them laugh for a minute.

“Alright, alright. Point taken, now shut up. We don’t have all day and we aren’t starting over again. We’re burning valuable daylight!” After a beat of silence, Stan continues, “This is our brother's house, his research base. The whole place was stuffed full of books, papers, empty coffee mugs, and specimens when I arrived. But since then, I’ve organized and cleaned the whole place. He’ll probably hate that, but I just couldn’t stand living in his mess. It was a damn tripping hazard!” He briefly stands on his good leg and knocks the crutch against his bad foot.

“Anyway, I’ll spare you a tour of the yard since there isn’t much to see. Just a push lawn mower, a hose around the back, and a lot of stupid grass. Let’s head inside and start the tour.” He resumes using the crutch as he and the camera both start towards the house. And despite the crutch he’s using Stan doesn’t appear to walk any slower or have much trouble with the stairs like he’s had lots of practice using the crutch.

Inside the shack, Stan identifies the entryway before moving past it into the kitchen. Fiddleford does a once-over with the camera for the sake of it but then follows after Stan.

“This is the shacks kitchen also known as tied for our second favorite room with our bedroom. After traveling around for so long, and eating a lot of fast food, it's nice to be somewhere with the ability to have a home-cooked meal. Even if that means we have to be the one to cook it. I’ll warn you now that Ford is an awful cook. When I got here all he had in the fridge was frozen dinners, milk and eggs, and something that might have been ketchup. That tells me he probably hasn’t improved much since high school. Maybe you should have taken a cooking class as an elective Sixer!” Stan barks a laugh at that.

“You know he actually did do that one semester,” Fiddleford pipes up from behind the camera. “However, he withdrew from it after the second week. Wouldn’t tell me why, just that it was a waste of his time.” This information just makes Stan laugh louder for a minute, having to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye before he can continue.

Ford is rather red, sulking back in his chair watching the tape. Part of him is happy that Stan is laughing so hard and that he’s the reason. But the other wants to throttle his brother for doing so. Everyone has their strengths and cooking just isn’t one of his. It's not an exact science, no matter how well he follows a recipe, and it's endlessly frustrating. Whatever. He doesn’t need to cook. Maybe he should work on making some sort of nutrition pill to bypass eating altogether. Now that’s an idea.

“Of course, he would do that! I bet he started a couple of fires or accidentally forgot to drain mac and cheese! You know he did that once trying to make us dinner while Mom and Dad were out.” Stan shakes his head, a smile glued to his face. “Alright, alright. Focus. Or we’ll never get through all this and still have time for anything after the tour.” Stan spends several minutes going drawer to drawer, cabinet to cabinet, and even opening the freezer to explain where everything is and what meals he has prepped in there for directly after his memory is wiped.

This includes the pantry too, “Alright, so I prepped some of our favorite meals, the ones that can be frozen. That’ll help you remember what we like to eat. But most important of all is something we haven’t had in the last ten years.” Leaning heavily on the crutch he reaches up for a box on the top shelf in the corner of the pantry and pulls it down, opening the top.

“Our favorite snack from middle school through high school were these, Toffee peanuts. These aren’t the original because they don’t sell them here. But I found a close recipe at the library and made us a couple of bags. Lots of good and bad memories where stuff was happening but we were just snacking on these.” Inside the box are about six brown paper bags sealed closed with tape on one end and stapled shut on the top. There's even a rather bad drawing of a peanut on the front of each bag.

“Hang on, pause. I’ll go get that box.” Ford insists, hardly waiting for Stan to pick up the remote before leaving his chair and rushing out of the room. A minute later he comes back with the box and sets it on the ground near Stan. He expects him to open it and maybe try some of them.

It's puzzling when he barely looks at the box and resumes the tape.

“We kinda stopped eating them after the science fair incident with Ford since that’s what tipped him off. But, I figure, since we’ve patched things up, maybe I can stop holding a grudge at a dumb piece of food.” Though the Stan on screen doesn’t look very sure as he closes the box and puts it back on the shelf. “Come on Fids, let’s back out and head down the hallway. We’ll do a lap of the first floor and then go downstairs.”

They both head out into the hallway with Stanley continuing to talk as they go. He explains the hall closet full of cleaning supplies, the downstairs bathroom, all three storage rooms, the parlor, the laundry room, and finally the living room. Stan made some small changes, mostly with the storage rooms, but otherwise, everything looks the same but neater. Boxes have been moved around by him and Fiddleford so that the storage rooms are organized now. Electronic-based stuff, spare wires, and metal parts in one of the two medium-sized ones, specimens, and large junk in the big storage room, and papers/random books in the smallest one.

It’s a system Ford had wanted to implement but instead, the whole house had turned into something closer to a war zone. Stuff ended up somewhere, he remembered it, and could never find the time to change everything. But apparently, Stan had nothing but time when he wasn’t working on the portal. Fids must have told him about the organizational system. Why had he remembered that? Ford had barely mentioned it in passing, years ago.

“Next I’ll show you the downstairs half of the house, also known as Ford’s mad scientist lab.” Stan on screen snickers heading from the living room to the hallway leading to the elevator. Fids follows a little further behind, getting a good view of how creepy the hallway looks before Stan turns on the light around the corner. They head down to the first floor of the basement, the angles awkward with them both in the elevator and the camera is more zoomed in on Stan’s face for part of it and looking at two pairs of shoes for the rest.

“This is his study, or that’s what Fids has told me. It used to look like a library storage room with stacks of books everywhere. But I, uh, put together some bookshelves. They were up in one of the mostly empty storage rooms, guess Ford never bothered with clearing out the room to get them set up.” There's the main part of the study with bookshelves against all walls going just an inch short of the ceiling. Then his desk a couple of feet out from one wall set up with several organized piles of papers. And lastly a couch also a foot or so out from the shelves with an end table and lamp next to it.

Stan and Fids briefly show the storage room off the study and then go back into the elevator and down to the second floor, the actual lab. That tour is brief with Fids doing a lot of the talking as he points out different things from behind the camera while Stan just stays in frame. He doesn’t look lost or confused while Fids talks but seems to just be letting his friend do this section of the tape. To be exposing new Stan to him a little more and all this science junk since he’s best friends with two nerds.

“Alright Fids, you scram now. I’ve got something to talk to me about for a few minutes. Then I’ll meet you back up by the stairs to the second floor. We don’t need to show me the third floor. Ford can show him that if he wants later.” There's a passing of the camera and the sound of the elevator dinging while Stan gets the camera set up on one of the lab stations and he sits down in a chair across from it.

All of this is helpful. Overwhelming, yes, and hurting his head, but very educational. No one has had the chance to give him a tour so it seems fitting he gets to do it. The part about him being a good cook isn’t too surprising but he’s still not sure if he can bring himself to try their favorite snack. He feels the same apprehension that comes across on the screen.

More ghost feelings. His feelings.

It seems like past him wanted him to enjoy them again more than thinking he actually could. And maybe he’s right. They’ll probably end up going to waste. How long will they stay good inside their homemade paper bags?  

“Ford, I’m going to assume you're watching this? I hope so because I’m about to blow your silly little nerd mind.” He’s grinning and turns around in the chair after setting aside the crutch to pull a medium-sized box off the shelf and sets it on the floor in front of him. “One of the downsides, among the many, to being possessed by Bill is that it makes your eye bleed sometimes. It’s our left one, the one that’s still a little blurry and hard to see long distances with? Anyway, I’m pretty sure being possessed by him so much has done some serious long-term damage.” Stan winces a little on screen.

“And, the possession isn’t the only thing. One time, while we were possessed, he popped it out of its socket too. We didn’t lose it, thank God, but getting it back in was not a pleasant experience. I’m pretty sure I scratched it putting it back. Right now, our eyesight is alright. Could be better with glasses, probably. But eventually, it wouldn’t surprise me if we go blind or something. Maybe our vision just keeps getting worse on that side. Hell, maybe being possessed by actual Bill is what ruins it. I’m not sure. But I wanted to figure out a solution. Just in case.” Stan’s slightly nervous expression turns back into a smile.

“After we made our second deal with Bill and after our time in the hospital Bill got sick of possessing us. We were too slow and clumsy trying to move around in the lab while sharing a body. So…” He trails off, trying to think of how to describe what had happened. “We’ve never been very good with math and science. That’s Ford’s thing. But, to continue work on the portal Bill fixed that. Since I had nothing up here,” He brings up a hand to knock lightly on the side of his head, “He gave me everything. From where we stopped learning right around algebra up to who knows what. I suspect he gave me more than I needed, more than he intended maybe. But I’ll come back to that later.”

It makes sense, considering Bill and Stan were working together, but it still surprises Ford. Fids was helping Stan with the portal, near the end, so he kinda always figured that’s how stuff got done. Stan was given careful instructions but didn’t understand.

Instead, Stan completely understood everything about the portal. For a little while, Stan was on the same level as him at least in the technical intellectual sense. Would that come back? Would Stan be able to remember all that math poured into his head? Part of him hoped so. It would be too good to be true, being able to talk science with Stan the same way he does with Fids.

On-screen, Stan opens up the box and pulls out a stack of several notebooks, and rests them on one leg before continuing. “So, you get the picture. We have a problem with our eye and might lose it someday. But I have no interest in being blind or half blind. It took some reading through some of Ford’s books to understand some practical implications, but I think I’ve made a pretty good replacement.” He shuffles around in the box, putting all except one notebook back, and then pulls out what looks like a watch case.

“Using the math and science jammed into my head, I’ve built a bionic eye.” He opens up the watch case and carefully pulls out his invention, holding it up to the camera so they can see it.

The front of the eye looks incredibly realistic with the material giving a little on the sides where it’s held between both fingers. And it looks like Stan’s eye too from how it's painted. Is it painted? It looks so realistic that it doesn’t look like it, but it has to be. The color of brown matches Stan’s exactly, like a picture, when he holds it up next to his face. But the eye isn’t the only part of it.

Stan on screen turns it so they can see the part that must connect to the brain. It’s a small thin nerve. Or it looks like the nerve that would run from the back of the eye into the brain. Except this one is shorter, half the length it should be, so that it can be connected inside the eye socket.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. Stanley, you can’t do a full eye transplant. Right now, the only type of vision-restoring surgery is done by taking out parts of donor corneas. They can’t do the whole eye.” But Stan is grinning, painfully proud of himself on screen. “Here’s the thing. This device doesn’t require a surgeon. Hell, it can be done at home if we can numb the area or stomach the pain. All you need to do is pop the eye out, snip the nerve, and then connect the line.”

Stan turns the eye again and then puts the notebook down, pushing the box aside. He moves closer, right in front of the camera so they can see. “Right here, at the bottom back of the eye, is a small fuse. Do. Not. And I repeat, do not, flip this until you're ready to connect it. After the eye is out, the nerve is cut, you have to get the wires right on top of each other. This fuse, so to speak, just gives the device a small electric jolt. That will trigger the new nerve to connect with the old one. It’s all very complicated.” He pauses, grabbing the box and bringing everything over to the table.

The camera gets moved so Stan is mostly out of shot with everything on the lab table visible now along with his hands. “Think of it like two pieces of string,” The eye gets set back inside the case but remains open so they can look at it. “You’ll want to lay them together just barely on top of each other. If you can get a surgeon to do it precisely that would be even better. But when you flip that fuse the small electric charge inside the eye will fuse the nerves back together. Or that’s the basic concept. All the math, science, and details of it and the materials the eye is made out of are in these notebooks and this box.”

Stan puts the box up on the table and pulls out the notebooks again. There are six that look packed full of notes. Tabs and highlights are visible on the sides of the pages. But he also pulls out several folders full of paper. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you never regained all the information I was given. It was originally Bills and now that he’s dead his powers will be gone too. But, I explained all of it as best I could. These,” He slides over the folders and briefly opens one, “Are papers I’ve written. Research papers. I’m not going to publish them, because I don’t think the world is ready for this kind of stuff. It's so far beyond what we have that, well. This seems like the kind of thing the government wouldn’t like.”

“So, I made it something you can do at home. Hell, I even tested it myself. Not in my eye, mind you, but I did cut open my hand and hooked a prototype up to a nerve. It worked, perfectly.” Now Stan puts everything back in the box, notebooks, folders, and the case with the eye inside neatly tucked away. Then he turns the camera again so its up on a shelf with his face in frame. “And it's not just a normal human eye either. I added some special surprises for you. There's an instruction manual,” He motions in the direction of the box, “That tells you what rhythms you need to blink to change the settings.”

“It has more than just the standard number of color cones. I was only able to fit twelve because of the limits of electricity. The human body runs on a billion little electric signals, stimulated by blood flow and our heart. It's all very complicated. Nerves don’t produce a lot of electricity to begin with so I had some pretty big limitations. It’s probably why no one has even thought to try before. It obviously can’t be battery-powered, because that would mean changing it out or charging it. This eye is meant to last. Hell, long after your corpse has rotted away this eye will probably still be around.”

Stan pauses on screen, glancing towards the box, and seems to consider the implications of that. “Geez. I didn’t think about that. Damn it.” He curses, pulling out one of the notebooks again and skimming over some of the last few pages. For a little bit, he seems to get lost in whatever occurred to him, grabbing a pen and adding some notes to the page before looking up and remembering he’s recording a video.

“Sorry, sorry. Look, it's nothing to worry about. I merely need to consider what will happen when we die. I mean, it runs off electricity, a very small amount. But the main concern is that I don’t know what happens after death. Maybe the eye will shut down with the rest of the body. Maybe it’ll keep running. It is supposed to be power-efficient. Our consciousness might be able to see through it for a long time after the heart has stopped.” Stan is taping the pen down against the paper, nervously thinking about it.

But he forces himself not to get lost in thought and keeps looking at the camera. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll run another couple of tests connecting another prototype up to a rat or something and see what happens after it dies. Not the most ethical option but I can’t leave anything to chance. I’m sure if there is a problem there, I’ll be able to fix it.” He closes up the notebook, with the pen between the pages, and puts it back.

Stan pauses the tape and is just staring at the screen.

Yeah, he’d noticed that his one eye wasn’t the best. Figured it was some sort of stigmatism or something and that he just didn’t have glasses. If he didn’t have health insurance then why would he shell out so much money for them when it only affects one eye mostly looking far away? The other compensates for it, kinda. It's ignorable and he has up until this point. Now Stan is explaining what caused it and providing a very cool-looking solution. If it works, he’ll even be able to see more colors than humans usually can. By a lot. What else can that eye do?

Where is that box?

Ford isn’t just staring at the screen; his mouth is hanging open a little bit and he feels stupid.

Just like in the other dimension, comparing himself to other Ford, his own inventions and scientific achievements feel inferior. Sure, he built a portal to another dimension. But that was only with Bill's help. Before that, he’d done little more than pickle specimens and write a lot in his journals.

Okay, no. He had done some pretty complicated things in between. Like the mind control tie he made in college? That was pretty cool. And the memory gun too even if they still didn’t fully understand the details of how it worked. But a bionic eye that could reconnect and heal nerves? That was way cooler. Or at least he thought so right now. The suspense of the paused video was killing him since Stan was probably about to say where the box was. He wanted to pour over those notes and maybe run some tests on the eye himself.

Maybe see if he could replicate it for himself. If it worked as well as Stan said. Then he wouldn’t need glasses anymore. And additional color cones? How did Stan even do that? Was the eye made of organic material? Was it being kept in the fridge or something downstairs?

“So, If I used to be able to do that, does that mean your that fucking smart?” Stan is looking over at Ford now because, for the first time since meeting his brother, he realizes just how big of a divide there was between their intellect. If Ford could do anything even close to that then it was a little easier to understand why everyone thought he was the dumb twin. Or used to be.

Ford jumps a little when Stan spoke, turning to see an odd look on his brother’s face. He looks a mix of awe, surprise, and curiosity. It’s been years since Stan looked at him like that. And just like before it makes him blush a bit and look away. “Well. I don’t know about that. I don’t have nearly as strong of an understanding of biology in general much less modern medicine. Bill must have given Stan a broad range of scientific information. But, I have done some things that could be considered just as outlandish. Not as intricate, but still.”

“Like what? What kind of inventions have you made? Other than the whole doomsday portal.” Stan is grinning, sitting forward a little on the side closer to Ford. He doesn’t know much about Ford. Only what other him has written and talked about in the tapes. Smart can mean many things but now, knowing this is something close to the level of Ford’s capabilities, he wants to know details. More than he’s interested in cutting out and replacing his eye.

When he looks at Stan again, he’s still got the same expression just a little brighter and it makes his heart swell momentarily pushing away the heavy guilt and pain ever present in his chest. He smiles wide too, “Well, I’ve certainly made my fair share of inventions. In college, I invented a set of mind control ties that the government took from me. But, with an eidetic memory, I was able to recreate the device. They’re somewhere down in the lab. Since coming here to Gravity Falls, I also invented a carpet that can switch minds between bodies. I have it in my bedroom across the hall.”

Ford has to get up and stop Stan from darting for the door after that. It makes him laugh.

“No Stanley, we can’t go try it. One, we’re in the middle of something. And two, your mind is going through enough trouble as it is. Who knows what could happen if you switch bodies with me now while your mind is still scattered.” And yeah, maybe he doesn’t want to switch bodies with Stan either. That opens up only about a dozen different trains of thought and half of them are completely inappropriate. “Just, sit down. I’ll show you the mind control tie later. Let’s finish the tape first, at least?” He’s flushed a little and choosing to focus on the video because that’s safe to think about.

The second his mind is back together he’s going to be trying that. Maybe not with Ford, if he doesn’t want to, but maybe Fiddleford would be willing? They are friends, so maybe? For now, he just scolds and steps back to sit in the chair still holding the remote. “Now I get it. You are a fucking genius.” But then Stan unpauses the tape before he can come up with anything to say back. Not that he looks like he was trying. Ford looks embarrassed.

“I’ll handle that right after Fids and I finish this tape.” Stan disappears from the frame with the box for a minute, putting it somewhere, and then comes back to pick up the camera. “Now, I bet Ford is just about wetting himself,” Stan is still grinning, having not stopped this whole time, “But I’m not going to tell either of you where the box is right now. One, I feel like I should have more time to heal and remember first. But two, I’ve made something else. Something I’ve got to explain to new me, alone. Because what I made is a surprise for Ford. Now, go on. Get out of the room. We’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

Stan pauses the tape and gets up to make sure that Ford leaves, putting the remote in his pocket.

Stan had said there would be more surprises but he hadn’t mentioned anything about making him something. Inventing something, for him. It made his heart soar and selfishly he wanted to know what it was right now. But new Stan isn't having it, standing waiting for him to get up and looking prepared to pick him up if he doesn't go willingly. “Alright, alright. Fine.” He begrudgingly got up and let Stan walk him out into the hall.

Once Ford was out of the room, he locked the door for extra security and then went over to sit right in front of the TV on the rug. Sure, Ford could try and listen in. But he used the remote to turn the volume down so he could barely hear it as a precaution before hitting play. Hopefully, between that and the solid wood door, this would stay a secret.

“Alright, is he gone? Good. So, I figure once we forget our memory we’ll forget everything else too. I mentioned that earlier, forgetting all this cool stuff Bill gave us once he’s dead. Now, there is nothing Ford loves more in the world than information. Learning junk. Not even us, or at least he didn’t used to. I hope for our sake that changed.” Stan turns the camera around to a different lab table with another box on it, this one is made of red cardboard and has a big number six on top in tape.

“This is everything I was able to write down over the last six weeks from inside my head. It’s got a book on physics, astrophysics, biology, chemistry, medicine, and computer science.” He opens the box to show the six books inside. Rather than just textbooks or notebooks they’re made up of two-inch d-ringed binders filled with pages and pages of writing. About four hundred-something pages each, give or take without counting.

“I just know he’s going to freak out when you give him these. I figured out what was at the very top of each subject from Fids and then just started writing from there. What you’ve got in this box is information no one else in this dimension has. Even us, because we’ve forgotten. And I didn’t want to just give it to him either. Because this took a lot of time and effort. You can only imagine how many hand cramps I got filling these in.” Stan laughs a little, pulling one of the binders out and flipping through it for a couple of pages.

It looks like absolute nonsense to him. Granted, this is the math binder so that makes sense. But he can see that each page is written with care. His handwriting isn’t great as he saw in the letters but on the pages, it looks like Stan tried to make his notes and drawings neat. For some of the shapes he drew, he used something to trace them with before adding the math around the sides. “Jesus.”

“Anyway. It's really up to you when you give these to him. Maybe wait until he does something really nice for you and hand over one of the books randomly. I certainly wouldn’t hand them all over at once. You won’t see him for weeks if you do that!” Stan closes up the binder carefully and puts it back in the box, closing the lid. “If I was you, I’d save them for special occasions. If you give them one at a time that’s the next three years’ worth of birthday and Christmas presents covered.” Stan turns the camera back around to face himself.

“I’ve put this box in your closet way up at the top hidden where you can’t reach it without getting a step stool. There's a black towel over it too so that you can’t see it since there isn’t a light in there. Please, at least give me a little time to come back before handing it over to him. I’d like to be there to see the look on his face.” Stan’s smile turns sad there at the end again and he sighs.

“Oh, and before I forget. The box with our eye is in there too. Under the same towel just in the blue box instead. But again, maybe wait a little? Unless killing Bill made us blind or something. Then go ahead. But I know Ford is going to pour over those notes like crazy. Half of them might not make sense. I didn’t include everything up here,” He motions to his head with the free one not holding the camera, “So if he hasn’t read the binders, he could end up lost and frustrated. The papers are a little better, but I couldn’t make myself give all the buildup. My hand was starting to hurt by that point. And it's hard to focus.”

“It gives me a serious headache trying to sort out all the information Bill gave me. I mean, he just flooded my head with it. I was laid out on the living room couch all morning just stunned by it all. If we had more time before the Portal is fixed, I have dozens of ideas I’d love to implement and build. Or at least write out for Ford. God, I bet he’d love that… But there just isn’t time. The eye and binders were all I could manage under that restraint. It’ll have to be enough. So, I’ll see you back upstairs. I’m going to pause the tape here. That’s your cue to let him back in and I’ll see both of you back upstairs on the second floor.” He waves and then the feed cuts to static for a second, the upstairs hallway coming into view.

He pauses the tape and turns the volume back up before standing up. This tape will need to go up in the closet in that box later so that Ford can’t secretly watch it and find out the surprises.

Once again, he’s left shocked by how selfless he is. Used to be. All that information crammed into his head and instead of inventing stuff for himself in his free time he’d written it all down. Not even intending to relearn it himself, just for Ford. Yeah, Ford’s a genius, and they're brothers. They were best friends once. This still seems excessive.

Although, maybe it isn’t? If Ford had all that same advanced information, what kind of things could he build for both of them? With the base knowledge gone, he doesn’t have a hope of managing anything. But Ford? He’ll have everything to make wild dreams a reality. That makes him grin thinking about it. What could his brother do, beyond mind-switching carpets, with even more math and science?

He had tried to listen through the door and for the first time hated how solid his house was. Nothing was made flimsy or cheap which meant listening to the TV through the door was impossible. Stan must have turned down the volume, leaving him to pace back and forth frustrated in the hallway.

Instead of dwelling on it, since old Stan hasn’t left him these answers yet, he goes over to unlock the door to let Ford back inside still grinning like an idiot. And Ford looks mad coming back inside. Oh, if only he knew.

“So, this is the hallway. Pretty boring and standard stuff. Ford, you need to put up some more decorations or something. I get your houses theme is wood, but come on. At least frame some pictures of specimens or something.” Stan is standing in the middle of the hallway and Fids is holding the camera at the top of the stairs so he’s in the shot. They go through the rest of the house without anything too interesting. Ford’s bedroom, Stan’s bedroom, both hall bathrooms, two empty rooms, and the attic upstairs. That’s just more storage space so there is little to see.

They both bring the camera back down to Stan’s room and get it set up on its stand before Fiddleford leaves the room. Just like the first tape started, this one is wrapping up to a close there.

“So, now you’ve seen the house. I’ve told you both all about how for the moment I’m a super genius. And I filled you in on favorite foods too. That’s basically everything. Those letters in the box for our photo album are unfortunately going to have to be enough. I didn’t leave enough time because of all that stuff in the basement.” Stan shifts, getting settled on the bed and leaning back against the wall with his arms resting in his lap.

“There is still one more thing I’ll tell you about, even if I don’t know if it’ll carry over after Bill’s dead and my memories are gone. I think I mentioned in one of the tapes you’ve seen how at the halfway mark Bill wanted me to join him, right? I’ll tell you the story of how he tried to persuade me.” One of his hands comes up and points at the foot in a cast.

“Bill liked playing on our fear of heights, a lot. But the highest place he brought us was up on this set of train tracks between two cliffs near the end of the valley. Have Ford bring you up on the roof and you’ll be able to see it, impossible to miss. Anyway. The whole situation up on the tracks was so evenly split that I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or not. Dreams and reality always felt so real that it took little differences to know.”

“Eventually I figured it out that the train up there was a hallucination and wasn’t a real threat. Not before I made a good run down the tracks though, which is how we ended up in the hospital.” It makes Stan sigh. “Before that though, we talked with Bill. Our figuring out the difference impressed him and that was when he first offered us to join him. The guy wasn’t very direct at first though, talking around it until we just told him to spit it out.”

“He showed us what things would be like if we joined him after opening the portal and he came through.” As he talks the Stan on screen looks more and more unsettled and a little guilty too. “A ship, spaceship, for traveling the galaxy. He showed us a black hole, up close, through his eye. God, the colors. It was unlike anything any human had ever seen before. But, I held out. Because you never cave to the first offer, sometimes not even the second offer.”

“And then, he showed me something humans can’t comprehend. Called it the fabric of reality. And I guess it kinda looked like it? I don’t think any description would do it justice. You’ll just have to trust me when I say it was spectacular. I almost caved and would have if I hadn’t shut my eyes after just a second of it. But that second was still enough to affect me in ways I hadn’t expected.” Stan sits up, moving to the edge of the bed as he’s getting to the point of the story.

“We’ve always had good instincts, it's how we survived so long. But now? They’re even better. I don’t know how to describe it. Because I can’t see the future, not like how Bill can. At least I don’t think so. Ours are just sharper like my instincts have become something of a sixth sense? Ask Fids about it. I spent Easter with his family and drove over early in the morning. But when I got there, I didn’t want to park my car on the street or in his driveway. Had a funny feeling. Tried ignoring it, but then it just turned into a really bad feeling. So, I moved it, parking a couple of streets over, and even talked him into putting his car away in the garage.”

Stan laughs a little about it now. “I had no good reason to insist as much as I did, other than just a feeling. Later that afternoon while we were eating the fire hydrant outside their house got hit by a car. Flooded a good portion of the street and the car ended up right in the empty driveway. Luckily only the grass got messed up, but that’s proof enough that something is different. And whatever Bill showed me has to be the cause. Suppose it could be anything Bill’s done to my head, but that feels like the answer.”

“Now, I don’t imagine you’ll still have that, whatever it is. But, I kinda just wanted to tell someone about it anyway. About what he showed us. And maybe air out some of the guilt I feel. Because I’ve thought about giving in more times than I can count these last few days.” There's a long beat of silence after that where Stan won’t look at the camera. “It wouldn’t take much. Just pull up a real memory about the plan or just handcuff Fids upstairs somewhere when I open the portal. That would be that. I could stay like this, just somewhere else. And it makes me feel awful for considering it every time.” Stan glances at the camera still looking guilty but also more exhausted compared to earlier.

“I won’t. Obviously, because if you’re watching this, I kept all my promises. But I get it. I really get why you fell for it, Ford. Because he’s good at what he does. He tempts you with everything you could ever want and makes it a million times better beyond what you could dream up yourself. For me, that’s the ultimate adventure with someone who loves me. And I know he’s full of crap, I do. But if he’s making me feel this way? Second guessing myself even when I know better? You never even stood a chance. Not even close. Hell, if that accident hadn’t happened with Fids, you probably would have destroyed the world and been oblivious the whole time.”

For several minutes Stan just falls quiet, grabbing a thing of tissues off the bedside table to clean up some of the tears he’d let collect but not fall in his eyes, and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself again. “Fids doesn’t get it, and I make this all look so easy in his eyes. But I recorded that and shared those feelings because I hope he can forgive you. It sounds like you two used to be as close as us as kids before the accident. And maybe if you show him this part of the tape, he’ll see that it's not so easy to resist temptation. Maybe. So, if you feel it's appropriate, you can bring him in and show him. But other me has to be present. You know, this tape has some secrets after all.” Another little more genuine smile crosses his face.

“And if by some stroke of luck, we do still have this weird other sense? That would be fucking awesome. It seems to only work on bad things.” He laughs a little. “It's how I was able to hide what I was doing every time Bill popped by for a visit. I’d get this awful sense of dread so I’d know to hide my memory journal, the tape I was working on, just my memories. My thoughts. He didn’t know it, but he gave me the ultimate Bill radar and it helped cause his downfall.”  

On screen Stan uses his crutch to get up, walking over to pick up the camera and hold it in front of himself. “Ford, why don’t you figure out something mostly harmless? Like maybe while I’m sleeping go start a fire in the kitchen and see if I come downstairs before you need the fire extinguisher.” Now Stan’s smile is back at full force on screen. “And me? Just do your best. I know you’ll be different. And this just might be the newest most difficult thing we’ve ever done. If I never come back, that’s okay. You’ve got a family that does care about you. That’s all I ever wanted, and you get to have that now that Ford’s back. Enjoy our new life.” He brings up a hand to do a little wave and then the camera cuts back to static.

It takes a second for Stanley to hit pause and he just looks at the screen for a while trying to process everything. His headache is worse again but only half as bad as it gets when he remembers something. And he’s feeling that guilt Stan was talking about in his chest too, heavy like a weight pulling on his heart.

Old him is still around, pitching in on emotions, thoughts, and words but just isn’t present. It never occurred to him not to want whoever he was back. If that Stan comes back, does he stop existing? Probably, because that just makes sense. But he doesn’t want that either.

Too bad he doesn’t get a choice. It’ll either happen or it won’t.

What about these memories? The ones he’s making now, will those disappear if his mind ever clicks enough pieces together to get the correct picture?

Ford is sat stunned in his chair again. These tapes tend to do that, leaving him shocked with his mouth hanging open.

How many times, exactly, did Stan think about giving up? Giving in?

Too many to count, probably. Because he did too, on the other side of the portal. Even down in the basement when everything was falling apart. Bill just kept offering it to him, over and over. Constantly willing to let him jump ship from morality and let go. But he’d resisted and told him no all three times he openly asked and the million times in between because he let himself hope maybe they could get here.

This world is better than how he pictured things being if he ever got out. If Stan did get him home and away from Bill. It’s comforting to know he wasn’t the only one who had to fight with themselves so much just to keep holding out. Even if he will still always feel guilty about it, right now it feels okay.

There’s just still so much to think about. Stan managed to cram so much information and emotion into just two hours of footage that it's impressive. Maybe instead of an actor, he should be a screenplay writer. Finally, he looks over at Stan to see how he’s taking everything. And he looks guilty, in pain even. But not bad enough to be covering his face.

Rather than overthinking it he just gets up out of his chair and goes over to stand in the way of the TV. “You look like you could use a hug.” So, he offers and is relieved when Stan just gets up and returns it easily.

When was the last time they’d hugged before all this? Not a side hug with Stan throwing an arm around him, like at the science fair, but a real hug? Probably since they were closer to fifteen. But even his excellent memory can’t recall the exact time. It could be even longer than that, but that age feels about right. That was around the time he started putting distance between them.

But things won’t be like that anymore. Now they’ll be so much better and they can hug anytime they want. Yeah, there are still some feelings he has to keep buried, but maybe he’s strong enough to do that and be brothers again.

The hug is nice and slowly, through several minutes, the guilt other him must have been feeling fades and gets replaced by fondness. It seems there is little a hug from Ford can’t fix and he’ll have to remember that for the next time he remembers something bad. He’s biased, because of old him, but he’s starting to like Ford. He’s alright now even if he did some pretty shitty thing in the past. Some really stupid things.

“Heh, how about we start those reels now that we’ve gotten all the heavy stuff out of the way, huh?” Stan suggests finally pulling back a step after what was probably several minutes.

Stan looks better now, more collected, and it makes his smile wider. “Great, you’re going to love these.” He starts by turning off the TV and pulling the sheet across before turning off the lights and plugging in the projector.  

Stan just watches him after sitting down, smiling the whole time.

Chapter 33: Majority Draw

Notes:

WHEN I TELL YOU THIS CHAPTER GOT AWAY FROM ME!? WOOPS?

Trigger warning for mention of Child abuse/Just straight-up child abuse.

All of the memories more or less blended together, but the backdrop was always the same. The endless hot white beach. The smell of fast food from down on the boardwalk and the sounds of seagulls filled his other senses. It was only what his body was doing that changed from scene to scene along with the varying time of day.

And Ford too, but he was always around.

Sometimes they were on their swing set, kicking and pumping their legs as hard and as high as they could go.

“I bet I can jump farther than you!”

“Stanley, you’ll break something!”

And Ford had been right in that one, because Ford was often right about the reckless things he did. A broken arm there, a bruise here, and lots and lots of splinters. Working on an old wooden boat meant that was inevitable.

It was wonderful.

He understood what past him had meant by it always feeling like summer. Even when it was cold out, the rare times they got snow, the beach always looked the same. It was sort of like an optical illusion that despite the real weather the white sand and water made it irrelevant. Even on the coldest days, they’d still find themselves on the beach together.

It had to be watching the tapes before bed that gave him these dreams. They’d spent all evening watching them together. Everyone ate dinner in his bedroom just so they wouldn’t have to stop watching. It had been nice, even if he and Ford had then moved to the floor so their parents didn’t have to. They were too old for that.

Maybe he couldn’t remember most things like his own father, the last ten years, or even Bill but he remembered their dream and the joy associated with their countless adventures. And that was more than he could have ever hoped for.

Waking up in the bedroom was a slow process, the image of the beach fading until he was looking at a black wall. His eyelids.

It made him throw an arm over his face with a groan. He wanted that dream, those memories, to come back. They were still there, not gone, but it had been nice. The pleasant dreams balanced out the burn memory from the day before.

He still didn’t get why Stanley, himself, had put so much on the line over Ford though. Yeah, it was fun, as childhoods usually are. But what he saw still didn’t feel like enough for such extreme measures. It had to be a specific memory, something that old him hadn’t mentioned. Or maybe it was in a letter he hadn’t read yet.

Finally opening his eyes to the room, he checked his watch first, noticing it was mid-morning. The second thing he noticed was that Ford’s cot over in the corner was empty with the bed neatly made. That made him laugh, shaking his head as he sat up. Only Ford would make up a cot like this was a hotel or something.

Slowly, he was feeling less like a ghost. Having more memories made him feel a little closer to solid. So, he was less sure of himself this time as he got up for the second time in his body. The first thing was a shower since he hadn’t had one since before Ford came home. He didn’t smell too bad, spending most of his time sitting around watching films and tapes. But his hair was greasy and sticking to the back of his neck.

Showering was difficult. Half of him wanted to look at the rest of his scars while the other half knew it would be safer if he didn’t. The only ones he looked at, despite how much he tried, were the two on his shoulders.

It was a damn miracle that nothing happened. Not thinking about it or asking any questions might have been why? Before he’d been quizzical about the burn which had then come back to bite him. As long as he didn’t think about it too much it seemed fine.

After showering he couldn’t help but be curious about what Ford was up to. Dressed and ready for the day he went over to the top of the stairs and listened to the house for clues. What did mad scientists get up to during their free time? The only thing he could hear was the distant sound of the TV in the living room and the sound of dishes in the kitchen. Maybe he was in the basement?

Heading down the stairs he figured he’d check the kitchen first, just get it over with. It didn’t seem likely he’d be forced to relive the same awful memory twice. Turning and pausing in the doorway made his mouth fall open in surprise.

Admittedly he only caught a glimpse of the kitchen yesterday before turning away, but this was not what it looked like. He hadn’t forgotten, right? Maybe he could have talked himself into thinking he was wrong if it wasn’t obvious that a project was going on.

Half of the cabinets, the upper ones, were missing from the wall. The bottom ones were stained a different color, matching the exposed beams in the room and creating a stark contrast to the wallpaper.

And then there was the stove. Which was missing. The spot there was empty and what he thought had been the sound of dishes was Ford putting stuff back in the lower cabinets from the table and several boxes strewn about the room. The place was a mess compared to the tour he’d just watched yesterday.

“Oh! You're awake!” Ford visibly jumped seeing him standing in the doorway and almost dropped the mixing bowls he was carrying. “Mom made pancakes earlier before we removed the stove, your plate is over in the microwave. Here, let me set the toaster back up so you can have toast with it.” The mixing bowls ended up on the edge of the counter while Ford went back to one of the boxes to look for the toaster, supposedly.

What had happened? Did Ford hate the way he’d organized so much that he thought it better to throw the whole room away? He could have slapped himself for how stupid that thought was. But that wouldn’t leave him with any more answers to what was going on. “Uh, thanks?” Moving out of the doorway he went over to the mixing bowls to put them away in the cabinet he remembered from yesterday. “Sorry if I’m being dense, but why does it look like a tornado came through and tore apart the kitchen?” He crossed his arms looking over at Ford while waiting for an answer.

Despite waking up annoyingly early in the morning to start this project with Fiddleford things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan. Removing the cabinets had been easy enough, but the process of sanding and refinishing them was much harder than expected. It was annoying and tedious work going over every inch with the sandpaper.

It was pure luck that Fids knew how to remount them to the wall without damaging the wallpaper either. They’d managed to finish the bottom half with some help from Dad. He didn’t understand why they were doing this but he also didn’t ask. Just helped them with it so they could at least finish half of it before Stan woke up.

Still, he hoped they’d have some more time. Maybe Stan would get lost in his letters or something and be distracted for a few hours upstairs past waking up. But luck wasn’t on their side, so now he had ruined the surprise right in the middle. All well, no sense trying to hide it now. “Ah, I decided it might be a good idea to change the scenery in here.” A good reason for that escapes him.

Having more time this morning was what he needed to come up with that part. “The new stove will be here sometime in the next half an hour; do you remember seeing the dolly in the medium storage room yesterday? We’ll need it and the board next to it to get it onto the porch. Would you go grab it and set them in the hall?”  

Oh. Ford was trying to change things because of that memory. It left him just staring at his brother like he was dumb while the toaster was brought over and plugged back in by the coffee maker. On one hand that was very nice of him but on the other this seemed a bit extreme. Wasn’t it? Maybe this was how the two brothers worked? When they loved each other, it was just to an extreme extent?

It had to be. That was the best explanation for why Ford was doing this and why his old self had put himself through so much.

Nothing flared in his chest to suggest he was wrong or that he was right. Very helpful, me.

“Sure, I can do that.” But first, he went over to the microwave to start heating up his breakfast. His fingers hovered over the start button after entering a minute and a half.

Instead, he clicked the open button to double-check the interior, spinning around the plate and then staring at it with the door open. On the back of the plate was a fork set below the pancakes out of sight. Why on Earth did Ford put that there? He just took it out, setting it on top of the device before hitting start and turning around to leave the room.

Except Ford had stopped standing near the boxes looking at him, at the fork, and back to him.

Oh hell. No.

That wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t.

Yeah, okay, he’d checked the microwave. But anyone might do that when they hadn’t seen the actual food they were heating up. Plus, on second thought, “You forgot the cover.” He turned back, picked it up, and opened the door to cover the food despite it having already been in there for ten seconds.

That had to be it. The food was missing the cover, and might have made a mess, which would explain why he’d checked without thinking about it. He liked things clean, so that was it. Nothing more. “Stop looking at me like that. I don’t have my weird instincts or whatever. I’m just a neat freak, apparently.”

Other Stan seemed to like the new instincts. This test proved that he didn’t. Anything to do with Bill made him anxious.

It wasn’t a very high-risk test to begin with. He could have darted over and stopped it before destroying the microwave. There would have been a few crackles, but no fire. Yet, Stan had noticed anyway despite the old microwave having a tinted front that made seeing the inside more challenging.

Maybe he just wanted to prove that Stan did keep something from Bill because that would mean he might get all that science back too. Too bad Stan provided a very good explanation for why the test was wrong. The house was immaculate. In the last three months, Stan had done more cleaning than he’d ever done back in Jersey. They shared that common trait now. So yeah, maybe his weird curtain thoughts or whatever secretly told him to cover it, prompting him to check without knowing what for.

Probably not some secret sixth sense. Just Stan peaking through again.

His shoulders slumped a little and he shook his head. “Hmm, I’ll have to try something else then.” It came out in a grumble, disappointed, and went back to grabbing something out of the box to put back in the cabinet. Something completely random that his brother wouldn’t see coming for any reason. Hmm.  

“It was a good try anyway.” Stan patted Ford’s shoulder before heading out of the room to go get the dolly and the board that would make the stairs outside into a ramp for whoever was bringing them a new stove.

With the kitchen decimated, there weren’t a lot of places to sit and eat the pancakes when he came back. The dining table was covered in dishes and so were the chairs and some of the floor. He settled on cutting up the pancakes and then standing while he ate without making toast to go with them. Orange juice from the fridge made a better pairing so he stood out of the way near the corner cabinet Ford had already finished putting stuff away in.

The bottom cabinets held significantly less than the top ones since he didn’t cook. There was one of each different-sized pot, a couple of baking sheets and two tins, and some mixing bowls too, but that was about it for dishes. There was a spare coffee pot still in the box, a rice cooker, a crock pot, and a blender to put in the other cabinet but then the box was empty.

“Oh, by the way, how did you sleep? I didn’t hear you having any nightmares, but did you have any dreams at all?” Ford finally asked, layering the two empty boxes he’d made and shoving them aside out of the walkway for now before turning back to look at Stan where he’d decided to stand in the corner. Weird. He could have gone into the living room or maybe out on the porch. Fids and Dad were still sanding outside but they should have been far enough out in the yard not to get any on Stan’s food.

He finished chewing while having to control his grin tell he swallowed, “No nightmares, just a whole bunch of memories. I’m pretty sure I remembered every single time we played and hung out on that beach. I guess watching those films before bed might have opened up some doors or something without me realizing it?” He guessed, not knowing. It could be a person-by-person thing, but then he’d have gotten a lot more memories. Like them in school, at home, and all the bad ones instead of just some.

“Wait, so you’re telling me all night was basically like a slideshow of us on the beach? Are they all good memories or bad ones too?” Ford pulled a notepad out of his coat pocket with a pen, just like the one Fiddleford had. It made him snort before taking a sip from his cup.

“Good and bad. I remember the night before the science fair, or half of it. The part where we talked on the swings. But after that, the memory changed again before I could see the rest. All of the memories faded off when we went to leave the beach, usually starting when we arrived but sometimes in the middle.” While Ford scribbles away he takes the chance to eat another bite before continuing. “Safe to say I remember our dream at least. It's a good one, even if it still doesn’t seem to ring correctly. Like I’m still missing too much for it to mean the same or something?”

That makes him look up from his paper and stops in the middle of the word he’s on, frowning to himself. “Explain that further. What do you mean it doesn’t ‘ring correctly’ to you.” Inside Ford is trying not to panic.

He takes a long minute to think about it, eating some more in the meantime even if Ford just stares at him the whole time. “Look, it's not that I don’t feel the same thinking about it. It still makes my chest ache and get fuzzy. I just…” He waves the hand with the fork like that’ll make things clear. “I don’t feel that way. In some ways, I still have feelings and emotions and can make decisions, separate from the rest of me. The part that isn’t here. And whatever makes me swoon for it hasn’t been recalled yet or something. So, it’s a cool idea, and I’m not opposed or anything, but it just doesn’t feel the same to me, the part that’s here and talking with you. Even if it does for old me.”

In general, the idea that there are currently somehow two people inside Stan’s head, as it sounds like, is confusing. That’s not the intention of the memory gun or is supposed to be one of its side effects. But, in this case, it makes him feel relieved. It's not that Stan doesn’t want it anymore, just whatever drove him to hold onto it all these years is still missing.

Weird though, because if he remembers that weekend they found the boat, shouldn’t that be it?

Maybe not. That was just the start. Holding onto a dream takes effort and thought over the years which Stanley is still missing a lot of. He picks up writing again and nods, his shoulders relaxing now that he understands. “Alright, thank you for further clarification. We’ll get there, eventually. You’re already doing far better than expected for two days out. Two people recognized and at least a couple hundred similarly themed memories. Most of them whole, if my memory is to be trusted.”

At least the sink isn’t destroyed like the rest of the kitchen, letting him wash the cup and plate while Ford flips the page and continues writing. It should probably bother him being a science experiment, right? But it just doesn’t. It just makes him chuckle seeing Ford’s glasses falling down his nose because of how intently he’s looking at the paper.

His brother is weird.

“Today we’re going to try and get you to remember someone else. Dad. Do you think you’d be okay with that? There are a couple of options for what you two could do. We set up a small gym in the empty storage room here on the first floor with a punching bag. He could try and teach you how to box again if you want? Or you two could go driving and have him teach you that again? However, given how wrapped up in memories you get I’m not sure that’s the safest idea until after you watch some of those tapes on your car.” During the whole rant, he only glances up from his paper once.

Why does it have to be Dad? Wouldn’t remembering Fiddleford be easier? They’re good friends and there isn’t any tension around him. Still not familiar, but it's nice anyway. He’s a good guy and it makes sense their friends.

Dad however is just about the opposite. It’s like there’s an underlying sense of fear and anxiety just being around the guy even if he’s been polite. With Fiddleford and Ford working on this project that explains why it has to be Dad. Damn. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried so hard to remember Mom yesterday. His feelings must show on his face somehow because Ford sighs.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But Fids seems to think remembering more people will bring back more memories. And after the dreams you had last night, I can’t help but agree. And,” He glances around the kitchen and then back, “You haven’t known Fids as long either, giving you fewer memories to work with. It’s only been a couple of months since you met. Dad should be easier to remember even if less enjoyable.”

Well, when Ford puts it that way it doesn’t sound like he has much of a choice then, does he?

“Fine, fine. Sounds like I don’t have many options. Not like I could cook with Mom in the kitchen like this anyway.” He frowns at that, looking around, and then shaking his head like he’s wondering who said that. Just him.

Ford frowns too, pulling out the notebook. “Dad’s outside on the lawn helping with the cabinets.” He turns and walks while he writes and Stan follows reluctantly. It feels like he’s walking to be executed or something and that says a lot about the memories he can’t recall. What type of father is he if being forced to spend time with him results in those feelings?

Out on the lawn, the mess of what everyone’s been doing all morning is clear. Sawdust in the grass, the stove is on a piece of cardboard under a sheet near the driveway, and they’ve gone through a good pile of sandpaper while they work that ended up in a shopping bag being used as a garbage near them where they work. Fiddleford is sanding while over on a different part of the lawn, and Filbrick is staining a cabinet with some finish and a paintbrush.

Ford’s help ends leading him onto the porch and he heads over towards Fiddleford with his notepad out, probably to fill him in on his notes. That just leaves him alone to go talk to Dad. Ugh. His brother sucks.

It takes effort to make himself walk down the stairs and over to that part of the yard, dragging his feet the whole way. Now that feels familiar.

When he gets there, he just stands around, watching him paint the finish on for a minute. Maybe Dad is ignoring him, or just waiting for him to break the silence. He still can’t get much of a read on this guy, unlike everyone else. Could that be what’s so unsettling? Is his dad a loner? Hard to read for him? He is now at least.

“So…. Ford says you guys set up a punching bag? Sounds like I’ve done a lot of fighting before, and you’re the one who got me started?” He keeps his hands still at his side even if he wants to tuck them in his pockets or maybe mess with his watch. That’s something old him would do. He did it in both tapes at some point. Hard to resist, but he does.

So much for starting over.

Stan had mentioned being willing to try again in that first tape but now that he’s awake? It’s like nothings changed. He’s still uneasy and abrasive towards him. Not that he can blame him much. They’ve never gotten along. The only time they’ve ever been honest with each other without things getting physical was that phone call. Which of course, Stanley doesn’t recall.

Still, he’ll try. Because what other choice does he have? Besides, he’s too old to be getting into fistfights with his son anymore. He’s being physically forced into retiring that method. Not that Stan needs physical discipline anymore what with him being a grown adult and closer to thirty then a teenager now. All and all Stan didn’t turn out bad, especially given everything he’s gone through. Filbrick wanted to raise him to be tough, but even he knows he overshot the mark by a lot. He’s too tough and combined with his stubbornness it almost destroyed the world. Part of that is his fault.

There should have been doubts, enough for Stan to stop at some point and give up. He didn’t raise quitters but maybe he should have if it meant that stuff in the basement would have never happened. Fiddleford being unable to hold the gun steady makes more sense now that he can step back and look at what that had done to his son. He was different now, at least in his relationships with others. A ghost walking around and talking with them but not all there, not understanding the same way.

All this passes through his mind while he finishes the cabinet door and opens it to help it dry faster. He’s been quiet too long, longer than is normal for even him, and Stan shifting his feet makes that clear. Talk. “That’s right. Put you and Ford in boxing lessons as soon as we could afford it. Still can’t believe you two made us waste the money for you to get two every time.” Inwardly he curses to himself. That is not very nice. True and a thought he’s had, but sometimes those should stay inside and not come out his mouth.

How is he supposed to talk with this guy? He’s impossible, mean, and negative. For a second, he thinks about saying fuck it. Why does he need to remember this guy anyway? It doesn’t seem worth it. There can’t be any good memories here worth it anyway. Just a lot of bad ones and a broken relationship that this guy doesn’t even seem to care about. A second chance, like everyone else, and all he does is-

“I- That was unnecessary.” Filbrick sets the brush aside on top of the can of open finish and carefully gets up so he’s standing, brushing his hands off by rubbing them together. “Yes, you’ve done a lot of fighting, more than most boxers do. Explains why you have a lot of scars on your knuckles. I can only imagine the type of stories you’d have if you could remember.” He doesn’t look at Stan, instead down at the cabinet, as he continues. “If you ever do, I’d like to hear about the ones where you won.”

Old Stan probably had a better poker face than him. The kind where Ford wouldn’t have noticed his displeasure in the kitchen and his surprise wouldn’t have been so clear now. Good thing Dad isn’t looking so he’s able to change how his face looks quickly. Okay, if this guy is going to try then he’ll try too. That’s what Stan wanted, isn’t it? Second chances for everyone.

“Well, you're probably right.” He glances behind Filbrick over at Ford and Fiddleford. Them both openly watching is not helping his nerves. “I know you're busy helping Ford with his kitchen, but would you maybe want to give me a lesson, I guess?” The words feel more awkward coming out of his mouth than stuff already does like the body isn’t his again, or at least his mouth isn’t.

And not in the usual way where he says stuff someone else came up with.

“Of course, that’s why I found the punching bag to begin with. At least until you know your own strength again, I’m not going to be sparing with you.” Filbrick turns around to face Fids and Ford who both pretend to be looking down at the notebooks they have out as soon as he starts to turn. “Ford, you going to be able to finish this cabinet so it’s even? I’m going inside with Stan.”

For the first time since waking up, he wants to hit Ford when he looks up, grins, and nods. “Of course, I’ll just finish up sharing notes and be right over there. Go on ahead.” Oh good, he can feel negative emotions for his brother. He’d been worried there that old Stan wasn’t capable of it. But no, he can. Just barely.

Filbrick nods and then starts to head inside, leaving him little choice but to follow. He shoots Ford a glare across the yard right up until it makes him flinch at which point Stan just looks down at his shoes instead.

It takes effort to remember that Stan’s glare isn’t genuine. He’s just unhappy about hanging out with Dad, which is an understandable reaction for him. They’ve never had a good relationship. Stanley was the problem child and Filbrick favored him instead. It painted a target for disappointment on Stan’s back. Maybe that’s what has Stan so upset, worried that’s going to happen again. Without his memories and being able to discuss it with Dad why would he think otherwise?

Too bad Stanley didn’t see how proud Dad looked hearing about him scamming Bill out of a lottery jackpot. Deep down, hidden away, he’s proud of Stanley for what he did. Hopefully, he’ll say it, because Stan needs to hear it if they’re ever going to be on good terms.

Moms in the living room watching TV when they walk past, working on something in her lap out of view. She must knit or cross stitch. Are their parents that old? Only grandmas do those things, right? Well. They do have one grandson, so technically...

Filbrick leads them to the room they made into a small gym. It's just a small end table which is holding the tape and boxing gloves, and the hung punching bag. But it’ll do. Later when Stan remembers or gets some skill back, he can add to it himself. Get a heavier bag, maybe add some weights? Whatever he wants. He just turns on the lights and then goes to grab the tape out of the drawer.

If only just looking at the punching bag brought back some sort of memory, then they wouldn’t have to do this. But it doesn’t. It's just a room with a bunch of more unfamiliar stuff.

“Come here, I’ll help you wrap your wrists and hands this time. That’s how you keep from hurting your hands. It secures all your moveable bones and loose joints, absorbing the shock with your whole hand rather than just the impact point.” He waits, nervous himself, until Stan offers one hand out to him while standing a full arm's length away. It makes him sigh quietly to himself before stepping forward and starting the process.

Now this is the most he’s seen Dad talk. He’s explaining all the different muscles, joints, and bones in his hand while he wraps the tape tight. But he goes slow enough that he can listen without feeling too lost. Still completely unfamiliar, but not falling behind. Is it supposed to hurt some having your hand wrapped? Probably, it's closer to having gloves on than bare fists. He doesn’t ask because it seems like a stupid question. It should be obvious since he used to be good at this.

Two lessons every time? Does that mean he willingly did Ford’s lessons? God Stan, why?

“Here, now why don’t you try the other hand? I’ll correct you as we go, but you should learn how to do it yourself.” He offers Stan the roll of tape, waiting for him to take it.

How is he supposed to tape his hand with the other wrapped up so tight? Whatever, just get it over with. He takes it and tries to copy exactly what Filbrick did on his first hand, taking his time and occasionally stopping to look at how the first one was done. But Dad doesn’t say anything until taking the tape back, so he must have done it right?

“Good. It’ll do,” the tape goes back in the drawer and Filbrick picks up the boxing gloves off the table, putting them on with one hand and motioning Stan over towards the bag with the other.

Even a compliment, just like the sort of apology outside, can’t be stand-alone. It has to come with a kinda insult or something. Why? Who talks like this? Still, he follows him over to the bag without saying anything himself.

The next twenty minutes consist of Dad showing him how to hold his hands, his arms, and his posture when hitting the bag. Showing different styles; In-Fighter, Out-Boxer, Slugger, and Boxer-Puncher. And the different types of punches too; Jab, hook, uppercut, and slip. Block and duck too, though you don’t need those up against a bag. Filbrick puts his own hands up to show the form for them and has Stan copy, hitting his hands wearing the gloves as a test of sorts.

It's not done very hard, just intending to test the hold of his block a little. But that’s enough.

The memory starts in an alley between two buildings and it is dark outside.

That same feeling of anxiety and panic is settled in his chest and his eyes dart around while walking through the place. It's so dark in the middle that you can’t see anything this far away from the street lights. He bumps into a dumpster, hurting his arm and making a loud bang in the dark. More panic flares and he has the feeling of being watched.

Now he’s running and he can’t even tell how old he is because of how dark it is. What is he running from, or who is he running from? When he gets to the other side he finds out, ending up slammed against a wall ten feet from the other end where the next street is with a hand wrapped around his throat. “Think boy, think! Did you even look where you were going? You didn’t even pull your knife out, this is Jersey! Stupidity like that gets people killed!”

It's still dark, casting long shadows across Dad’s face. He’s not lifted off the ground, not being choked fully but taking in air still hurts and makes him wheeze. “I’m sorry, Dad I- “

He gets a hard kick to the stomach with a knee and now he really can’t breathe because what little wind he had was knocked out of him. It makes his head spin but right before he’s about to pass out the hand from his throat drops.

His feet are much smaller than Dad’s. He’s just a kid.

He can’t be much older than twelve or eleven here and his dad has him running drills walking home? No wonder he wants nothing to do with the guy, he’s-

The next memory isn’t any better.

They blend right into each other with him waking up on their living room floor. The same one where they celebrated Hanukah. He’s got a broken nose, his ribs hurt, and his ankle might be sprained.

Now he’s even smaller, curled in on himself.

Eight or nine here? And just like in the alley, Dad is standing over him, yelling about something. But he can’t make it out over his sobs. These feel worse than the memories of being burned with Bill in their own way.

This was his dad, flesh and blood, doing this to him.

Yeah, okay, maybe the first memory was kinda a good lesson? Still fucked up, but at least he knew the reason he was getting hit then. All he can hear now is general screaming without an explanation. “I’ll give you something to cry about! You’re getting too old to go crying to your mother at this point. It's time for you to start growing up! Get ahold of yourself!”

Fuck this guy.

Why had he ever thought about giving him a second chance in the first place? These were not worth remembering. This guy was not worth a second of his time. Anyone who beats a damn child is the absolute scum of the earth and deserves to have the life choked out of him. Hopefully, hell is real, or whatever Jewish people believe in as the bad place. Because this guy deserves it. He’s probably a fucking hypocrite too-

His head hurts, a lot, like he’s been struck again. But Filbrick is ranting and pacing in front of him while Stan tries to stop crying, covering his face like he’s worried about getting kicked there most of all and-

When he opens his eyes, the room is in pure chaos.

It’s not just him and Dad anymore. Everyone is in here.

Fiddleford is standing in the doorway mouth open, gaze on the floor nearby.

Mom isn’t much further inside, her hand covering her mouth in horror and she’s crying too.

When his eyes land on the other two people, he gets why.

Ford is currently doing chest compressions on Dad who is lying on his back eyes closed and limp.

What the fuck happened while he was out?

He’s slumped in the corner where he must have been hit on the head.

Did he do this?

But he doesn’t remember choking Dad, he was just in the middle of a memory and now this is happening and-

He forces himself up and onto his feet, moving over towards Ford. “Move out of the fucking way. You’re doing it wrong.” He shoves Ford off hard so that his back bends at a painful-looking angle while on his knees. Then Stanley drops down onto his knees on the opposite side of Dad and settles his hands in the right spot before starting to press.

His hands are still taped, adding support to the pressure, and he feels sure. Like he’s done this before. Maybe he has but can’t remember.
“Come on, don’t be a fucking pussy! It’s just a little choking! Get up you sorry son of a bitch! You sorry excuse for a father! Good for nothing waste of space!”

His chest is tight with too many emotions for him to identify right now. More than he’s felt in any one moment since waking up, but he keeps going.

Compressions, compression, compression, compression, breath. Over and over.

He pushes harder, not caring if it causes bruises. Ford doesn’t stop him but he can hear Mom crying in the background and Fiddleford seems to be talking to someone.

Did he go get the phone, is he calling for an ambulance?

Did he kill his own father?

There comes a crack below his hands but he continues. He doesn’t remember CPR, but at some point, he did. And enough of his real self is shining through right now, not letting this happen.

Won’t let this happen. It’s funny how that works.

But it does.

He stops as soon as he feels Filbrick take in a nice deep breath under his hands and yanks his hands off of him immediately. “There, you're welcome! Fuck you!” He kicks Dad on the leg on the way out, pushing his way out of the room. Past mom, past Fiddleford-

He grabs the phone out of his hand and throws it at the wall in the hallway before storming out. Not sure where he’s going. But he has to go, just go. Somewhere.

The last three minutes have easily been some of the scariest in his life. Including his time on the other side of the portal. Him being tortured? Kinda desensitized to it. Stan dying? Pretty bad, world-ending, but seen it before.

Dad dying? That’s something he’s never even thought of before. It has never in his whole life crossed his mind as something that could happen. But then mom came out onto the porch, screaming about stopping Stanley and when they’d all run back inside Filbrick had been limp under Stan’s hand pressed against the wall.

And his grip had been strong, too much for Mom to pry off. She’d tried, wasting precious time, but hadn’t been able to. It took Ford hitting him wearing one of the gloves to get him to finally let go.

How long had Stan been choking him like that? Damn it. They never should have left the two of them completely alone. It was just asking for trouble. Stan could be dangerous when he needed to be and now, they were learning a lesson.

However, something amazing happens all in the same terrifying moment. Yeah, Dad’s dead. But then Stan wakes up. He gets up and takes over, yelling and screaming and crying too like he feels bad or remembered something.

Of course he did, that’s how Dad ended up against the wall in the first place! Why didn’t Dad fight back? He was wearing the gloves for fucks sake! Stan was killing him and he just let him? It didn’t make sense.

Now the air is incredibly quiet in the moments after, other than Mom’s sobs.

Fids is gone from the doorway, probably gone after Stan, Fucking moron.

Ford doesn’t want to get up, leaving Mom and Dad alone. But what if Stan hurts Fiddleford too?

So, he gets up, still wearing one of the gloves, and runs off into the house. Except it is silent. No footsteps, no creaking wood. He doesn’t even hear a door slamming somewhere or anything.

Where did they go?

He runs through the hallway to the entryway and stops seeing Fids in the living room using the wireless home phone stationed there. Something he’d picked up the same day as the TV. Setting it up had kept Ford busy while Stanley slept.

Okay, that’s Fids. Where did Stan go?

He stops and listens again, straining his ears, but all he can hear is Fiddleford talking on the phone. Probably to a different 911 operator saying how Dad stopped choking. That’s the lie being spun to keep Stan from ending up in jail. It’s a damn good thing he woke up, otherwise, the bruises wouldn’t have been easy to explain away from around his neck.

“God damn it! Where is he!” He yells, going out onto the porch. There’s no sign of him in the yard either. He goes down the steps, starting to walk around the house when he hears the slam of a car door. Turning, Stanley is getting in the Drivers seat of his car. Shit.

The first thing he does getting inside the red car is lock the fucking doors. The second thing is putting the key in the ignition and starting it. But that’s where all this energy, all the strength runs out of him and he loses it. Whatever it was getting Dad back. Getting out of that room, out of that house.

He makes it to his getaway ride but can’t make himself put it in drive. His hands slam down on the horn, making it blare over and over while he hits it. He half expects the airbag to go off, but it doesn’t. It just makes a lot of loud noise.

Then, with his hands resting on the wheel, he breaks down.

Sure, he’s been crying this whole time. Running a hand over his face confirms that. But the little bit of composer left evaporates and he has to feel everything.

The guilt, the satisfaction, the pain, the resentment, the anger. And there is a lot of anger. But the joy, the sadness, and the despair too.

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. Why did he get such a crappy Dad?!

Why did he get to be the one who got beaten? It was never fucking Ford!

Momentarily he thinks about punching the glass over that memory.

He’s shaking from all of it and he can’t even hear whatever Ford is yelling from the other side of the glass. Great. Now he’s here.

He should just put the damn car in drive and go until he runs out of gas.

Hell, he’s got his wallet. That’s a lot of gas money.

Everything he needs is right here, always has been. He can just pack up what little he has and go. Just like always.

So much for second chances.

“Stanley? I need you to open this door. Unlock the car. We need to talk. You’re not yourself right now. Please, just open the door. I’m not mad, I know you didn’t mean to do that. Turn the car off, please. Just toss the keys in the back seat at least, please!”

Stan looks a split mix between wanting to murder someone and killing himself right now which is an expression of angst and rage he hasn’t seen Stan wear before.

He looks like he’s about to do something really stupid. Being in a car when that happens is just as bad as Dad almost dying. He can’t do this. He can’t watch Stan hurt himself like this.

This is reality and if Stan gets himself killed that’s it, game over.

He shouldn’t have pushed him into boxing with Dad. It was a mistake, another one on his long list and guilt clouds his chest. Things had been going so well for a second.

“Stan, open the car.” There is a hand on Ford’s shoulder and he turns around at the familiar voice. Except it's gravely and a little hoarse now from being choked. “Go back inside Ford.”

“But- “

“Now! Go back inside with your mother right now or I swear to God, I’ll throw you over my knee!” That makes Ford flinch and not even his worry for Stanley can prevent him from backing away a little. “NOW!” Filbrick starts toward Ford like he’ll keep good on his threat and that’s all it takes to make Ford move back towards the porch.

Not inside, because he can’t do that. He can’t leave Stan completely.

What is Dad going to do?

He’ll try and stop him if he hurts Stan. Ford is still wearing the glove.

Silence falls on the yard other than the still audible sound of Stan crying in his car and the purr of the engine running. For a long while, that’s all you can hear other than the distant sounds of birds.

Stan doesn’t put the car in drive and take off, he doesn’t do much of anything other than lean over the steering wheel and sob. This goes on for a long time, so long that he cries himself out and is just left shaking looking down at his lap inside the car. Only then does Filbrick finally speak again, lightly taping on the glass.

“Stanley, please open the door. I’m not going to hurt you; I’m not going to hit you. I didn’t in the gym, I’m not going to know. Please, let's talk.” His voice is calm with a soft undertone of worry with the volume just loud enough to be heard through the closed window.

He doesn’t know what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak. Before he liked to think he knew himself. Had a good sense of who he was, what he’d say, how he’d react. But none of that applies to Filbrick. It turns him into a loose cannon and he doesn’t want to kill anyone.

Even with everything he remembers, he won’t let himself do that.

And he’s scared too, scared Dad’s going to climb in here and beat him again like in his memories. Has that happened in this car? Or did he come into possession of it after leaving home?

“Stanley, at least turn off the car. You’re scaring your mother. Do you even remember how to drive?”

The mention of Mom makes him look up and around, looking for her. After a minute of looking, he can see her, just barely, in the kitchen window with Fiddleford mostly hidden by a curtain.

No. He doesn’t remember. Instincts were still driving him when he started the damn thing. Then he lost it. Couldn’t drive off if he wanted.

He’s scared mom enough. So, he turns off the car and pockets the keys but doesn’t open the door.

He’s still shaking.

Where did Ford go? Right now, he wants Ford. He’s safe, he’ll hug him and in a few minutes all these bad feelings will go away and-

“I’m sorry Stanley. I’m truly sorry.” Filbrick keeps talking from his side of the door. “You think I had any idea how to raise three boys? How to deal with a troublemaker as bad as you? When I acted out my dad whipped me. It was just how things were back then. How parents handled people like us.”

“I should have learned. I should have been better. I get that now. Being beaten isn’t the only way to make kids tough. It wasn’t necessary. For the rest of our lives, I am never going to hit any of my boys again. Which is the least I can do to try and gain forgiveness. Please, open the door.”

Maybe he still can’t remember all this. Not everything. But Pops sounds sincere. No lies, no tricks. And he sounds scared too. He did just almost die. And if he could remember how to drive? He’d have lost his son again too.

Is that why he’s scared?

Sitting in the seat he gets another memory, of back in the room. It makes him tense up and his breathing picks up instead of being held.  

The memory is simple with just him holding a vice grip on Pop's neck, lifting him a couple of inches off the ground, leaving marks that’ll bruise.

And Dad isn’t doing a damn thing.

He doesn’t try to pry the fingers off. He doesn’t try and hit or scratch him. He just chokes, maybe trying to talk, while looking Stan in the eyes with something close to acceptance and grief.

The memory ends a short time after Filbrick’s eyes fall close, right as the pain resonates in his head again.

After a few seconds, Stan unlocks the driver's side door even if his hand is still shaking and he’s borderline hyperventilating.

Once the door clicks and unlocks Filbrick slowly opens it and then bends down into the car, pulling Stan over into a tight hug. It's awkward because Stanley is sitting down and he’s standing up, leaning over him above the driver’s seat against the roof.

Stan pulls away.

God damn it, after all that-

But he just slides over to the passenger seat so Pops doesn’t have to bend his back like that, leaving the door open while his shoulders continue to shake.

It’s the first silent conversation they’ve ever had. It's always loud, physical, angry. But not now. Stan just moves, so he can be more comfortable, without even being asked.

He’s a terrible father who somehow still raised some of the best damn kids on the planet and never even knew it.

He gets into the car, leaving the door open, and offers the hug again, more hesitant than he was the first time now that they’re both sitting in the front seat facing each other. It took a lot of guts risking getting hit again, risking getting rejected the first time. The only reason he even tries is because Stan let him in the car.

This time Stan doesn’t even flinch and shifts forward, wrapping Pops up in a tight hug with both arms around his back and pressing his face in against the old man’s chest. He’s still crying and hasn’t stopped or cleaned up properly this whole time. He’ll probably be getting tears and snot on Dad’s shirt.

Filbrick wraps both arms around Stanley as tight as he can manage. He’s still a little weak from earlier and his chest hurts from what must have been compressions. Maybe whoever did them broke a rib. Doesn’t matter. He’s alive and he’s hugging his son.

“I’m so proud of you Stanley. For everything. For making it on your own, for surviving, and most of all for what you did here. I don’t know how you kept at it; I would have ended up dead a long time ago Stanley. I’m proud of you and I love you.”  

Now he’s really crying, all but slumping against Dad’s chest able to hear his heartbeat in between sobs when he’s taking in a gasp for air.

He would remember if Dad had ever said something that nice, surely. Or maybe the memory would play now if he had. But it doesn’t. So, this has to be the first time it has happened.

Dad loves him and is proud of him.

Ages go by without either of them saying anything. Stan just cries, getting snot everywhere, and Filbrick doesn’t complain. He makes no move to pull away either, just letting Stan feel everything and stay right here as long as he needs. As long as he wants.

That ends up being a full half an hour. At one-point Filbrick does close the car door so the battery doesn’t die, but otherwise, he keeps still while Stan slowly finishes crying. His breathing returns to normal but he doesn’t move from against Filbrick’s chest for another five minutes after he’s calmed down beyond the occasional sniffle.

That wasn’t a Ford hug, but he needed this one too. He’s needed this one a lot longer than one from Ford, he can feel it. And it's nice even if it still hurts some. Time drags as they both sit there, just looking at each other from barely a foot apart, neither saying anything until Stan breaks it.

“How many times did you beat me? I can’t remember, but I’m sure you kept a loose estimate.”

It isn’t the question he was expecting and it's possibly one of the worst ones Stan could ask. But he doesn’t look away. He does deserve this after all.

“I’m not going to count spankings. All three of you got those semiregularly. That’s more acceptable than what I did to- “

“I didn’t ask for a damn lecture. I asked for a number.” Stan grits his teeth and glares at him, breaking the peace they’ve had.

He shuts up and thinks for a minute, looking out the windows over towards the house where Caryn and Fiddleford are watching. Ford too on the porch. Damn it.

“Twelve.”

That makes Stan draw in a shaky breath and look away finally, down at the floor of the car. There aren’t any more tears to be had. He’s all cried out and really needs to blow his nose because of it. There is no 'normal amount' of beatings, but that still has to be a lot. He left home right before eighteen. Which would be something like one and something a year if you started from around five? How young though?

“Is that why I’m so stupid? Did you shake me as a baby? Did you abuse me then too? How long did you let me be a kid? How long before you started telling me to grow up and quit crying? Why didn’t you love me then?” He’s yelling now, barely containing the sound inside the car.  

None of these are easy questions to answer and the first instinct is to yell back. But if he does that Stan will get out of this car and that’ll be it.

This is the second chance and there won’t be a third.

“The first time was when you were five. You weren’t the only one afraid of heights that day on the pier. I was scared too and seeing you cry just reminded me of myself, my weakness, and how my dad treated me. I was so angry that when we got home, I pulled out the belt for the first time while your mom took Schermie and Ford to go get pizza for dinner. I acted out on my own emotions. You were just a kid, and I- “

Stan brings back his hand as far as he can in the car and socks Pops in the face as hard as he can. Not looking where he’s aiming, just hitting him because the piece of shit deserves it. It lands on his law, knocking him back against the window with a loud thwack in the space.

Filbrick doesn’t bring a hand up to touch the forming bruise but keeps talking. “I saw you in myself. An emotional boy who’s not supposed to be like that. Men don’t get to have emotions. But I was wrong. You loving your brother saved the world. You caring more about family, feeling so deeply, is what let you do something impossible. There isn’t any shame in that, can’t be. I couldn’t love you until I accepted that. And I’m sorry.”

It earns him another punch to the face, this time to his nose which causes a loud crack and blood to start dripping down onto Pop's snot and tear-stained shirt. Still, no returning blow comes.

More silence follows of both of them just sitting there looking at each other. Filbrick uses his shirt to keep the blood from getting on the seats but otherwise keeps still waiting for Stan to do something or say something else.

It stretches so long that Filbrick gets lightheaded and takes the time to snap his nose back into place. Now they’re matching with Stan’s nose a couple of days ahead in appearance after being broken.

Finally, Filbrick reaches down into his front pocket and pulls out a handgun, and just sets it on the middle seat. It’s completely out of view from the rest of the family, but the offer is there between them. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can try again.”

That breaks him out of the silent debate in his head, eyes falling to the gun.

He picks it up, checks if it’s loaded, but then sets it back down.

“When I remember everything. You’re going to listen to every word of it.” Stan finally decides. “Ford’s been through enough. Fids doesn’t deserve it. And I could never share that pain with Mom. Ever. Bill tortured me, constantly. Nightmares that felt like reality. Torture that should have killed me. And I have to tell someone. I won't survive remembering all that alone. And you deserve every little bit. If I have to have nightmares about that, so do you. Hell, if I can make you watch it, I will. You’ll sit through all of it, and help me deal with it. Or I’ll never speak to you again. Ford and I will never talk to you again. Hell, maybe I’ll even tell Schermie. I don’t know if he’ll give a shit what you did to me. But you don’t deserve children. Not without some sort of hell as redemption.” He holds Pop's gaze the whole time he talks, letting all this anger flow into his voice.

The whole rant makes Filbrick’s mouth fall open a little, causing some blood to drip into it. Yeah, they knew about the needle in the head. So, things weren’t all normal. But for months? Nightly? Daily? And Stan didn’t kill himself?

“Alright, I will. We can talk about it. I’ll help you. It’s only fair and you get to pick the punishment.” It doesn’t sound pleasant, but a lot of Filbrick's childhood wasn’t. He’s lucky the beatings stopped there. For Stanley they never did. That’s guilt he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life. Hopefully, it won’t be long.

“Good. For now, I’ll keep quiet then. Do they know? I assume not or they would have let you die on the floor. Maybe stopped me from getting you back.”

It has been at least three decades since Filbrick Pines has cried. Not since his own father’s funeral after dropping dead from an aneurysm. Since then, nothing. Not when his kids were born. Not when he got married. Not even when he thought Stan was planning on killing himself. Not even in the basement.

But he cries now, folding forward and burying his face in his shirt to keep control of the blood as he lets out a broken sob around a single word. "No."

Stanley brought him back. He killed him, and then loved him enough anyway to bring him back.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, his cold exterior and anger cracking apart in his chest seeing Pops start sobbing. It doesn’t feel appropriate to comfort him after everything, but it feels just as wrong to stay in his place. His mind and heart argue with each other between both options.

It's damn annoying that sometimes he doesn’t even get a vote on these big things.

He slides forward and pulls him over into another hug, this time with Pops pressed against his chest, getting blood everywhere on his own shirt and hands just from touching him.

They’re both a mess, just like their relationship and it almost makes a laugh bubble up at how ridiculous this is.

Just like Stan against his chest Filbrick cries for a long time, sniffling and sobbing and wrapping both arms around his son in a hug. It's something he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve his son. But he stays anyway, letting himself cry it out just like Stan did before.

It feels like a whole day has gone by even if it’s only been a full hour and a half in the car between both crying fits, the talking, and the silence.

But they do eventually stop, sitting in silence without Filbrick pulling away.

“We should go inside and clean up. You probably need to go to the clinic and make sure your cracked or broken rib doesn’t puncture something.” Stan finally says, not pulling his arms away.

Okay. They did it. And neither of them ended up dead. That’s a fucking miracle.

“Alright, yes. I suppose you're right.” He pulls away, letting go of Stan except for his shoulders. “I love you Stanley, and I’m proud of you. Thank you for letting me try and make things right.” It goes without saying, but he’s done keeping stuff that should come out inside and letting things that shouldn’t go out.

It's not a large smile but a small one does force its way across the edge of his mouth despite himself. Other Stan must be a masochist or something to put up with this kind of crap. He should have just shot the guy or let him die on the floor.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up and go tell your other son that next. I love you too, you asshole.” He punches Filbrick’s shoulder lightly, barely enough to cause movement, and smiles a little wider before shifting back to open the passenger side door and get out of the car.

Filbrick pockets the gun again, hiding it with his coat.

They both look absolutely awful getting out together.

Stan has snot down the front of his shirt, his face still red from crying, his hair is all over the place, and he’s covered in blood. It’s on the back of his shirt, down the front, and even on his pants somehow. Dad bleeds a lot.

Filbrick is even worse, having taken several blows and a sob fit. Blood cakes his shirt, coat and sleeves, and some of his pants. His face is red, his hair a mess too, and he’s covered in Stan’s snot mixed in across his chest. There are bruises too, one forming across his nose already and another along the left side of his jaw.

But they walk together side by side from the front of the car back towards the porch where Ford has been standing the whole time watching.

Other than muffled shouting, the two punches to Dad’s face, and the sound of sobbing it’s impossible to tell what exactly transpired in the car between the two. It's very emotional, tense, and full of anger. Whatever anger caused Stan to choke Filbrick to death in the first place.

There is a lot of blood and a lot of tears, but when they get out, they walk together. They look like they’ve worked things out mostly or maybe come to a mutual agreement. Very tired very faint smiles are present on both faces at least.  

Filbrick doesn’t even give Ford a chance to complain or object, just pulls him into a tight hug the second he’s within reach. “I love you, Stanford.”

It leaves Ford so confused and shocked that it takes a minute to return the hug. But it's fierce when he does.

Notes:

Filbrick is awful. However, Stan is somehow a literal saint? And maybe a bit of a psychopath for wanting to put Filbrick through a fraction of the same suffering he went through to feel better. I have plans for this later. I never intended on even bringing in their parents because that's a whole can of worms, but then I couldn't figure out how to do some things without them? This will become more clear later on and this whole arch will finally click. I promise, just stay with me on it.

Chapter 34: Forget-Me-Not

“Can we please just work on the cabinets here?” Stan asks politely, trying to dodge Ford’s questions for what feels like the hundredth time.

Mom and Dad are gone again, went into town to get Filbrick checked out just to be safe, and the three of them are working on finishing up Ford’s project. The new stove is inside, the old one is gone, and now they just have to mount them back on the wall.

Stan is currently holding one steady from underneath while Fiddleford is up on a step ladder remounting it to the wall from the inside. Ford is over on the other counter, being the eyes on the wall so everything is even and level.

“We can talk and work. Please, we need to know what caused such a violent reaction so we can avoid it again.” Ford has been trying this angle for the last hour now, even when they were still outside sanding down the last cabinet for finishing.

It's getting old and he’s almost fed up enough to cave and spin something just so they’ll both shut up. He should tell them something. It’s the least they deserve after what they had to watch and live through.

He did just almost kill Pops which is a pretty big deal even if he sucks.

The silence is broken by Fiddleford drilling the screw back into the wall. The sound makes talking impossible for several minutes beyond getting confirmation that everything is lined up on Ford’s end. After the cabinet is secure, they all climb down. Just one more needs to finish drying outside to be mounted and then this little random project of Ford’s is done.

Stan sighs, leaning against the counter next to the ladder and shaking his head before caving. “Look. Before all that happened, I didn’t feel anger. I mean, annoyance and frustration. But it was like I wasn’t capable of rage or something. Like it was locked up with everything else up here.” He brings a hand up and motions to his head in a general sense. “But Pops was testing my block, barely hitting my hands and- It threw me into a bad memory with him and I guess it unlocked that emotion too. I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing until afterward.”

Fiddleford moves the ladder over to the pantry out of the way while Ford just frowns looking at him. “What kind of memory with Dad is bad enough for you to choke him to death? I mean, I know you never got along, but I don’t remember it ever being that bad Stanley.”

He’s still not good at lying but it’s a little easier than before. His face doesn’t betray the ridiculousness he feels at that statement. They really don’t know.

Nobody had a fucking clue and still doesn’t. And he’s keeping it under wraps for the fucker-

Half-truths. That’s how he’ll handle this.

Because yeah, he hates Dad. He’s garbage. But old him is the one who will eventually have to live with everything he does. Telling everyone what he feels would blow up the togetherness they’ve managed after Bill. Family is important to old him.

It's just exhausting having to be the one to hold it together.

“Did Dad ever talk to you about how dangerous Jersey is? Give you a talk about walking home after school, running around the beach?” He needs to know what sort of version Ford got so he can sensor his own a little.

Fiddleford starts moving dishes back into the cabinet they just mounted from the table while they talk.

“Stan. We all had that talk together in the living room. He gave us each a pocket knife and gave us a whole lecture when we were like seven.” Ford is frowning deeper now.

What is Stan getting at? How does that relate to him choking out Dad?

Could he just admit to the first memory? Just the one and leave it at that? Or would Ford be able to tell there’s more to the story? Maybe. Fuck.

He shifts nervously and moves out of Fiddleford’s way to the other corner near the fridge. Panic and worry of his own are starting to rise in his chest because he can’t do this, he can’t lie the same way he used to. What is he supposed to say? How can he phrase this in a way that’s believable without-

“Look,” He stands up a little straighter and raises his face to meet Ford’s gaze. The panic halts, replaced by something else. Calm? Assurance? “Dad hit me and it pulled up a memory of it. You know how much trouble I got into more than me. The first one was a spanking, in the living room?” Rolling his shoulders eases some of the tension and his mouth handles it. Not him, but other him. “But the memory blurred and blended with other violent ones. One where I was getting choked and beaten by a guy in an alley. Shitty stuff. It wasn’t good. My body, other me. Whatever. Reacted accordingly.”

It’s a surreal experience not doing the talking. It's like a script of actions and words are being fed to him from behind that curtain and his body just follows it.

God, since their fight it feels like he’s so close. So damn close to getting himself back. The curtain is so much thinner and a shadow is visible now.

He feels relieved when the words coming out of his mouth just make Ford frown a little bit before nodding.

Damn, he’s a good liar. Even fractured and broken mentally.

Stanley looks different. Unlocking Stan’s anger has to have caused the change. Who knows what else might have been locked up in the same area? He’s squaring his shoulders and looking like he’s ready not to be believed. Why wouldn’t they believe him?

Something about what is being said isn’t right but he can’t figure out what. Maybe this is his brother. The person being projected on the tapes was calm and composed. Was Stanley actually like that near the end or just on screen? This is closer to who he saw right before being pushed through the portal.

Probably best not to overthink it for now. This is more than Stan has willingly said on the subject since coming out of the bathroom in fresh clothes.

“You could have just said that, Stanley. I know your guy’s relationship was strained. You don’t have to try and hide that. You can’t.” It pulls a short tired laugh from him before he steps forward to pull Stan into a hug over it.

Over Ford’s shoulder, Fiddleford is watching them. He returns the hug but some guilt settles in his chest over the lie. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I can tell you anything or something else equally sappy. Come on, let’s help Fiddleford put the rest of the dishes away.”

They get back to work putting most of the kitchen back together so there’s just a box worth of stuff to put in the last cabinet. You almost can’t tell the place was torn apart today.

Something isn’t right. Ford might not be able to see it, because he’s too close to it, but Stan’s lying.

About what exactly? He isn’t sure of that, but it's there. Fids has seen it too many times not to see how he just threw on the charm, rolled his shoulders, and lied straight through his teeth for a minute. But he keeps his mouth shut for now so he can talk to Stan alone.

“Hey Ford, do you want to maybe get started on that scar cream? I think after the day we’ve had watching some tapes about Stan’s car might be a good idea. We could all use a little break. That cabinet on the porch can get put up later before dinner.” All of that is true, but it's also an excellent excuse for him and Stanley to be alone.

Ford had forgotten about the scar cream so when reminded it makes him run out of the kitchen and in the general direction of the basement just like last time. “Come on Stan, let’s go upstairs.” He leads the way, still a little nervous about what he’s going to try and bring up once they’re in the bedroom. Stan can feel anger now and he still doesn’t remember him. He could be the next Filbrick if he’s not careful. Ford won’t hear down in the basement.

More guilt clouds his chest seeing Fiddleford looking nervous to be alone with him upstairs. The guy looks scared of him and he can’t even say it's unfounded. It makes him keep his distance from the friend he still doesn’t remember. He doesn’t want to hurt him.

He heads straight for the memory box at the end of the bed, pulling out the five tapes and bringing them over to the TV where he puts the first one in. Turning around Fiddleford is still hovering near the door to the room.

“Fiddleford, I’m not going to bite. I’m not going to hurt you. Look, I know what happened makes it seem like it but you aren’t going to bring up any memories like that. Not unless we’ve had a fist fight I don’t remember.” He lets out a quiet laugh but his joke doesn’t seem to cut the tension all the way.

Right. That’s true. They haven’t fought, not physically. Hell, the only times Stan has ever touched him is with kindness in the form of hugs or reassurance when he was chickening out of something hard. He takes in a deep breath and closes the door to the room, staying standing behind the chair Ford usually sits in.

“I know you were lying about something downstairs in the kitchen.” Just for a second, there’s guilt on Stan’s face so he continues. “You started with a completely different train of thought. What did your father giving you a lecture have to do with the rest of what you said? You threw on the charm, the one I don’t buy anymore? It looked like you, old you. Which is good. But I want to know what really happened.”

Fiddleford is a good friend. Too good of a friend if he can tell when he’s lying. Not even Bill could tell, but this guy can? This is the next goal to work towards, remembering this guy. He’s all that’s left of the main cast. The important people.

That doesn’t give him any idea what to say to all that now. What do you do when you are called out on a lie about something you can’t share with anyone?

He sighs and crosses his arms near the TV, that same bravo from downstairs coming back into his stance.

“Stop that! I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to come up with something I’ll believe. Just tell me. Whatever it was, whatever your dad did to you, just spit it out. It can’t be that bad!”

“But it is, Fiddleford. So, if you’re going to force me to tell you I need a promise you won’t tell anyone. Not Mom or Ford. This stays between us and my dad since he already knows about it.”

A long moment of silence passes and Fiddleford considers that. Maybe this isn’t his business. It’s a family matter, but a serious one. Something Stan can’t tell Ford. Is Stan protecting his dad? That’s in character even if ridiculous considering he almost killed the guy earlier.

Does he really want to know?

“I promise I won’t tell. This can stay between us.”

In a way, it’s a relief to let his shoulders slump out of the show other him had been going to put on. Rather than moving over to his chair, he sinks to sit on the floor on the rug and motions Fiddleford over to sit across from him. “Lock the door, so Ford doesn’t barge in.”

He does as asked and then sits on the rug in front of Stanley waiting for him to talk.

It takes several minutes of just looking down at his hands before he can make himself start talking.

“My dad abused me, growing up. Physically abused, I mean. So, when he punched my hands in the gym it threw me into a memory of him choking me in an alleyway. And another different one after that, which I guess is why I choked him for so long. It was two of the twelve times. Based on what he told me in the car.” He has to look up at Fiddleford because if he tries to bolt, he’ll need to stop him.

Okay, maybe he should have thought about all this a little bit more before making Stan spill his guts. Because he knew it was bad to cause such a reaction but he’d never thought about what that meant. It makes his mouth fall open and his face is a look of shock and horror.

It explains the reaction though. Why Stan wouldn’t let go of his father until Ford knocked him off. Why he’d been so angry in the moments after bringing his father back. Even the sobbing and fighting in the car. It doesn’t make it any less awful to hear about.

Stan is just the unluckiest guy in the world with the shittiest family and the worst luck. Rather than letting the silence drag, since it seems he’s supposed to somehow say something, he gets up on his knees and pulls Stanley forward into a hug. “Well, now I’m seriously regretting not having you teach me boxing before you left. I want to break his nose now.”

The hug surprises him but it's not unwelcome by any means. He could probably use it. And the comment makes him laugh over Fiddleford’s shoulder while shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I took care of that. We talked it out. You know, the me that’s here. Me. Is still pissed. Hates the guy. But other me still loves him. Which is why I had to lie to Ford.” He pulls back, keeping his hands on Fiddleford’s shoulders.

“Old me, he loves his family. And after all these years everything is okay. Dad’s even trying to fix things. He’s making an effort and willing to pay for what he did. We came to an agreement in the car. As I remember all the stuff with Bill I’m going to tell him about it. That way I don’t have to live with it alone. You know, we wouldn’t want to burden you or Ford. Hell, I’d show him the memories if I could.” That makes Stan pause, tilting his head a little.

“Hang on. You two are like, super genius’, right? Do you think you could make something that shows memories? Like a special TV or something?” Memory-erasing gun, mind-control ties, and mind-swapping carpets sounded close to what he was asking about. Surely the nerds could do that.

Only Stanley would find it in his heart to forgive his father for something so awful. It still leaves him kinda shocked listening to him talking about it so casually. Granted, the whole argument was probably two hours long between getting choked and them leaving the car to come back on the porch. Stan’s probably desensitized to it and violence in general by now.

Which is terrible.

“You think sharing those awful memories will make up for all the physical and emotional pain he did to you? Not to mention all the self-esteem issues that had to have done in addition.” And his family didn’t even know. That makes him furrow his brow in anger a little. Somehow Stan is hiding this because his mom and brother didn’t even know. The hands on Stan’s shoulder clench up into fists in his shirt. “That bastard- “

“The guy still loves me, so seeing me be hurt and tortured has got to stab him in the back somehow, right? I bet he’d let me kick his ass until I felt okay but he’s old. I’d accidentally kill him or something before feeling like I’d done enough. And I don’t want that. I don’t want Dad to end up dead. Which is part of why I can’t tell Ford or Mom. I mean, can you imagine what Ford would do if he found out? Hell, Mom might leave him.” His face gets tight at that. For all of Dad’s faults as a father, he is a good husband. Maybe a little closed off, but it’s never seemed to bother Mom.

Fiddleford can’t agree with Stan’s logic. Because they deserve to know how awful Filbrick is. Who Ford’s father really is. Who Caryn really married and left alone with Stan too often. But this also isn’t his secret to tell. It's Stan’s and he’s deciding to keep his family together rather than breaking it apart. Filbrick did, at the very least, keep his hands to himself. He let Stan talk, feel and yell and work it out despite how painful that all was.

“I suppose under the guise of trying to look inside your head we might be able to make something if Ford and I work together. But I doubt it’ll be ready before your parents leave on Friday.” It was Monday now which didn’t give them a lot of time before their flight home.

Stan pulls Fiddleford into another hug with a big grin. The first one he’s worn since everything happened with Dad. They’re really good friends even if he still can’t remember it and he’s thankful for it. If only he could just remember properly. “Fiddleford H. McGucket, you’re the absolute best.” He pulled back after giving him a squeeze to look at him.

“I can see why we were best friends before all this. I paid you handsomely, didn’t I? I mean, I am or was rich.” Thinking about it he hasn’t figured out yet where or what was done with the lottery winnings. That might be something important to find out. Fids is looking away nervously and it makes him frown.

“Well, yes. I mean, you paid me to help you work on the portal. Hazard pay, because of Bill and all that. And you insisted on paying me to stay here for the first week after. You wanted me to document your progress to try and help you come back faster and remember more stuff. That’s why I’ve always been taking notes on you. And you did leave me something nice in your video will. Some money and some inventions you plucked out of Bill’s head from the future. I wouldn’t accept more than that. Although you certainly tried to write me a big check.” He let out a nervous laugh, glancing at Stan.

Well, that’s good. He paid Fiddleford for helping, but why does he look like he’s holding something back? “Did I forget to give you your last paycheck or something?” He nudges one of the guy’s arms. “Spit it out. I won’t know what I forgot unless you say something.”

“You didn’t leave me a tape. You left me a letter, which did have my last paycheck in it, but I don’t know. I thought you’d leave me more than that. You left Ford a whole tape and I know he’s your brother, but I guess I just thought- “

“Woah, woah woah. Slow your roll. I definitely would have left you a tape. You’re my best friend. It’s gotta be around somewhere.” Stan gets up from the floor, pulling away, and heading for his memory box. It all gets poured out on the bed, making a mess, but he starts looking through it for a tape with Fiddleford’s name on it.

But he’s right. There isn’t a tape for him anywhere among the stuff in the box. No, that’s wrong. It’s gotta be somewhere. He can feel a sense of confusion about not being able to find it. Other him made him a tape, causing the feeling.

“Step out into the hall, I need to check something in my closet that the other me wouldn’t want me to show you.” It's all a mess but he sweeps it all back into the box and walks Fiddleford out before starting to go through the closet.

The tape isn’t in there either. It's not in the blue box with the stuff for his bionic eye or the red box with the binders either. Although there is a lot of really cool stuff in the box with the eye. Why is there more than one watch case like the one holding-

Stop it. Focus. Don’t get distracted.

After putting both boxes of stuff back and then unlocks the door to let Fids back inside he goes through every drawer, but still doesn’t find anything and is left with a permanent frown on his face trying to think where it might be.

“I know you're trying to make me feel better, Stanley. It’s a nice thought, but you probably just forgot. Those last few days you always had a pen in your hand working on something. You didn’t sleep much, you probably just got so tired it slipped your mind in the rush to get everything finished.” He’s not mad, just sad.

“Fiddleford, is there anything else I gave you to hold onto other than this memory box?” He nudges it with his foot. “Anything at all? I mean, didn’t I have a backup plan for if Ford was still pissed at me?” His old self had thought out a lot of stuff, surely that was a scenario he’d considered?

Now Fids perks up a little bit, “What, you think you put it in the negative box?” That was the black box for if Ford was still an asshole who refused Stan’s self-sacrificing apology. Stan hadn’t said much about what it included. All he knew was that if that had happened Stan would have come to stay with him and their family for a while. Not that Stan wasn’t welcome, because Emma-May and Tate loved Stanley, but he was glad it hadn’t come to that.

It ending up there wasn’t impossible. Maybe Stan could have put it in the wrong box if the tape was recorded early enough.

It hurts his chest to think that his past self felt the need to prepare for the worst. Ford had been nothing but kind since he woke up. Maybe a little suffocating sometimes, but pleasant and remorseful. Part of himself had thought Ford wouldn’t love him still. Or maybe had never loved him. But he pushed through that and noded, “Do you have it in your car or something? We should check and see if anything pops out at me for you. The only reason I’m sure you have one is because I feel confused knowing you haven’t seen it.”

It's getting easier and easier to read other him’s feelings and thoughts. Clearer.

“I think it's still in the trunk. I was supposed to burn it if it wasn’t necessary, but I haven’t had time with everything.” Whatever was in that box, the horrible possibilities Stan had planned for, weren’t meant to see the light of day or be reviewed by anyone. Although, he was curious what Stan’s plan for himself was otherwise. He’d refused to say when handing him the box. Just gave instructions and made him promise not to look.

But Stan wasn’t around anymore to get mad at him.

“Well, what are we waiting for, let’s go check!”

Together they both head downstairs and along the way Fids can’t help but be hopeful that maybe there is a tape. And the box is right where he left it in the trunk of his car tucked under a blanket and still taped shut. It looks like a bad omen with the black cardboard and the electrical tape sealing it shut.

Stanley grabbed one of the random pieces of metal out of the messy trunk and used it to cut the tape and open the box. It looked pretty similar to the other box except there was a lot less stuff.

Two big yellow envelopes, ten letters, and five tapes.

Not a lot of stuff for a new life. Without family, which is what a life without Ford probably would have looked like, there was so much less. It was sad to look at.

“Would you kill me if I asked to have this back? I know he said burn it, but I’m kind of curious where I’d be if not here. What his plan was otherwise.” While he asks, he pulls out the five tapes.

Introduction, parts one and two. Seattle Washington. Business Outline. Miscellaneous information.

The last tape is just Fiddleford’s name with a smiley face on it and he offers it to the guy.

He could almost cry seeing the tape. But he double-checks the boxes instructions from the glove box before grinning and hugging Stan. There wasn’t supposed to be a tape in this one. Old Stan must have just mixed up the tape and forgotten to note that it should be in the good box. “Of course you can have it. Here, let’s bring it inside. Just make sure to keep it somewhere Ford won’t find it. I imagine finding out you had a secret backup plan would shatter him. Especially the fact that you still have it in your possession.”

He's too excited over his tape to fully think through handing the box over.

They go back upstairs to Stan’s room where Fiddleford excitedly puts in the tape while Stan hides the bad box up at the top of the closet with the others to go through later when he gets some time alone. For now, he goes to sit with his friend in the two chairs to see what other him says in this tape.

This tape starts up with Stan sitting at the old kitchen table instead of in the bedroom or living room.

It's shocking how different Stan looks in this tape compared to the others. Before he’s been very calm, put together, and clean. In this tape, it looks like he hasn’t showered in days and needs a fresh change of clothes. And he looks exhausted even if he’s smiling at the camera. It's like for all the other tapes Stan used up all his charm to make himself look presentable and stopped caring when he made this one.

Is that because this was the last tape he made or because Fiddleford is the only one allowed to see him this bad?

Well, it doesn’t seem to surprise the guy, so it must be the second one. Could be both.

“Hey Fids, long time no see. Crazy to think we finally made it to the other side, huh? It never felt like we’d get there. How’s the weather? Is it beautiful out? World didn’t end, earth wasn’t destroyed?” His tone is slightly playful despite his disheveled appearance.

“That’s good, seriously good. I’m proud of you, you know? For doing this for and with me. None of this would have happened without you. I keep saying in all these tapes how I tricked Bill. I conned him. I flew right under his nose and saved the world. But I didn’t. That was you. Sure, I did all the interacting. But without you to hold the gun and finishing the plan? It wouldn’t have happened. Plain and simple.” Stan shrugs, pulling over a shoe box from the back of the table closer to the front.

“I guess you are just as crazy as me in that way. You cared about me openly and honestly without expecting anything in return. No one other than my mom has ever done that Fids. And it means a lot to me. And I can’t just leave you hanging without giving you something. You won’t accept my money so I came up with something else for you. A special present for getting us both through this.” He taps the shoe box on the screen and his smile gets a little wider.

“You remember when I told you about Bill dumping a whole bunch of gunk in my head? That’s how I was able to keep up with you working on the portal without Bill around. But in my free time, when you went home and Bill was gone. I used that to make you something special. Something better than a memory gun.”

“I know you Fids. When all this is over, I hope you won’t want to make yourself forget anymore. Forget me. Because at this point you can’t forget Bill without forgetting me.” The Stan on-screen frowns at that but looks over at the box. “You struggle with nightmares. Bill haunts your dreams in a different way than mine, but the results are the same.”

Finally, Stan on screen opens the box, pulling it over onto his lap so the contents are visible from the exterior. Inside the box is a notebook along the bottom thick with additional pieces of paper shoved inside that stick out a little on most sides. But the main focus in the box is a small gun that looks identical to the memory gun Fids has. Other than the colors being different. The metal is silver and the glass is blue instead of red.

“Originally, I wanted to try and make a more specific memory gun. Something that would only delete Bill from my head. That would have been awesome, but without the notes for the memory gun and without knowing what Bill’s truly like I can’t be sure of anything. Your memory gun is tested. But I was trying to build something specifically for a god. And there isn’t a way to ethically test that without summoning another.” Stan laughs at that on-screen and shakes his head.

“I’m not as arrogant as Ford though so I knew better. It wasn’t worth the risk. So, I modified it for you instead. This gun doesn’t delete memories. It creates a protective barrier between memories involving Bill and your subconscious while sleeping. The barrier only lasts about twelve hours though so every night you’ll have to use it again. Nothing gets deleted, you can still freely think about them. They just won’t bother you when sleeping. Annoyingly you’ll have to use it every night and remember to charge it too so you don’t have to stay up waiting for it to have enough juice. But it should allow you some peace of mind after all this. Most of your nightmares seem to focus around Bill, right?” For a moment Stan seems to look worried, looking down at the gun in the box on his lap.

“I don’t think I could make something to completely protect you from nightmares. The term nightmare is too broad. They can be made up of anything, but hopefully, it helps?” He looks really worried, putting the box back on the table but leaving it open.

“I just don’t want you to go forgetting me. You are probably the only real friend I’ve had my whole life other than Ford. Which doesn’t fully count because he’s been stuck with me since birth. So, yeah. I tried with the knowledge I had. I hope it works for you. It does for me having tested it. My nightmares about Bill don’t affect me as badly as you. You’ll be the real test subject. But its effects are temporary, I’m sure of that. So, if it ends up having side effects you can just stop using it and be fine.” Stan closes the box up putting the lid back on before getting up and heading over to the camera.

For one terrible moment, it seems like Stan is going to end the tape there, but then it just ends up being a cut of static and the tape resumes downstairs in the lab on the second level. The camera is being held by Stan to show where he put the box way at the bottom hidden behind a bunch of old textbooks. “This is where it is, along with all my notes on it. I’ll keep my goodbye short because you’ve already read my sappy letter hopefully.” The camera turns back around so his face is in the frame. “Take care of yourself Fids, and don’t go doing anything stupid like running off on me. You and Ford have to make up now because you better stick around! Love you Fids!” Then the tape ends.

Typically, it’s the person holding the remote's job to hit pause. A glance over at Fiddleford reveals he’s frozen just looking at the screen not doing so even as the noise is deafening. Stanley ends up getting up and removing the tape before coming back over to check on him. “Are you okay? What, is it a bad gift or something?” He puts an arm around him, worried that maybe he’s going to have to go get Ford when the waterworks start.

It breaks him to know that Stan could sense, somehow, near the end there what his plan was. That he still wanted to run away from those dreams. They hadn’t talked about it again, not since that first night in the kitchen, but Stan had known. He turned, pulling Stanley into a tight hug while crying into his side.

Stanley is too good of a person. Even if the gun doesn’t work it's clear he still tried. It's like that first tape they all watched where he begged not to be thrown out of the house and abandoned again. Except this time it's directed at him specifically, begging him not to forget.

Maybe he doesn’t want to forget anymore. Yeah, the nightmares are awful. Those he’d rather forget. But he’s had too many good memories with Stanley to erase him. It would do more harm than good. “No, Stanley. It’s the best gift you could have given me. It's better than a million bucks.” Now he needs to see it. He needs to hold it and know that it's where Stanley left it. “Come on, we need to go get it down in the lab.”

He stands up and lets him go, quickly moving over to the door of the room. Stanley doesn’t delay and follows him, quickening his pace little by little until they’re both running through the house and down the stairs. Fiddleford is still crying but Stanley is laughing as they take the basement stairs next to the elevator and burst into the lab.

Ford almost drops the test tube he’s holding and looks surprised and confused as to what they’re doing down here. Aren’t they supposed to be watching the tape upstairs? And why is Fids digging around on the bottom shelf of that lab station?

Stanely is out of breath a little standing in the doorway from running down here from the bedroom but seeing his brother's confusion all but yells the answer, “I found the tape I left for Fiddleford! Genius me made him a memory gun that’s supposed to help protect him from nightmares about Bill and I stored it down here!”

Now that he’s pulled it off the shelf and opened the box he can’t stop looking down at the gun in the box. It's smaller than the actual memory gun and closer to the size of the handgun Stan owns. Finally, with both of them watching, he picks it up to look at. It doesn’t have an input dial like the memory gun either, just a small screen with a cover that flips open.

Images and words flash across the screen one after the other. Bill and his many names, an image of Bill, a picture of the portal, and lastly a short video of the basement starting from the elevator and going through the whole third-floor lab.

He closes the screen cover and puts it down in the box carefully while pulling out the notebook underneath it to start reading and flipping through. It's all brilliant, every single inch of it and he can almost remember some of the math from the memory gun project flipping through this because some of it has to be similar.

Stan moves over to stand next to where Ford is sitting just staring at Fiddleford on the floor and puts an arm around his shoulder. “Aren’t I just the greatest person alive?” The hand contacts Ford’s shoulder hard, patting him, before staying there wearing a huge grin.

There was just no way he’d forget about Fiddleford. The guy is just too nice. He’s his best friend! Of course he gets a cool invention. The part of the video about using the memory gun to erase all their memories is concerning, he doesn’t remember that part, but right now it's better to focus on the positives.

“Do you remember him?” Ford asks, turning to look at Stan even if he’s itching to see the notes on this new invention. It's Fids, he should at least let him read it. But. Would it apply to his nightmares about Bill?

No. Stop that. That’s selfish. Just be happy for your friend.

“Not yet, but I’m sure it’ll come to me. He’s too important for those memories to stay lost forever. I just need to try a little harder. I mean, he’s the only important person left now. Guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together. Especially now that he should be able to get some good sleep.” He lets go of Ford after a minute and moves to sit with Fiddleford on the floor where he looks like he’s trying to read but his tears are making it impossible with them smearing his glasses.

“Hey, breathe. You’ll suffocate before you get a chance to test it out.” Stan sits down on the floor next to him, pulling him into another hug while his friend cries. They’re happy tears, probably.

The joke makes Fids laugh and close the notebook, setting it back in the box with the gun before returning the hug even though they just finished hugging upstairs.

Would it be insensitive to continue the work he was doing? Probably? Ford continues to sit there, pushing down the jealousy that flares seeing Stan hugging Fiddleford. His emotions are ridiculous. They’re best friends. Fids is married and Stan is straight. The feelings are completely absurd. Plus, that’s his twin brother for Christ’s sake!

Yet, they’re there. And just looking at them on the floor makes it worse.

“I’m going to continue what I was doing, so nothing explodes.” He says quietly before turning away. It’s a pretty good lie. Nothing would blow up if he stopped for a while. But he just wants an excuse not to have to watch.

That’s my brother and, maybe eventually, my good friend. Shut up, stupid irrational feelings. He gets back to work mixing things in test tubes and making notes as he follows the recipe.

They both stay on the floor for a while until Fiddleford can compose himself enough to pull away. He straightens out his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt, and gathers up the box holding it protectively against his chest like he’s terrified of dropping it. Or like it might burst into flames.

“Thank you, Stanley. Thank you.” He gives Stan one more hug holding the box with one hand before pulling away completely. Then he goes over to the lab Ford is working on, smiling wide. “When do you think you’ll be done with this?” He asks motioning to everything Ford is mixing.

Don’t glare at him. He’s being nice.

Ford turns and finds it easier to furrow his brow in thought than try to fake a smile. “Oh, about ten minutes? It's not very hard to make once you have the recipe. Why?”

“How would you like to go over all of Stan’s notes with me?” Fiddleford pauses, setting the box down on the lab at the back against the wall so there is no risk of it dropping on the floor. “I mean, we should probably build another one if it works for me. We don’t live together Ford and I’m not driving over here every night just so you can use mine to stop your nightmares.”

Ford turns the rest of the way on his stool and just stares at Fiddleford.

“You mean, you want to help me make a copy for my dreams about Bill?”

Someone should pinch him right about now.

“Yes, if you think it would help anyway. Maybe we should both test it over the next few days though, before jumping to conclusions- “

Ford pulls Fiddleford forward into a tight hug, laughing to himself. “Of course, I’ll help you build another one. Hell, we could make three more so we each have a spare.”  

Now they’re both laughing and hugging and Stanley is grinning off to the side the whole time. The air in the lab is light and Ford forgets about the scar cream he was making in favor of pouring over the notes with Fiddleford, getting lost in Stan’s handwriting.

Chapter 35: Glinting Unraveling Webs

Notes:

Hey, sorry for the long break between updates. This chapter was difficult, to say the least. And I also started a new fic to help get the creative juices flowing again. But fear not, I have big plans for this one still. Enjoy!

Given that he didn’t meet Fiddleford until after Ford had gone through the portal it was clear he’d never seen these two nerd out together over something before. It was quite the spectacle to watch even if he wasn’t participating much.

At first, they had some questions about his handwriting for the first few pages and needed a little bit of help reading it. The pages were incredibly messy like all of it had been written in a rush or maybe while Stan had been very tired. Some of the numbers almost slurred together on the pages in various formulas and Ford particularly seemed put off by the mess.

But after a few pages of him helping them understand the handwriting they seemed to pick up on what old Stan meant which allowed them to flip through the pages together faster and faster the further they went.

None of what they were babbling about made a lick of sense to him, but they both looked so excited and enthralled that it didn’t matter.

The fun of watching them did eventually wear off, at about the hour mark when they’d both devolved into speaking in riddles using some weird other language (math), writing on a whiteboard, and running around gathering various parts and supplies.

It was probably best to leave them to their work since they’d long since forgotten he was sitting off to the side anyway.

Going back upstairs he found that the house was still empty. Mom and Dad hadn’t come back yet which was a little bit concerning. Nah. They’ve just never been to the clinic before and Pops is a million years old. It’s probably just taking forever filling out the paperwork. Yeah, that’s probably what it is.

Without anyone to spend time with he went back upstairs to watch the tapes on his car instead as had been the original plan before finding Fiddleford’s tape.

In his state of distress earlier his strongest instincts had driven him out into the front seat and behind that wheel. Which, if he’d been traveling around the last ten years, it made sense. But he still couldn’t remember the car or its story. Their story.

The feeling of familiarity he’d established with the house, Mom and Dad, and Ford had not yet translated to the car. Okay, maybe Fiddleford wasn’t the only important thing he needed to remember. But ten hours of footage should be more than enough to bring the memories back. How did he even have enough to talk about for ten hours?

Working on cars was supposed to be a hobby of his but it sounded more like a fine-tuned skill in the same way the two scientists downstairs were inventing something. They had math and science and he was an expert on cars.

This was the first time he’d managed to have memories crop up about something without being asleep or with someone else. The Bill memory Ford was there, then Mom and Dad with the others. And it made sense he’d get memories back while sleeping. But as he started to watch the tapes, he kept having to rewind them because he’d get pulled somewhere else.

It had to be Jersey because the place always had the same awful but familiar smells with the undertone of sea salt.

Riding home with Ford after school, driving on highways with Ford, and working on the car with Ford or Pops a handful of times.

Always with someone, never alone. Sure, sometimes Ford was just lying across the backseat reading while he changed the oil or something, but still.

It took four hours to get through the one tape because of all the pausing and rewinding he had to do. Having even more memories back was worth the time spent though.

Best of all he got some of the few good memories back with Dad out of it. It was in a different car, the family one probably, and it was him learning how to drive. It was awkward and he was unsteady jerking the car a little at first. But they only argued a little bit so it had to be one of the better ones.

The knock on the bedroom door came when he was in the middle of switching out the first tape for the second. It seemed only fair to watch all of the tapes, even if he was already starting to feel familiar with the car, because old him had put a lot of time and care into making them. “Come in.” He called over to the door, standing by the TV while the first tape continued to rewind.

Caryn opened the door and peered inside before opening the door hallway while remaining in the doorway.

As long as she had known her son, he had always been such a kind young man. Troubled and with a little bit of a short fuse, but never outright violent without reason. So, seeing Stan choke Filbrick to death had understandably put her on edge and made her more reserved around him. At least until they got a chance to talk things over, that had just taken a while with how busy the clinic was today.

She tried, making herself go upstairs, but despite spending so much time sitting in the waiting room today she hadn’t come up with anything to break this silence. The tension between them.

Right. Mom.

Just one more really tough conversation and then hopefully they could all start moving past all this. Stan moved away from the TV and instead stood near Ford’s chair with his hands tucked in his pockets not quite able to look at her. “So, how’s Pops? He alright after everything? Are you okay?”

Despite the violent outburst this afternoon Stan had seemed to melt back into his old self. He even looked guilty right now like he was about to get scolded which wasn’t that far off. “He’s fine for the most part. A cracked rib, the bruising around his neck, and he’ll need to ice the broken nose. He’s downstairs, resting.”

She had to take a deep breath to answer the second half of that question, eyes dancing over Stanley as she spoke. “I just don’t understand is all. Your father wouldn’t tell me anything. Just said you must have been thrown into a bad memory. I know you still don’t know everything, but you need to tell me what really happened Stan.” It couldn’t be that simple. The pair didn’t get outright violent, at least not that she was aware of beyond the usual screaming match.

Lying to Ford was easy enough because they’d been apart for ten years. Mom, however, knew him better. She was the only person who had kept in contact during his slow transition from troubled teen to wanted criminal. Would she see through any lie because of it? “Can you close the door while we talk about this? If you yell at me, I don’t want to disturb Pops while he’s resting.” He also pivoted to sit in his chair, motioning Mom over to sit with him.

After a moment of hesitation, Caryn closed the door and came further into the room to sit in the remaining empty chair, crossing her arms over her chest while she waited for Stan to talk.

The usual show that worked on Ford wasn't going to work here but maybe if he just said it honestly, like he meant it, it’ll work. Without all the showmanship. He should be nervous, that makes sense here. “The last ten years haven’t been great ma. I don’t know what I told you when we did talk, but I was probably lying. I’ve been involved in more trouble than you’d like to hear about. So, violence isn’t something I’m unfamiliar with. Or was unfamiliar with.”

“When Pops was helping me relearn how to box, he was just showing me how to block. Testing it wearing the gloves. But I guess with all the bad blood between us it didn’t take much violence, even educational, to pull something up.” The whole time he keeps his eyes on the floor. Partly because of the shame rising in his chest over what happened and also because he doesn’t want her to read his soul or something.

“It threw me into one of my punishments with dad growing up and that turned into a memory of getting choked out in an alley. Which I imagine is how Dad ended up against the wall.” Having long hair works in his favor here, hiding his face. “I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I woke back up on the floor, honest. And I’m really sorry. From what I’ve gathered our relationship, me and him, is really complicated and awful. We’re just trying to work it out now, hence the fighting in the car.”

She’s silent through the whole explanation and it does make a little more sense having Stan’s perspective. The only problem is that Stan won’t look at her. Sure, they usually talk on the phone, but she knows even better than everyone when something isn’t right. Or at least she thinks so.

Getting up out of the chair she goes over to crouch in front of him to lift his face and make him look at her. “What was the punishment you got thrown into? Because I remember you getting a few spankings growing up, but if it was something worse, I need you to tell me.” There’s shame in Stan’s eyes but also pain and a little bit of guilt.

What good will it do now to tell her the truth? This all happened over a decade ago and Dad is trying to make things right. Doesn’t wash away all that pain now, but at this point? Nothing could wash away all the pain Stan’s been through. Maybe not even time.

He takes a deep breath looking at her but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out. Because what can he say to that? “We all just got back together Ma, I don’t want to break us apart again.” It comes out broken but it’s the only honest thing to say even if it doesn’t exactly answer the question.

Stan looks like he’s about to cry and any remaining tension from his earlier outburst washes out of her shoulders as she leans forward and pulls him into a hug. “Oh, honey. That’s not going to happen. After everything you did to bring us back together? I promise, nothing you say will do that. Maybe make me angry for a while, but just that.”

Mom says that now until she finds out her husband had a least favorite child who he didn’t start loving until very recently and abused physically periodically throughout childhood.

Huh. Actually. Maybe if Stan was kind enough to offer forgiveness for something that bad, Mom could be too. Maybe.

He returns the hug until she pulls back to look at him again, expecting an answer despite his attempts at avoiding the question. Why did old him have to have a weak spot? Shouldn’t he have known better? It pulls a sigh from him.

“I’m working on forgiving him, alright? For what he did.” He wants to look away but he needs to know her reaction. “That’s what the car was, working something out.” More silence follows because he still hasn’t answered the question and he’s avoiding it like the plague. It might as well be.

“Fine…” He grumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his chair and deciding to stand up so Mom doesn’t have to keep bending her back. Deep breath. “Getting choked in the alley wasn’t just some guy, alright? I don’t know. I guess Dad was trying to teach me how to be safe in Jersey with some sort of twisted lesson.” When he looks back up at Mom both anger and shock are present on her face mixed with the same horror he remembers seeing in the gym. Fuck.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything!” She yells and takes a step back in disbelief. “What else did he do? How didn’t I notice? Did he hurt Ford? He didn’t ever tou-“

“NO!” He interrupts, flustered and shaking his head. “No, mom. Just, stop for a minute.” Sure, he can’t remember, but the sureness in his chest is enough to be confident when his memory can’t be. “I don’t know why I didn’t speak up or tell you, alright? I don’t remember right now.” God, Mom looks like she’s about to faint, so he guides her over to sit down while remaining standing himself.

“Look, it was only twelve times, alright? And as far as I know, he never hurt Ford the way he hit me. No idea about Schermie, but never Ford. He’s got no clue.” He blinks.

And he’s somewhere else.

Uh oh. No, that’s not good. If they’re talking about this and he’s remembering another time Mom could get hurt.

No, no, no.

The objections do nothing though, because he doesn’t get to choose which things he remembers.

Ford and him are on a school bus sitting on a seat together but the air between them is somber and they’re both holding matching pieces of paper. They look like spelling tests. God, he’s young here, maybe six or so?

“Dad’s going to kill me when he sees this score.” Ford insists, head slumped over against the window with the paper on his lap.

This is the first memory where he can hear his own past thoughts.

Uh oh. Ford looks like he’s going to cry. We can’t have that, but what can we do though? Maybe we could just toss them? No, Dad will just call the school then. Wait-

“Give it here, I’ve got an idea.” Young Stan snatches his brother's test with a big F on top and then pulls a pencil and eraser out of his pocket. “Move it Sixer, watch the real genius at work.” Then Stan shifts seats and uses the window to erase the names at the top of the sheets. He writes Stanley in his handwriting on the F scored test and then gives the other paper to Ford. “Hurry up, we’re almost home!”

Young Ford frowns watching Stan work but doesn’t try to stop him after realizing what he’s going. “Stan, dad’s not going to buy that, look at how the rest of the paper looks? He’s not dumb.” Still, he fills in his neat name at the top using the window. Then erases it and makes it a little messier to match the handwriting. It's still not a perfect score, but it’s a B instead of an F.

“You really think he’ll read into it once he sees the big red F? Don’t worry, I know how to handle Dad. You just go upstairs and study for the next one so we don’t have to do this again.” Stan nudges Ford on the side hard with his elbow and then sticks his new test in his bag as the bus stops.

Ford folds up his test and pockets it, getting up with him but pulling Stanley into a hug while some other people get off. “Thank you, Lee. I really owe you one this time.”

“Good, because I’m going to call that in the next time we have a math test.” Young Stan grins and they both start to get off the bus together, laughing and bolting down the street back towards home.

Mom is just looking at him all worried and a little afraid when he reopens his eyes back in his bedroom.

Everything, all the time, always comes back to Ford. Every. Single. Time.

Was that what started it all? One spelling test just to help Ford out which turned into being the kid who got beat while the other was blissfully unaware? Maybe he didn’t get beaten for that one, maybe just a spanking. But still.

“Why the fuck does he matter so much!” He yells at himself, shaking his head. Something in his chest objects to him being mad, but he is. Because why?

“If you’ll tell me what started all this then I deserve to know the real reason!” He’s yelling at himself, his ghost self, and he gets madder when there is no response. Not even an emotion other than a little bit of distress in his chest.

He waits, several minutes, hoping for another memory. But nothing happens. So, he slumps down onto a pile on the floor with a deflated sigh. Fine, keep your stupid secrets.

Maybe it's not a single memory at all, just a core part of who he is. Who he was born to be. And that’s why nothing comes.

“Twelve times, you say that like it's nothing, Stanley. Your father beat you, a dozen times, and we never even knew?” Caryn’s voice is small, shifting down to sit on the floor with him. “Seriously, why didn’t you say something?” Slowly she’s starting to see how exactly Filbrick ended up dead on the floor and if that was anything like what happened to Stan, maybe he should have stayed there. She’s starting to feel anger now, getting over the shock and concern.

“Because of Ford.” He answers honestly, looking up from his lap and putting an arm on either shoulder. “When we were kids, I took the brunt of it so that Ford wouldn’t have to. I think. The details are still fuzzy, but that feels right.” He keeps a firm hold on her shoulders as he sees the anger simmering in her gaze.

Huh, funny that they look the same when that happens.

“Don’t. Alright? I already almost killed him earlier. You can’t say anything, you can’t tell Ford. You need to calm down Mom, please. Don’t make this into something, It’s not that big-“

“It is! Stanley! He hurt you! I don’t even want to know how!” She’s screaming and pulling away from him. Then getting up off the floor and Stan follows, trying to calm her down. “Ma, look, this was a long time ago, can you just-“

“No, absolutely not. God, I’m going to kill him! That bastard!” They’re headed down the stairs now and Stan knew he should have lied. He should have kept it hidden. To late.

He darts ahead, running down the stairs quickly and into the living room where Dad is laid out on the couch. “You need to get up, move.” He grabs Filbrick by the arm and pulls him up onto his feet, dragging him through the living room and into the hallway and shoving him into the hall bathroom just as Mom catches up barely five feet behind them.

“Stanley! Let me speak to my husband! I have some very choice words to share with him!” She tries to push past Stan towards the locked door but just like in the gym can’t get past him.

“Filbrick Elmer Pine! You get your ass out here right now and stop hiding like a damn coward behind the son you abused!” She still couldn’t understand why Stan was defending him after all this. It had to be the lack of memory messing with his head.

The door behind Stan opens a crack just enough for him to be visible but he doesn’t try to move Stan out of the way. It's cowardly and he knows it. He doesn’t deserve Stan essentially acting as a bodyguard either. “I’m right here, say what you’ve gotta say.” He opens the door wider but appreciates Stan not letting his mother dart around towards him.

Caryn considers going and getting Ford. He’ll be able to move Stanley so she doesn’t have to speak with her husband through him. And he deserves to know this too, more than she does if Ford really was the cause.

It was like Stan to protect his brother from everything. But he shouldn’t have had to do it from their own father for fucks sake!

“Twelve times?! You beat him, bloody, a dozen times! When, was it when I wasn’t home? When Ford had that spelling competition upstate? Was it when Schermie graduated and Ford and I went to his college graduation?” She could only think of a few dozen times the pair had ever been left alone at home or at all throughout Stan’s childhood.

“How could you! I knew you were beaten growing up, whipped, but I thought that made you understand this was wrong? How dare you ever lay a hand on our son! Oh, when I get my hands on you Filbrick, you son of a bitch!” She makes a lung for behind Stan but gets grabbed and spun back around before she’s able to grab a hold of the door frame.

Stan has never seen or heard his mother so angry in all of his life. She was always such a kind-hearted woman endlessly patient and loving willing to forgive anything. So much for nothing breaking their family apart again.

He’s scared, worried, that this conversation might throw him into another violent episode. What if he hurts Mom trying to protect Dad? Or what if he hurts both of them? After this afternoon anything could happen. Dad has to answer and it could make everything infinitely worse.

“Stanford!” He yells, knowing he’ll regret this deeply. But he can’t hurt anyone again. Ford is the only person who’s strong enough, apparently, to handle him if he gets violent. “Stanford Filbrick Pines! Get your ass upstairs or so help me God I’ll break your microscope! Please!” He yells it in the general direction of a vent but figures it will go unheard.

Come on Ford. If Twin Telepathy is real, even a little, I need you to come upstairs. Take a break from your little project and come up here. Please.

“He’s just like me, Caryn!” Filbrick says from behind Stan, having fully opened the door now so only Stan is between them. “He’s emotional and combative and caused trouble! I didn’t know how else to handle him back then! And it didn’t even work! I know, I know it was wrong! I’m trying to fix things, really, I am! We talked it out, we’ve come to an agreement!”

“He doesn’t even remember properly Filbrick! How on earth can he agree to this when he’s not himself!” She objects, glancing at Stan.

Fine, guess they’re having this conversation.

He steps back so he’s directly in the doorway of the bathroom, letting himself be backed up a little. “I remember enough!” He yells louder than either of them, not sure where the strength for that comes from. “I know my dad is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve the kind heart I must have been born with! Me, the me I am now, wants to kill the fucker! Shoot him dead!” His newfound strength makes his mother stop for a minute, standing against the wall facing them both.

“But other me, your son, won’t let me! He still loves the bastard, because Stan’s an idiot or something. I don’t know! I don’t know a lot of things right now! But I know I love him,” He motions over his shoulder, “And I love you and Ford. Stanley wants a family! A real loving family! And I’ll fight for that for him, for when he gets back!” If he comes back.

But he’s so close, it’s almost like he can sense the fucker right behind him like a shadow.

The hallway is quiet for a long minute as Mom just looks at him and then over his shoulder at Filbrick with a heartbroken look on her face like she can’t believe this is really happening.

Fair enough, this is terrible. The whole day has been.

“Filbrick-“ Her voice is calmer now. Still stern but less angry like she’s trying to understand, but whatever she was going to say gets interrupted.

“What’s with all the damn yelling.” Ford calls from down the hall.

Oh, great. Twin Telepathy does work. Except they were just getting somewhere and now Ford’s going to get pissed too. Damn it! Why does he always have to screw things up!

His strength is wavering now with those thoughts and he can’t even make himself say something. No excuse or lie comes to mind, nothing. Other him and the strength drawn from him has vanished in the face of failure.

“Your father physically abused Stanley!” Mom announces to the hallway, filling Ford in on what’s going on. He deserves to know and maybe- Shit, but what if Ford fights past Stan to hurt Filbrick? She regrets saying it as soon as her mouth closes.

More silence.

Stanley, Filbrick, and Mom all stare down the hall at Ford who’s stopped halfway to the group with a blank look on his face.

No. That can’t be true, because-

He’d have known. Maybe mom wouldn’t have, but Stanley would have told him. He would have confided in him and then he would have told Mom and-

And what?

Their parents would have gotten divorced?

They would have moved away from Glass Beach?

Ford finally looks away from Mom and over at Stanley blocking the door. No, that can’t be true, but-

But it is.

Because a lot more crap starts clicking together around the lie.

Fist fights at school Stan has marks from that he never got suspended over.

Why Stan was always in bed already when he and Mom would come home on the rare nights Stan and Dad got left home alone. He was always so quiet those nights but Ford had always figured it was just another bad fight they’d missed.

Stan had always had a deep loathing for their father. He’s assumed it was just their personalities clashing. Stan caused trouble and wasn’t the respectable son their father wanted. He was disappointing.

But this, this was so much worse than just disappointment. Miles worse.

“Stanley, is this true?” He asked calmly, slowly continuing to walk down the hallway and stopping right next to their mother.

Uh oh.

Yeah, getting Ford up here was a mistake. A big one. Because Ford was fuming, silently under the surface just waiting for confirmation before acting.

“Dad, close and lock the door.” He says instead, stepping forward and feeling a little relief when the damn bastard just listens.

“How could you possibly be defending him after what he did to you.” Ford hisses out, taking a step forward so they’re only two feet apart now right in front of each other.

Everything is falling apart again.

And its all his fault. Why couldn’t he just lie better? Why does it always have to be his fault?

Nope, we aren’t crying. You can’t. Because if you lose it now someone in this hallway is going to break open the door and kill Dad.

“Because he’s family.” It's hard, very hard, to make himself square his shoulders and stand up straight as if he expects Ford to throw a punch. “And Stanley would do anything for family, because your brother is an idiot. I’m an idiot.” Too much truth rings through his voice there but he keeps still.

Ford can only stare at his brother for a long minute because this whole situation is too much. Stan lied to him, through his teeth, in the kitchen. More and more of his brother is coming back all the time and they’re failing to document it properly.

But besides that, he needs to get past Stan and kick the fuckers teeth in.

The reaction in the gym and the car from Stan was the appropriate one.

“You are not an idiot, Stanley. And yes, family is important. Mom and I are family. Even if I personally haven’t always been there for you,” It hurts, but he pushes on.

A sick part of him feels good to know Dad is shittier than him when it comes to how Stan is treated.

“But he isn’t family. You two have never been family, other then biology Stan. That’s it, so I need you to step aside from the door. Please.” This doesn’t have to be violent; he won’t hurt Stan. Ford is sure he can talk him into moving.

Fuck does he want to. It would be so much easier to just give in and listen to Ford. To let the two of them get their hits in, or at least Ford, and then be done with it. To never have to see or deal with his sorry excuse for a father ever again. But his legs won’t move even if he wants them to.

He can’t move-

Stanley blinks a few times, looking between both of them, and all the fight melts out of himself and his expression changes to one of pain and sadness just looking at them.

It’s been ten years since he’s seen Mom and it might as well of been a lifetime since he’s seen Ford.

Now he’s right in front of him.

It makes Stan fall back, leaning against the door as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth.

“Ford?” It comes out broken, like he can’t believe Ford is here in front of him. Really here.

The anger that has been simmering and was about to boil over into a fistfight freezes when Stan starts to collapse in on himself with tears in his eyes and pain clear on his face.

And more recognition than other Stan ever had.

“Stan?”

No, this can’t be him. They were just arguing, everything falling apart, and-

Their family was shattering again, right here in this hallway, with Stan at the center of it.

Would something that terrible be enough to pull Stan back together into himself?

If so, that’s terrible, but maybe-

Stan pushes up off the door and pulled Ford into a tight hug. Just as tight as the one he’d been given after first coming out of the portal. One hand lands on his upper back and the other tangled in his hair pulling him in against Stan’s shoulder and chest.

For a split second it stuns him, making him freeze, and then he returns it with all his strength

Filbrick can wait a minute if it means a real reunion with his brother. Because this has to be it, this is what they’ve been trying to get to, who they’ve been fighting to pull back. Isn’t it?

The hug is too brief, even if it lasts a full minute, and Stan is the one to pull away, putting Ford at arm’s length just to look at him.

There are way too many thoughts running through Ford’s head for him to settle on any given thing to say.

'Sorry. I love you. Welcome back. You’re an idiot. Never do that again. I’m going to kill you. Don’t leave again. Don’t ever leave again.'

“Listen, really listen to me Stanford.” Stan says, giving him a little shake for good measure. “This is me, and I’m telling you to let Dad off. Because if you guys send him away from me? If you separate us, I’m never coming back.”

Stan hasn’t seen their father in ten years and has never had a good relationship with him. How could he possibly hold the key to getting Stan back? And does that-

“Don’t leave.” Ford finally spits out, one hand on the front of Stan’s shirt like that’ll keep him here. No, he can’t leave. He needs to stay. What the hell does Stan even mean-

“Listen!” Stan gives Ford another harder shake like that’ll make his brother understand. “The memories I’m missing, the important shit, Dad’s got them. Okay? So don’t beat the shit out of him, least not right now. Alright? Just stick to the plan. Dad and Fids, they just need to-“

The tight hold Stan’s had on Ford gives out just like his legs do and he starts to collapse forward. And Ford catches him, panic and worry gripping him like they’re back in the basement again. “Stanley, Stan!” Ford can’t hold Stan upright on his own so he just guides him down against the wall across from the bathroom instead. “Don’t! Get back here, you moron!” Ford starts to shake him even if that will accomplish nothing.

“Honey, let him go. Stop it, you’ll hurt him.” Caryn has to pull Ford’s hands away and then into another hug when Ford starts to cry.

Just when it feels like he’s done losing his brother it happens again. It’s like he’s still in the nightmare realm reliving dream after dream in the shack. Like Bill is still here tormenting him, them. Will they ever escape it or are these kinds of broken moments of clarity the only way he’ll see Stan from now on? Just a ghost most of the time with glimpses at the person from before?

The hand on Ford’s shoulder from behind makes him jump a little and startles him out of his sobbing fit thinking it's Dad. But no, it’s just Fids.

“Ford, do you have any idea how close that was?” Fiddleford can’t help but sound excited even if the whole scene right now is painful and sad. Ford’s crying, Stan’s gone, and they all still probably want to kill Filbrick based on what he overheard from around the corner.

He’d been listening pretty much the whole time since he and Ford had come upstairs together, but stayed out of view because it wasn’t his business. That was family stuff and he wasn’t going to get in the middle of the whole mess about their dad. Stan on the other hand-

“That was him!” He’s excited, looking at Stanley where he’s sitting. “The man with a plan, calm and collected. That’s what your brother was like from before! And he told us what he needs!” Okay, sure, it wasn’t very direct, but it was instructions! They could work this out, Ford just needed to calm down.

It took another minute or two before Ford was composed enough again in his spot on the floor to talk properly with Fids. “How can you be sure that wasn’t just the ramblings of a man gone mad? I mean, come on Fids. Dad can’t be the answer. Stan hates the guy, and for good reason. The best thing Dad ever did for him was teach him how to drive for fucks safe!”

Fiddleford just shakes his head, going over to the door of the bathroom and rattling the handle. “That doesn’t matter.” Damn, locked.

“Right before Stan went, I spent more time with him then any of you have in recent years and that was him. I’m sure of it. Your family bickering and falling apart did something. I don’t know, maybe caused a lot of emotions? Gave him strength to push through the barrier for a minute? We can’t be sure until we get him back properly. Doesn’t matter.” Fids knocks on the door quietly.

“Mr. Pines, can you come out please? I don’t think anyone’s going to hit you after what just happened. Probably. Please? Me and you need to figure out how to get Stan back properly.” Fids is not looking forward to having to work directly with Filbrick on this since he’s still just as upset about what happened to Stan as Ford is. Or close.

But, for Stan? He doesn’t have much of a choice.

The door to the bathroom quietly unlocks and clicks open, swinging open to reveal Filbrick standing hesitantly in the doorway. There is nothing he can think to say that will break the tension in the air, so he doesn’t even try. Even he’s not following why Stan suddenly thinks he’s important, but he’s grateful because it might be the only thing keeping him from getting killed right now.

Just seeing his father makes Ford’s anger flare up again and he rises to his feet, taking two steps towards the door. But instead of Stan getting in the way it's Fiddleford this time. “Move Fids.”

God, he’s getting tired of everything having to be a fight with this family.

“No. Because if you want Stan back you have to let this go for now. You don’t have to like it, because I don’t either, but Stan knows what he’s doing.” Hopefully bluffing his way through this will work because he doesn’t actually think he can take Ford in a fight.

Ford wants to object, to yell and scream some more, but he has to face the facts. If that was Stan, for a minute, then Filbrick needs to stay. They need to interact more and maybe that’ll trigger something. Get Stan back for real. They just have to figure out what Stan meant by Dad and Fids.

So, he takes a deep breath, forcing the anger down, and steps back.

“What could he have meant by you and Dad? Before this week you two had never met before.” He keeps his eyes on Fiddleford since it makes it easier to keep calm. They can do this, work it out. Just like always, figure out the impossible. Somehow.

Fids shifts, thinking about it and looking at Stan where he’s still slumped on the floor. Then he turns around to look at Filbrick as if that will make the picture clear of what to do next.

But of course, it doesn’t. It just creates more silence.

“I don’t know. Stan remembers his dad, but he doesn’t remember me. And the only memory that crosses over between the two of us is when Stan handcuffed him in the basement right after your parent’s arrival. And that can’t be it. Right?”

Now Ford turns to look back down at Stan, trying to think. And for a while they all just sit in silence in the hallway, looking at him.

“Maybe we should get him back upstairs? This isn’t going to make him forget everything again, will it?” Caryn finally speaks breaking the long silence. It’s been hard enough going through this once.

Now that’s a horrible thought and it snaps Ford out of his thoughts. All this fighting might have caused Stan, the new Stan they’ve been developing, to have a mental break sending him back to square one. Fuck! And it’s his fault, again.

No. It’s dad’s fault this time. Not his. He takes the opportunity to send a glare at Filbrick through the still open door but doesn’t move to hit him. Not now. Later, after Stan gets back.

“Until he wakes up again, we aren’t going to worry about that. Maybe his new consciousness just got scrambled to form the old one and will reform. Maybe. Ford, you and Filbrick should carry him up to bed. Then you and I are going to rewatch the tapes again to try and look for clues. Maybe Stan said something before that’ll make sense now? Or, maybe when Stan wakes up, he’ll know what his other self meant. He’s been pretty in tune with him since remembering Filbrick.” Fids carefully moves out of the doorway of the bathroom, moving off to the side a little so their dad can step out.

The last thing Ford wants to do is work together with his father right now. He might do something he’ll regret just being near him. But he also knows none of them can carry Stan alone. Filbrick did the first day, but that was before he went two rounds with Stan in the gym and car.

He’s almost sixty for fucks sake, he’s lucky to have survived today’s earlier beating. Sometimes, Ford hates his logical brain.

“Fine, just make it quick.” It takes a minute for him and Filbrick to get him up with arms around Stan’s back under his shoulders but between them its not too difficult to carry him back through the house and up to his bedroom.

They all end up hovering inside. Filbrick in the doorway. Caryn is at the end of the bed. Fiddleford is over by the chair. And Ford stays right on the bed sitting with Stanley.

It’s like they’re all holding their breath waiting for him to wake up again.

Fiddleford breaks it because standing around probably won’t do anything.

“Filbrick, Stanley told me earlier that you two came to an agreement for redemption in the car, correct?” He ignores how that makes both Ford and Caryn look his way.

What, did Stan just tell everyone what happened? He at least tried to keep it a secret from his wife. It doesn’t seem like his son tried at all.

He sighs, leaning against the doorframe and pushing that anger down. All of this has been a long time coming and now he’s just got to face the music. “Yes, we did.”

“Okay, I want you to tell Ford and Caryn what it was. Stan told me after I called him out on lying to Ford in the kitchen. They deserve to know. Besides, Ford will need to help me if we’re going to build something for it anyway.”

He swallows, not liking where this is going. “Stan said he would forgive me if I helped him process all the trauma Bill put him through. Tell me the torture he went through that he otherwise wouldn’t want to burden anyone else with.”

“Ford, Stan asked me earlier if we could build something to show memories. Like a TV or something? So that he could actually share the experience with Filbrick. Do you think you’d be willing to help me with that?”

Why hadn’t Stan told him first? He’d told Fids, then Mom, but he was last to know about what their father had done to Stanley. And he still didn’t know the details at all. How many times? How often? How bad…

But he’s starting to kinda get the vision Stanley had at least. It’s an evil invention, what he’s thinking up, but it's good. It makes him feel better about all this. Like maybe Dad can suffer at least similarly to how Stanley did.

“Okay,” He agrees, finally turning away from Stan to look at Filbrick and Fids. “But we’re not just making a TV screen. We’re going to make him be able to feel it too. A real full-body experience. If you beat Stanley, I don’t even want to know how many times, then you deserve to actually feel whatever Bill put him through. All of it.”

When did everything get so dark? Now her husband turns out to have abused one of their children and Ford is planning on building some sort of torture device for Stan to get even. Yeah, she’s mad at Filbrick, but does anyone deserve that? A glance around the room shows Fiddleford isn’t objecting and he’s been very level headed this whole time. Ford looks calmer but in a disturbing way.

Filbrick looks scared standing in the doorway.

But, that’s probably how Stanley felt growing up, didn’t he? Every time he screwed up at school, got in fights, just being around Filbrick. Hell, maybe this all happened because of the beatings. Stanley was smart, neck and neck with Ford, right up until early elementary when his grades took a dip and then never recovered. So, she doesn’t say anything either. She loves her husband, but she will always love her children more.

All he’s learned this week is that actions have interesting consequences. Karma does come back to bite. Pushing Stan to be tough meant the world almost ending. Pushing Ford to be smart meant he was going to end up hooked up to some sort of torture device. And never healing before having children is the direct root of everything. It's terrible, all of it, and it’s his fault.

But he’s got no choice at this point. Either keep trudging along or take the cowards way out.

“Fine. Whatever Stan wants. But you run it by him. This deal is with Stanley, not any of you. He’s the one I screwed over, so he gets to pick the exact punishment.” He only agrees because he hopes his son won’t force him to actually physically feel the memories. Stan’s proven to be merciful before. Kind.

“We’ll talk with him about details when he wakes up. Until then we’ll continue reviewing footage, right Ford? Look for clues to what Stan meant. Because if Filbrick will get Stan back we only have till your parents leave.” That didn’t give them a lot of time.

“We could stay longer, or he could. This is more important than reopening the shop right now, isn’t it?” She finally looks across at Filbrick.

There might not be any fixing these relationships. Especially not with his wife. He’s never seen her so angry. But he just swallows, “Of course. Technically the ticket is refundable up until the day before. It can be exchanged for a later flight until then.” Staying here actually looked better then going home with her right now based on how upset she was.

“Well, that settles it then.” Caryn stood and headed for the door. “You boys keep an eye on him. Your father and I are going to go start dinner and have a nice chat.” The one Stan should have just let her have. Some of this could have been avoided. She left the room and closed the door, leaving the three boys alone.

“She’s not going to kill him after knowing how important he is to Stan’s return, is she?” Fiddleford felt the need to ask.

“No, I don’t think so. But we should probably watch some tapes and turn the volume up for when she starts yelling.” Ford got up from the edge of the bed and slowly left Stan’s side to go pull out the tapes they’d watched so far.

In a lot of ways, Fiddleford couldn’t wait to just go home at the end of the week. Living with the Pines family never had a dull moment and it was getting exhausting.

Chapter 36: (Don't Fear) The Reaper

Did he die or something? Why can he hear himself talking and why is it so loud?

Stan turned over on the bed and pulled a pillow over his head to try and block out the sound. His head hurt almost as bad as it had that first night when he’d been trying to remember Ford.

Why? Wait. This isn’t the hallway; this is his bed.

That had him sitting upright on the bed and opening his eyes. Everything hurt to look at and the light coming from the TV, the noise, was making the headache worse. Why was the TV on?

“Can you shut that fucking thing off? You’re making my newest migraine a million times worse!” Stan had to close his eyes again, sitting over the edge of the bed, especially when someone started talking. The blood rushing in his ears made listening to much more than a wall of sound impossible.

Over the remainder of the evening, Ford and Fids had taken the time to rewatch some of the tapes. The introduction and their own separately. Mom came up and brought them dinner in Stan’s room near the end of the first tape a while after the yelling died off downstairs. It was dark out by the time they were about to start the first of Stan’s tapes.

But even between the two of them overanalyzing every second of them, they didn’t appear to find any hints. The closest part was the section in Ford’s tape where Stan talked about forgetting Fiddleford. Then there were the two sections where he mentioned hiding memories, but that still wasn’t new information.

When Stan yelled at them for having the TV on Ford jumped up off the spot on the floor where he’d been pouring over their notes spread out on the carpet and all but ran back over to the bed.

That sounded like Stan. The weird half Stan anyway.

“Stanley! Do you remember everything, or at least all the stuff from before?” This whole time the concern that Stan would forget all their progress had only gotten worse and worse. The starting letter was even back on the bedside table, just in case.

Not getting a response wasn’t a good sign so he continued, “Stan, I need you to say something or give me a thumbs up? Please?” Ford sat down right next to him, too caught up in his own feelings to properly register that he was being too loud.

“Jesus Ford, shut the fuck up, will you? My head feels like it might explode.” Stan also elbowed Ford in the side for good measure without removing his hands from over his face.

Fiddleford had taken the time to pause and turn down the volume on the television before following Ford over to the bed. “That sounds like he hasn’t forgotten much, at least not you anyway.” It comes out in a whisper to be mindful of Stan’s head.

It’s a huge relief even if that doesn’t assure them Stan remembers everything. He remembers him at least which in his selfish opinion is what matters most. Ford lowers his voice this time and tries again, “What’s the last thing you recall Stan?”

Several minutes go by when Stan decides to just not answer because Ford’s being stupid right now trying to ask questions when his head feels like it's splitting open. But slowly the pain does fade even if only to a dull throb. Enough to allow for some light conversation and a few thoughts.

Enough thoughts to know he isn’t supposed to be in bed and Dad’s not with him. It makes him drop his hands and stand up.

The plan was to head for the door, to find him, but as soon as he got up the pain got worse again and he was forced to sit back down. “Where is Pops? Did you two beat the shit out of him because I swear to God Stanford Filbrick Pi- “

“No, he’s fine Stanley. Just downstairs. Mom screamed at him a lot but other than that no one hit him or anything.” Ford puts an arm around Stan’s shoulder to help steady him. He’s trying to look tough but the pain isn’t allowing it. “Relax, just sit for a minute and then we’ll tell you what happened after you blacked out, nothing bad. Something pretty good, actually.”

What good could have come from blacking out? No memories came with that blackout compared to all the other times which was weird. He just let silence fall over the room waiting out his headache or trying too.

“Here, I’ll go get him some dinner. Stay here with him.” Fiddleford left the two of them alone to brave the otherwise silent house to get Stan some food. It was best for everyone if Ford and Filbrick didn’t see each other any more than necessary right now.

While Fids was gone, he ended up leaning back and over against Ford’s shoulder, dropping his hands since it wasn’t doing much anyway. The pain slowly started to fade again and his shoulders relaxed a little where Ford still had an arm around his back.

“Do you remember when we were like seven and you failed that spelling test so I swapped them?” He asked quietly without opening his eyes.

Stan had gotten more memories back at some point? Maybe while they were down in the basement working? Or maybe while he was out more had cropped up?

“Yes, I remember,” Though it's not a very pleasant one. “Why, did you recall that while you were asleep?”

He gave a small shake of his head, “No. When I was telling Mom about everything. About Dad, I mean. I was saying how Dad never hit you, just me. And my mind played that memory of us on the bus.” Maybe he should just shut up, but, “He didn’t, did he?”

This would be difficult to talk about if Stan had all his memories. He has to be the one to tell Stan that no, he hadn’t. It was just him. Fuck. “No, Stan.”

Neither response should have made him feel good. In one he’s alone and the other he failed his twin. Both suck, but this one a little less for some reason. A little bit of joy crops up in his chest and it pulls a quiet chuckle from Stan. Other him is ridiculous. There isn’t much he can say to that without making this conversation even darker so he just shuts up while the headache continues to fade.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything? I mean, I get you were a kid and you had to be scared of repercussions, but you should have spoken up. We would have figured it out and helped you, something other than just letting it be. Making you live with him.” Ford can’t help the anger that leaks into his voice near the end but it's not directed at Stan, just Filbrick.

Stan waits several beats, hoping for another memory. Maybe a train of thought to help him answer that, but nothing comes. The joy fades with the headache and he sits up properly, opening his eyes again to look at Ford now. He looks pissed but mostly just sad and worried. Guilty maybe? Or is that pity, he’s not sure.

It’s a great relief when finally, some more whispers happen and his mouth starts talking, “Other than Dad I liked our little life. Mom and you in Jersey. An endless beach right on the water to play on every day. Sure, we had to share a room but I liked that too. If I said anything all of that would have changed. Best case scenario Mom and Dad split up and the three of us move to Wisconsin, where Granny and Gramps live, far away from everything. Worst-case scenario we could have ended up in the system, separated. And I couldn’t handle that. Not knowing if you were okay or who you were with, not being there to protect you.”

Fear settles in his chest and it's not just from his other self because when it’s put like that keeping quiet makes a lot more sense. It wasn’t just about protecting Ford, although that too, but protecting himself. In a weird way. From change and from things possibly being worse.

“I mean, you ever met anyone who’s been in the system? I have and they don’t have a lot of really pretty stories to tell. Keeping siblings together doesn’t always happen and-“ He has to stop and take a couple of deep breaths. “One beating a year, on average, wasn’t that bad of a deal to make sure I kept everything together. Kept those beatings from being worse. Or from them turning into. Well, something else. You just don’t know with people. But I knew Dad and what his limits were, the worst he could get.”

That didn’t feel like it was him talking and it makes him frown a lot looking over at Ford who’s just got his lips in a thin line and an unreadable expression.

None of that should have ever been Stan’s call to make. He never should have had to weigh all those possibilities and options and pick one horrible choice over the others. Wisconsin wouldn’t have been too bad though, they could have at least been near a lake or something, maybe? But it also would have been a lot colder there with a lot fewer adventures. Getting by, even with help from their grandparents, would have been harder if it was just them and Mom.

And yeah, the foster care system might have been okay, but it also could of been a tossup. Especially living in Jersey. They could have ended up anywhere going to different schools with different families. That makes his chest hurt, the idea of growing up without Stanley. If that thought hurts him this much it probably knocks Stan out flat with how much he cares all the time, about him. Logically, he gets it, even if it shouldn’t have been that way.

He tries for several long minutes to think of what he can say to that, some reassurance that those awful things wouldn’t have happened. But there just isn’t any way to be sure of that. They could have, if things had gone differently.

And it makes him think about that other dimension too. Other Ford. His Stanley had said ‘he’s been through enough’ and it hadn’t made sense before. But maybe in that reality, Ford was the one subjected to their dad’s misdirected anger.

Without Stan or Schermie around he would have been the only target.

Talking about this, thinking about the levels of screwed up this all is, hurts. It’ll give him a headache if he lets it. So instead of saying anything he just pulls Stan over into a hug and keeps quiet for a while. They’ll make Filbrick pay. That’s a good way to break the silence actually.

Ford pulls back to look at Stan, keeping an arm around his shoulder. “That machine you wanted Fids to make, how would you feel about us making it an immersive experience for Dad? Recreating the actual pain without inflicting proper damage on him? I don’t think we could, should, or would need to add the additional layer of emotional damage, what with the pain being the driving force behind it, but maybe-“

Stan can’t help but laugh, interrupting Ford and causing his shoulders to shake with it. This is absurd. Ford is talking about making a damn torture device for their father, casually. Like it's nothing, just for him. Okay, maybe for his own benefit too, but still. It’s ridiculous. Insane even. He doesn’t need to ask or think about it to know what to say.

“That was never the point of sharing it with him Ford. It wasn’t about getting even or hurting him because he hurt me. I’ve been through a lot and most of it I would never put on you, Fids, or Mom. Because of how much I love you. And yeah, I love him, but less. I just want to show him, maybe talk about it. And I’ll probably cry a lot too. But then I’ll be able to let it go because I won’t be alone anymore, the only one who saw it.” He continues since Ford just looks confused and a little disappointed.

“Dad’s like me, Ford. Secretly very emotional. And I think he really does feel bad about what happened, what he did. His dad sucked even worse than him. Kinda glad we never got to meet the guy.” Sure, they’d seen pictures, but the guy was dead before they were born. “That’s why mom married him, you know. Because they’re both actually pretty emotional people. Mom’s just never hidden it. You know that stupid mentality about how guys aren’t supposed to feel or whatever. Dad had that drilled into him worse than he did with me.”

“I mean, come on. He thought I was going to kill myself so they flew all the way- “

That makes him stop and his head starts to hurt again, making him close his eyes as the headache gets worse. Note to self, talking about Dad too much makes his head hurt. Maybe don’t do that.

Leave it to Stan to talk him out of something insane. Because he knows, deep down, that hurting Dad won’t actually make things right. It’ll maybe make him feel a little better, but it would also just make things generally worse.

He wants to be the one Stan talks with about all the awful things Bill did to him. Both of them. Bill tortured both of them and once Stan remembers they can talk about that, they should. It’s upsetting that Stan doesn’t want that, because who is he supposed to tell these things to? Is he just supposed to sit with them and hide from most of the nightmares using that dream gun?

Maybe, just maybe, it would be reasonable to share some of what he went through with Dad. If he really does care. Maybe. He’ll think about it. Because Stan makes a damn good argument and it would make him smile if Stan’s head wasn’t hurting again. “Are you okay? What’s making the pain worse?” This time he remembers to keep his voice down.

It’s at that moment that Fiddleford comes back into the room carrying a tray of food and water. The scene of Stan still clutching his head, just like when he left, makes him frown well crossing the room. “Has it not gotten better this whole time? That’s almost as bad as when he first woke up, isn’t it?”

Ford takes the tray, setting it over his lap, while keeping one hand on Stan. “No, it did get better. We were talking about Dad and everything and this it got worse when Stan brought up our parents flying out here.”

Now probably wasn’t the best time for the twins to be talking about that, not when they had more important things to discuss, like the flash of real Stanley they’d seen in the hallway. But he doesn’t say as much and just falls quiet, waiting for Stan to recover to talk some more.

“God this is getting old,” Stan mutters, shifting back on the bed so he can sit against the wall. It moves him out of Ford’s grasp but he sits up and takes the tray and opens his eyes. “Alright, I’ll eat, you tell me what I missed.” Sometimes talking made the pain go away, like with Ford that first night, so maybe it would work again? Or he could always just think about burning his arm again, that always made the pain in his head seem tame.

“After you blacked out it appeared like the full version of you came forward in the hallway for a couple minutes. Using that time to hug Ford, which in retrospect might have been a waste of time,” That earns Fiddleford a glare, “What? It was! He was trying to tell us something, something about your dad and me. But then he passed out before he could finish whatever he was going to say.”

There’s no scenario where that minute of a hug was a waste, but he doesn’t do much more than glare about it because he sees Fid's point. Stan was about to hand them the key but the door got shut before it could get past the threshold and into their hands.

“The other you said something about Dad having the important memories, the ones that’ll get you back. Do you have any idea what that means?” Ford asks, looking at Stan who isn’t touching his food while they talk.

Something about that rings familiar but no thoughts, feelings, or ideas come with it. Just familiarity. Kinda like the shadow he’s been wearing since remembering Dad. It's there, just out of reach, and he can’t remember what it’s supposed to mean.

So, he sits with it, glancing at both of them and then starting to pick at his food while trying to think about it. He remembers Dad after the whole thing this morning but he doesn’t Remember Fiddleford at all. Sure, they’re friends. The familiarity is there, but only because they’ve developed it over the last few days. He’s still mostly a stranger even if they apparently spent months together before that growing closer.

When Stan doesn’t answer, just eating his food with a furrowed brow, Fids continues. “Ford and I watched the tapes, again, while you were out and took some notes.” He leaves the bed to go gather up the scattered pieces of paper all over the rug in front of the television, bringing them back over, hovering, so Stan can look at them and maybe see something they don’t. It is his head, after all.

So far, he’s just been going along with everything, trying to remember because that’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? Everyone wants him to get old Stan back and for the memories to click back into place to form the picture they’re familiar with. But is that the right thing to do? Should he keep pushing forward? Because if he does, he’ll go away, won’t he?

He’d essentially blacked out, dead for a minute, when other Stan came through. By now he knows these people and has a pretty good understanding of his life. It’s a happier one filled with good people, other than the shitty father. Now is when he needs to stop, if he doesn’t want to come back completely.

He could probably stay like this otherwise. Most of the bad memories are forgotten and left behind with a lot of the good ones having come back. That’s what past Stan wanted, didn’t he? To kinda be here but not fully? To get a second chance without having to remember all that?

What would he say to Fids and Ford? They’d be mad. No doubt. Because they both want the other him back, from before. They’re nice to him, because he’s the shell of who they love, but is that it?

All this runs through his head while he eats, keeping his head down focused on his food while the other two start passing notes back and forth at the end of the bed. But when he’s finished and has set the tray with the dish aside the papers get pushed into his hands. It makes him close his eyes, and not in pain this time.

If he sees something and remembers what he meant, he could lie. Say nothing's there and get to keep living, keep them from getting his old self back. He doesn’t want to die. If that’s what’ll happen because he’s not sure. He puts the papers down and covers his face again, like he’s in pain when really, he’s trying not to cry.

It's conflicting and too big of a decision, but this one is his to make. There aren’t many, but he has this one. He could stay, or he could go. He could keep forgetting or he could keep trying to remember.

“Stan, are you okay?” Ford asks hesitantly. His brother has been quiet for a long time while eating. Did the pain not go away this whole time, or-

Oh, Stan is crying. Why is he crying? Did he remember something else?

He shifts over to sit next to him again, putting that same arm around Stan’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s wrong? It’s alright, we can talk about it, whatever it is?” When that just makes Stan cry harder into his hand Ford tries to look at Fiddleford for help of some kind. Stan hadn’t been looking off blankly, so there couldn’t have been a memory to cause this, right? That’s what causes Stan to cry like this though, he hasn’t shown much emotion other than around remembering.

Fids doesn’t have any better ideas about what could be causing the distress than Ford does at first. All they did was hand him their notes hoping he’d be able to help them find the last puzzle piece to bring Stan back-

“Oh.”

Fids moves the tray over onto the floor so he can sit on Stan’s other side and put an arm of his own around his back. “Stanley? Do you want to bring the other you back? Is that why you are upset?”

It's weird, thinking that technically right now there are two split versions of Stan in his mind. The one they get to see and the real one that just kinda hovers in this guy’s head. But the crying makes a little more sense when you consider those facts. They’re essentially asking this guy to figure it out so that he disappears. That’s a lot.

Stan lets out a quiet laugh around the tears but keeps his head bent down over his lap still without looking up. It’s complicated because part of him doesn’t want to do it. Staying like this would be kinder, in a way. Less painful. Less difficult. And he’s not that different than they’re Stan, right? He’s close enough, isn’t he?

“I’ll probably see something,” He waves the papers with the hand not covering his tears. “And then you two will work out the rest and old me will come back and then I’ll just-“ He chokes a little. “I’ll be gone, or whatever. And part of both of us doesn’t want that. To remember, to be here, to…” What he’s saying probably isn’t even making any sense so it’s a good thing he loses the ability to speak anymore as he cries.

Ford really wants to hit this guy, Stan, for the first time since down in the basement when Fids forced them to understand.

How could he possibly not want to remember? They’re so close to getting Stan back and now he’s getting cold feet after all they’ve done? Stan wouldn’t have tried to tell them what to do if he didn’t want to come back, so this guy has to be lying. None of this should matter because once Stan’s back-

Ahh.

This guy won’t exist anymore. And now that he knows who everyone is, he’s probably gotten attached and doesn’t want to go. To die, or whatever happened when the real Stan comes back.

Stan’s faced death before, a lot of times, but now that this is only a fragmented part of himself. Can he do it again? Based on the crying and fear, maybe not.

What could he possibly say to encourage him here? To get him to step forward and do it anyway?

He tries to look at Fids but he just sort of shrugs and does a little bit of a weird face that doesn’t mean anything to Ford. Very helpful.

What would Stan say?

“Hey, it’s alright. Look, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” It’s a lie, a bald-faced lie, but Stanley doesn’t know what his lying looks like because he’s never done it before. Not on this great of scale anyway.

That makes Stan look up, uncovering his eyes, to look at Ford. It takes a minute to clean up his face a little and clear his throat so he can talk. “Really?”

Ford gives Stan’s shoulder a squeeze and nods, “Of course. Look, we haven’t really stopped to ask you if this is what you want this whole time. Because you are the new version of Stan. In your own way, you’re a person too. And if you want to stay then alright. I’ll love you anyway because you're still Stanley.” He does love Stanley, regardless of if he remembers. But he wants his brother back more, even if it takes lying through his teeth to get it. He hopes this version of Stan doesn’t have the skills to see through.

For a long time, Stan just looks at Ford trying to decide if he’s being honest or not. The expression on Ford’s face looks genuine and he’s smiling at him even if it’s tinted with sadness. This can’t be easy for Ford to say so that emotion makes sense. He doesn’t know how to feel about this new development. Other him is basically swooning, the damn idiot, but this is his decision, not the shadows.

Maybe he could stay and things would be okay. He doesn’t need all his memories back to be happy. According to the tapes, he’s better off without them. So, if Ford could live with it, with him, being a little different, then just maybe-

Stan hasn’t looked at the papers. He’s supposed to look at the papers here and then make another big self-sacrifice, deciding to help them and die. Just one more time. But his words aren’t working, because Stan looks like he’s headed the other way, towards staying as he is.

No, that can’t happen.

What else can Ford do? What might tip the scales the other way that he hasn’t already done? Is just saying I love you not enough to get old Stan to fight in there? What more could he want?

Using the free hand, the one not around Stan’s shoulder, he reaches over and removes the stack of papers from his brother’s hand. Then he just takes it, holds it, and gives it a squeeze. “Whatever you decide, we’ll do it together.”

Instead of looking at Ford, he looks down at their hands this time and just stares at them for a while.

Ford can’t actually want that. Him, as this broken half version of himself. And maybe he’s right for those feelings because who he is now wouldn’t have done any of the crazy things Stan’s put himself through for Ford. Because he still doesn’t understand.

If he doesn’t remember, that’ll be a problem.

Something bad could happen again someday. Ford could screw up, needing help. And he wouldn’t be there, here. Because he was too selfish to remember who he is. Was.

Ford has sucked at loving him for a long time, but he’s trying to make up for it now in the same way Stan did by defeating Bill. Just in smaller ways, like pretending to be okay with this. Lying.

It makes him chuckle and pull his hand away, elbowing Ford in the side as he laughs harder. “You lying son of a bitch, did you learn that from me? Because that was pretty good.” Which pretty quickly devolves into more and more laughter, shoulders shaking, and the sound filling the room. And to think he almost fell for it, that was really good.

When he finally stops, he looks back down at the stack of papers and sighs. Why can’t he be a more selfish person?

Fiddleford is holding his breath and Ford feels like he’s about to start choking if Stan doesn’t spit something out already. Yes or no. Stay or go. Help or not.

“Alright, fine. I’ll help you guys. But one of you needs to go out and buy me a headstone or something to remember me by, got it?” Stan doesn’t look at either of them and just grabs the dumb stack of papers. He doesn’t want to know if it makes them both look happy. It probably does, but that’ll hurt to see. So, he starts flipping through their notes which are mostly just quotes from the tapes.

Ford sits back against the wall and almost starts crying because it worked. His lying worked! But he doesn’t, he keeps it together because acting too happy would upset this version of Stan. He doesn’t say anything at all, just silently smiling to himself, while Stan rifles through the papers.

Stan was always a sucker when it came to Ford. Just like him, really. Fids had always been a sucker whenever Stan needed help or something. It’s fitting that Ford be the one to convince Stan to keep pushing forward, back towards remembering. Fiddleford keeps quiet too but pulls his arm back while he waits.

A lot of these notes are just garbage with nothing screaming out at him. Ford’s handwriting is difficult to read because it's in cursive and his one bad eye isn’t helping. “Ford, are you sure I don’t own any glasses?” He finally looks up and over at him, feeling annoyed at his own eyesight.

The smile turns into a frown, “No, not that I’m aware of, why? Are you having trouble reading?”

Stan bites back a smart remark, “Yes, it's difficult reading your cursive handwriting. It makes my eye hurt.”

“Well, I suppose it might not be a bad idea to get you on my health and dental insurance. We could get you into the eye doctor then and see if you need them?” There was also the bionic eye, but Stan wanted to wait until he remembered, so he doesn’t offer it as a solution now.

Stan is silent at that, looking back at the page for a minute before turning back to Ford and just taking his glasses right off his face to put on. It helps, marginally, so he keeps reading without saying anything.

Is Stan’s one eye really that bad? His prescription is pretty heavy compared to Fids, but it seems to get Stan moving, continuing to read afterward. He’ll need to make a call to get Stan put on his insurance tomorrow during business hours.

It only takes three pages before Stan spots something in Ford’s handwriting that makes him put down the other pages.

‘You know, I worry that I’m going to forget Fiddleford. I mean, I know I will. Because I’m going to forget everything. But I’ve only known him for two months compared to you. I’ve been hiding so many memories with him up here that it might take a long time for those to come back, if ever.’

This is it, right?

“Give me a pen,” He holds out a hand and then crosses out most of the words in the quote so only part of the phrase remains.

‘I’ve been hiding so many memories with him that it might take a long time for those to come back, if ever.’

For a while he just looks at it, rereading the sentence a dozen times before sighing and giving Ford his glasses back. “Alright, I think I kinda get it. Here, look at this.” He motions them both forward to look at the page he’s adjusted and scribbled out. “I was hiding memories from Bill up in my head, including all the memories of Fiddleford so that he wouldn’t know we were working together. Where do you think would be the last place Bill would look for those memories inside my head? The last person I would trust with something so important?”

Ford glances between the paper and then up at Stan, over at Fids, then back down at the paper all within a few seconds. “You think old you took all those memories and gave them to a version of Dad, in a memory somewhere?” It makes him smile wide again even if he’s still not happy with Filbrick. Because that’s pretty genius.

If Bill already thought Stan’s head was empty, in the beginning at least, then why would he bother sifting through or even looking for a plan? But, just to be safe, Stan put it in the most unlikely spot.

“It couldn’t have been too bad of a memory then, with Dad, otherwise Bill might have looked at it for inspiration. You think we just need to trigger whatever memory they’re hidden inside and the rest will fall together?” He’s excited, exactly like how Fiddleford was in the hallway earlier.

“That’s going to be impossible Ford, do you have any idea how many memories we’d have to sift through? We can’t possibly recreate a fraction of those memories even with all of you here together. That’s almost eighteen years’ worth.” Fids is realizing this might be more difficult than they first thought.

“No, Stan would have had to give it to Filbrick in a memory where it was just them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have specified just you and him. So, all we need is to recreate some middle-of-the-road and happy memories between them. There can’t be that many of those if you disregard all the ones they argued and fought in.” Ford jumped off the bed, practically vibrating. “We just need to ask Dad about all the boring and happy memories.” He grabs Stan by the arm to haul him off the bed so they can go downstairs.

Well, that’s it, too late to take it back now. They’re on the path to recovery and it's too late to go back. But part of him is surprisingly okay with it seeing how happy Ford looks pulling him off the bed to go wake up their parents. Are they even asleep?

“I’ll get some whiteboards out of the basement, then we can start going through and cross-referencing memories between the three of you in the living room to try and narrow it down further.” Fids gets up too, following behind Stan as he gets dragged out of the room.

Stan is sure now more than ever that he’s best friends with two absolute dorks. Cross-referencing memories on whiteboards, maybe they’ve lost their minds

Chapter 37: Bill Cipher Has A Gun!

Notes:

ITS HAPPENING!!!!

I'm so excited. I hope you enjoy it! Also, I just thought the title was too funny not to use, you'll understand when you've finished reading.

Trigger warning for extreme violence in this one. XD

Over the next whole day, Ford and Fiddleford tried, passionately, to work out what memory it was. They made lists, rewrote them, and kept quizzing Filbrick on possible answers over and over late into that first night until Mom had to kick them out of the living room so they could go back to sleeping on opposite sides of the pull-out couch.

But the morning was when things got intense. They both got up early, working in the basement while everyone slept, to compile a list of all the possible memories they’d been able to come up with. Creating an order from earliest to latest for them to act out and recreate.

Which is what they did, all day. Starting with some of the best memories.

Like that time Dad had let him take a drag from a Cigar he’d been smoking at fifteen out on the porch when he was very drunk.

Or the first time he’d tried alcohol when he was given a can on their seventeenth birthday. (Or Dad thought that was the first time anyway)

They recreated holiday moments, boxing matches to the best of their abilities, and a pretty crappy attempt at the one-time Stan had helped Filbrick sell something down in the pawn show.

All of their efforts brought back a lot of memories with Pops, but none of them were the right one. Every time he’d come back afterwards and have to shake his head so they could move on to the next one.

It was evening by the time they’d gone through the whole list on both whiteboards and Ford had brought up a third one so he could resume grilling Dad again.

“You must not be remembering something, maybe it was a small and insignificant memory. You need to think Dad, think!” Ford was pacing back and forth, wracking his own mind for other times they hadn’t already thought of when the pair was alone during their youth.

“I am! Really, I’ve told you everything I can remember. Even the ones when he was really young from twenty-five years ago. Yelling at me isn’t going to make me recall it magically.” But Filbrick is frustrated too, because what memory would Stan of pinned as boring enough for Bill to ignore but important enough to use?

Stan is just tired at this point. They’ve done nothing all day except jump from one memory to the next, which is pretty exhausting, and talk in circles. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen, whatever it is, anytime soon. Not when they’re trying so hard.

“Ford, maybe it’s not something Pops was even aware of. You know, like maybe he was just doing something and I was watching him? I mean, we’ve done almost all of the interactive stuff that anyone can recall. Maybe he was just making coffee or something?” If that’s true then they’ll never figure it out. There are too many mundane things Filbrick could have been doing.

Fiddleford was right, maybe this is impossible.

“You watched him make coffee this morning!” Ford’s getting frustrated and it's not directed at anyone in particular. He should be able to work this out because he should know Stan better than anyone. “It has to mean something to you, Stan. Because you wouldn’t have stuck it in any old memory. It would have been in something memorable. Has to be.” But whatever it was, whatever they’re supposed to figure out, it's apparently something only Stan would know.

Only he knows the answer and it's not like they could fake their family falling apart just to try and ask more questions.

Now there’s a thought-

No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. That won’t work.

“Honey, maybe you need to take a break from this. It's only Tuesday, we still have till Thursday before we need to delay your father's flight if Stan still doesn’t remember. Forcing it might only make it worse.” Caryn suggests from her spot on the couch, looking over at Ford as he paces, clicking his pen over and over.

“Maybe it was never just a Stan and Filbrick memory at all,” Fids shrugs, “I mean, if it has to mean something what are some of the best family memories you guys have? It can’t hurt to try those at least while everyone’s here under the same roof, right?”

Stan can see that Ford is actually on the edge of hysterics. He’s pacing, clicking his pen, and almost muttering to himself in his efforts to work it out. A puzzle that just can’t be solved because Ford probably wasn’t there for whatever memory it was.

He hates seeing Ford like this, both of him do.

Technically there is one more idea that they haven’t tried, even if he doesn’t like it, but now might be a good time before Ford gives himself a heart attack or something.

Stan gets up, reluctantly, off the couch and sighs. “I didn’t want to, but I think maybe I need to watch the tape Stan took of what happened in the basement.” It won’t be a fun watch, by any means, but it's something extreme. That seems to be what gets a reaction. Family falling apart pulled Stan back last time, maybe watching him kill himself will do it again.

“What tape?” Fids asks, frowning while looking between Stan and Ford.

“Before you guys started up the portal Stan set up your camera in the corner of the basement to tape everything that went down with Bill.” Ford has stopped pacing, just looking over at Stan. “Are you sure? Because it probably won’t be enough. If anything it’ll just make you remember Bill which might give you nightmares and you know we can’t use the dream gun on you when your-“

“I know!” God Ford talks a lot sometimes. “I know what it might do. But it's also almost as extreme as that fight in the hall, isn’t it? Maybe it’ll knock me out again or whatever that was. It’s better than you giving yourself an aneurysm or driving Fids mad because you won’t stop clicking your pen.”

“How did you know-“

“Because you used to hate when I did that down in the-“ Stanley stops and closes his mouth, frowning to himself and then shaking his head. “Tape, I’m watching the tape.” He walks around away from the couch and back towards the stairs in the entryway without waiting for anyone to agree or follow.

These last few days what started as whispers and glimpses of his other self has turned into a full-fledged shadow that talks for him sometimes. He’s right there all the time and all the memories from today have only made it more solid. But none of it’s been enough. So, maybe talking to his other self, if that’s what this does again, will give Ford and Fiddleford more insight.

“Stay here, we’ll be back,” Ford mutters on the way out, following after Stan with Fids following right behind him. If Stan’s going to watch the tape someone should be there, needs to be there, if it does bring Stan back for another minute. At least they’ll be able to ask what the memory is this time now that they’ve worked out everything else.

The tape, ‘Bill’s Demise’ is in the memory box and after digging it out he brings it over to the television to put in the player on top before sitting down in his chair with the remote. He waits for Ford to get settled in his chair and Fiddleford to pull the cot over so he can watch too.

Stan takes a second to brace himself too, because just hearing about everything has been bad enough. Now he’s going to watch it. All of it and be forced to remember. It could bring good memories but it's almost guaranteed to dig up a lot of bad ones.

So much for an unburdened second life.

Stan hits play and turns the volume up all the way when all they can see and hear is a black screen and no sound. He didn’t forget the lens cap on or something, did he?

“Hey, is this thing on?” Then Stan comes into view with a flashlight pointed up from down by his chest. Old him is whispering like he doesn’t want to be overheard.

“Here’s hoping things go well, huh? Feel free to skip forward about an hour. Fids and I still have about that much time left working on the final fuse box. Unless you want to listen to us arguing for an hour. Heh, anyway. Sorry about what you're about to watch. It’s pretty heavy and it's going to look really real.” The Stan on-screen bites his lip and glances back behind himself and then back.

“Because it is. I’m really doing this. After I step into this room, I’m going to lean into all that giving in I’ve been wanting to do. It’s the only way I can think to keep myself from thinking something that’ll give me away. I’m committing to the role. I’m gonna pretend for a minute that I really am planning on destroying the world. Lean into all that anger I’ve had towards Ford all these years. Let myself live in a fantasy world where I really do run off with Bill.” And he smiles for a second before it falls. “Sorry, that probably makes me sound really awful. But, I guess I am. So. Enjoy the show.”

Then Stan turns off his flashlight and disappears from view in the dark of the basement. The only small amount of light comes from the door in the corner of the camera view.

Stan fast forwards a little, about twenty minutes, into the recording before letting the tape play. Sure enough, the sound of distant bickering is barely audible with the volume all the way up.

“No, Fids that’s the wrong one. Here, use this electrical tape…”

Stan continues fast-forwarding until about the hour mark, stopping occasionally to make sure the pair is still working. He times it so they all get to listen as Fids and Stan close up the last panel with a loud bang of metal in the other room. Some indiscernible whispers get exchanged and then the room is silent. For a few minutes anyway, before everything picks up.

Dad and Stan come downstairs; the handcuffs come out. He gets to see and hear how exactly he got the broken nose in the first place.

The room gets brighter, and more visible, while the sound of Dad yelling drowns out any noise from in the other room. He’d like to pause the tape but watching it leaves him frozen. Kinda like how he gets during memories except he’s very aware he’s still here in the bedroom. Just glued to the TV.

Not much else can be seen other than the slow powering up of the portal and Dad slowly shutting up until Stan finally comes back into the room and stops right in front of the lever. His past self telling Dad to be quiet and then following through. God, that must have been so difficult. Knowing his parents were there to witness everything, especially if he failed.

The rest of the tape all goes by surprisingly fast since the whole scene can’t last more than twenty minutes from Stan handcuffing Dad to when the whole family leaves the basement as a group sobbing and mourning.

Mourning him, other him. For that impossible thing he did.

But even after watching the whole tape nothing happens. No big memories come, not even anything with Bill. He more or less made himself relive that, or watched it from a third perspective, for nothing.

“Stanley, are you okay?” Fords come around to stand in the way of the TV, taking the remote to pause the now black video. Stan looks like he’d started crying at some point during the tape but otherwise, he doesn’t look gone. He’s still present, here.

Fids was sure Stan hadn’t gone anywhere during the whole thing, watching him instead of the screen after the initial introduction. Which means this didn’t achieve what they wanted. Nothing they’ve been doing seems to be capable of it. Maybe Stan is just too good at hiding things just like how he’s too good at lying.

It takes several minutes before Stan can make himself say something because he’s not sure how to answer the question. No, not really. But technically nothing is wrong. Not in the way he thinks Ford means. “It didn’t work. That’s the worst thing we could do and it didn’t even work.” With both hands empty he clenches them into fists and looks down at the floor instead of at Ford.

“It’s okay, it was a good try, Stan.” He brings up a hand to make his brother look at him by tilting his head up. “Seriously, it’s fine. Maybe mom’s right. Maybe we all just need to get some sleep and try again in the morning. Because we will, we’ll keep trying until you remember. Okay?” Not that he thinks he’ll be able to get much sleep with that tape fresh in his mind, but Stan should be able to. Thus far he hasn’t had anything but restful sleep without any nightmares.

Hopefully, it stays that way since the tape didn’t throw him into a memory.

This would be the first night of Fids trying out the dream guns Stanley made before. They’d wanted to get up early today so had avoided using them given one of the side effects is incredibly deep sleep.

Stan just sighs, tension running out of his shoulders and fists before pulling back and nodding. “Alright, fine. Let’s go get ready for bed then.” At this rate, Ford should probably just move his bed in here since they’re sharing a room like when they were kids anyway. Sleeping on a cot can’t be good for his back.

It doesn’t take long, barely twenty minutes, for everyone to change, brush their teeth, and lie down in bed. Fids across the hall, Mom and Dad downstairs, and Ford on his stupid cot. Or he assumed so, he can’t see through walls to be sure everyone else is going to bed. Stan is at least, because he’s exhausted.

It only takes about ten minutes of tossing and turning before he finally manages to drift off.

 

Waking up the first thing that he notices is that he’s not in bed upstairs anymore. He’s lying down on the couch and the house smells like smoke. No, it doesn’t just smell like smoke, there’s actually a thick layer of it hovering above the couch blocking the ceiling from view.

That’s not right. Because he was just upstairs in bed.

Sitting up the cause of the smoke becomes obvious and the heat in the room hits him. Everywhere, in all the doorways, are thick walls of fire starting to eat across the walls of the room from both ends.

For a few long seconds, he’s so confused and scared that he can’t physically get himself up off the couch. The doorway that leads to the entryway and kitchen is fully engulfed in flames. On the other end, going into the hallway, the fire is a darker orange color like it has been burning longer or found more fuel there.

He needs to move, get up and move. When he goes to get off the couch however, glancing at the floor, there are nails driven up through the floorboards from underneath all over the place so there is no clear path, even if there was no fire blocking the two exits in the room.

This has to be a nightmare of some kind because there are too many inconsistencies. He should be upstairs, not down. His parents are sleeping on the couch, not him. And the fire filling the edges of the room, making the place impossible to breathe in, couldn’t have gotten this bad without the whole family being woken up.

And the nails, how is it even possible for someone to have driven those through the floor like that without getting in the crawl space? No, this is a nightmare.

But it feels so incredibly real just like when he relives a memory.

No, this can’t be. Right? He’s pretty sure there would be evidence of this happening in the shack he knows.

Whatever, doesn’t matter.

Regardless, he still needs to find a way out of here. Doors are blocked, floor is also blocked, but the windows shouldn’t be. He finally moves, walking across the couch and jumping over to the chair near the curtains.

But when he throws them open, burning his arm some on the creeping fire, it's clear the glass has been boarded over from the outside. It leaves him staring at the glass and the wooden boards beyond it for a very long minute.

He’s actually trapped in here with the fire and the nails with the windows closed up like someone put him in here intentionally to burn to death. To cook to death.

Coughs wrack him for a minute from the smoke and he’s a little lightheaded but he looks around again, trying to see through the haze of the room for something that might help. Way across the room, away from the couch, is a hammer on the table closer to the other doorway. But the path is littered with nails and there’s no way-

He moves anyway, despite his own objections. Choking to death can’t be that bad, he’ll pass out long before the fire actually burns him, right?

But he’s moving, almost like in the dream with Bill, is that what-

Off the couch and onto the floor, nails digging into the bottom of his feet.

It makes him scream, louder than when his arm had been burned. But his body keeps walking. Pulling up and off nails only to step on more again all the while leaving a trail of blood over to the table.

They aren’t long nails, maybe only an inch long after coming through the floor but it still hurts like hell and they cut up his feet more and more on the trip there and then even worse on the trip back to the couch.

His lungs heave, his feet feel like they’ve been dipped in acid, and he’s sweating horribly from the heat of the room. His vision’s dizzy too, unable to focus properly.

Why doesn’t he just lay down and fucking die already, get the nightmare over with for fucks sake!

He keeps going though, moving back to the chair and shattering the glass window, covering himself and the chair in it. Freezing cold air blows in through it, making it a little easier to breathe as he works on removing the boards little by little.

One board at a time since it's just the one layer and then he can see the front lawn covered in snow. After removing four of the six boards from the window the fire has spread closer and he has to climb up through the glass, getting it in the wounds on his feet, to jump out into the snow.

His feet are cut to hell and covered in glass. His left arm is half burned like in the kitchen, and his lungs struggle with the transition from hot to ice cold. There’s probably soot or something in there, making it hard to actually get in Oxygen.

It throws him into a coughing fit while pushing himself up, stumbling away from the building on his feet, adding freezing cold as a sensation of pain. Some black shit and blood come up when he lands on his knees a little further away in the snow, staining the yard black and red. He’s halfway across the yard, a safer distance from the fire.

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” He mutters, glancing back at the house and the trail of bloody footprints from his scramble to get away from the house fire.

“Aw, you managed to get out. I was really looking forward to seeing what a human looked like cooked through. It’s alright, we’ll try again later.”

That voice.

It's familiar in two ways and when he looks up in the direction it came from, he can see Ford sitting over on the hood of his car, the Stanley Mobile. And he’s holding a shotgun in his hands.

No, that can’t be Ford. What kind of sick twisted dream is this? What the fuck is-

“I’ll give you a five-minute head start before I come after you, does that seem fair? Hell, I’ll even give you the keys.” The familiar keychain and single-car key land in the snow a foot in front of where he’d just coughed up blood and soot.

“Fuck you, Bill. I’m not running for your amusement. If your gonna kill me just do it here in the fucking yard.” Still, he grabs the keys and stumbles up to his feet, walking over towards Ford.

Bill? This isn’t fucking Bill, that’s his brother- And why does he have a shotgun, what is happen-

It hurts walking over to the car but Stan does it, walking through the snow right over to where Ford is sitting on the hood.

“Either kill me here or we can both just stand around for five minutes wasting everyone’s time.” The words came out in a growl, unlike any sound he’d heard himself make. It left his thoughts silent.

This is a really fucked up nightmare.

Then Ford starts laughing, except it doesn’t sound like Ford.

It sounded like-

Bill.

Like in the basement.

Which explained the eyes not looking right, and why everything here was so-

Rather than shooting Stan with the shotgun Ford/Bill pulled a handgun out from behind himself and aimed it at Stan’s chest, firing two rounds into the left shoulder at such close range that it made him fall back into the snow.

Now his shoulder was on fire and his chest too adding more blood to the white snow behind himself and making him scream again. But then, after a lot of heavy breathing, Stan started to get up again, pushing himself back onto his feet-

Two more shots, this time further down his left flank going straight through his chest, lung, and out the back into the ground from the close proximity. This time he keeps himself upright even if it makes him start choking while staggering forward towards the car.

“You really don’t know when to quit, do you? You know that’s part of what I like about you Stanley. You have so much more strength than any other human I’ve ever met. More drive. No matter how many times you get knocked down you keep getting back up, right up until your heart stops beating.”

“Fuck you, there is nothing that you could do to make me give up. You’ll have to kill me.” He only gets another step towards the car, trailing blood and spitting up a little around a cough.

Ford raises up the shotgun this time, leveling it with Stan, and shooting off two more shots. One lower into Stan’s abdomen and stomach and the other to his chest.

This time when he ends up lying in the snow he can’t get up, even if he tried. Everything burns, everything hurts, and he can’t breathe either. Not even choked bloody gasps like before.

“See, now this was way too short. You could have at least let me drag it out for a few more minutes. I guess I’ll just have to try again tomorrow night. Maybe next time I’ll give you a little help getting in the car. You know, there are lots of cliffs around the Valley.” While Ford talked, he’d gotten up off the hood, still carrying the handgun, and walked around to stand over him where he was lying, just looking down at his bloody and ruined body.

“Tomorrow, I think it would be fun to see how you react to being driven off a cliff. Wouldn’t that be romantic? Dying together like that? I’d think so.” Instead of shooting Stan again he just keeps standing there, looking at him. Waiting for him to die.

And stubbornly, he doesn’t. Not right away.

Despite all the pain, it drags.

His eyes stay open and just glare up while everything is on fire, blood everywhere, and only after a decade do his eyes finally slip closed.

The last thing he sees is Ford’s sick twisted smile

 

Tonight, being the first night of Fiddleford testing out the dream gun, meant he couldn’t also test it. They had already set up the camera and a tape to record Fids while he slept so he’d only need to get up a couple times throughout the night to swap it. They’d be able to review them later.

The little sleep he did get was poor because of the cot he was sleeping on. But he was stubborn, needing to stay in the room with Stanley in case he had a nightmare. When he had a nightmare. Because it was inevitable.

It happened in the early hours of the morning, right after he’d swapped out the fourth tape in Fid's room. Coming back inside their currently shared bedroom Stan was restless, tossing and turning in bed a little with his hands twitching occasionally. Ford desperately wanted to wake Stan up, to pull him out of it, but remembered the warning past Stan had given.

If he wasn’t careful, he could end up seriously injured, making whatever nightmare it was infinitely worse. Especially if it was a Bill-related nightmare.

Ford turned on the bedside lamp and then just hovered a safe distance away near the end of the bed waiting for Stan to eventually wake up, bracing for what that might bring.

For a long minute after waking up, Stan remained perfectly frozen lying in bed with his eyes still closed. The image of Ford smiling like that, possessed by Bill, seared into the back of his eyelids. Breath comes in hard pants now that his lungs aren’t blown apart anymore.

He starts shaking and can’t sit still. He needed to move.

Opening his eyes a fresh wave of fear hit him after sitting up, landing both legs on the floor, when he sees Ford standing over him from the end of the bed. Almost the exact distance away as outside lying on the lawn from when he-

“Stay the fuck away from me or next time you’ll be the one lying in the snow bleeding out.” His voice drips with anger and fear but he doesn’t even look at Ford to see his reaction while getting up to his feet and heading for the door.

Getting out of this room, away from Stanford was the number one priority. He stumbles, more than walks or runs, out of the room, still getting used to how his feet aren’t sliced to all hell anymore.

It feels like he shouldn’t be capable of standing, his blood is rushing in his ears and it takes getting out into the hallway, away from his brother, for him to finally start to calm down a little. Not fully, but the panic becomes less immediate.

It was just a bad dream. Just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. That wasn’t real. It didn’t actually happen.

Then why did it feel so real? Why did it all feel so real, like he actually died? Like he was burned, cut, and shot until he bled out with his lungs blasted apart so he couldn’t even-

Move, he needs to move again.

Standing around isn’t helping. He needs to see the living room is okay, that he’s okay. Everything’s fine. It's not even winter out anymore.

The panic he feels doesn’t allow him the forethought of trying to be quiet for the other people asleep in the house. His footsteps are a little loud but he’s more focused on speed, getting downstairs into the entryway so he can see-

It’s fine.

The living room looks exactly as it did before bed. The three whiteboards are down at the far end near the table and the pullout couch is still open with Mom sleeping in the middle of it. There isn’t any fire, the window isn’t boarded up, and the floor isn’t covered in nails.

But he still can’t stop shaking even if he knows that wasn’t real, it felt so damn-

“Stanley, are you alright?” Filbrick speaks up in a hushed tone from the kitchen doorway.

It makes him jump and spin around too fast, making the blood rushing in his head worse. It’s just Dad, not Ford, and it’s okay. Everything’s fine. He’s back home with his family and Bill can’t get him.

Bill is dead, Dad made sure of that.

Dad killed him.

He still can’t make himself say anything so he just stays standing there in the living room doorway, wracked with fear and left mute.

Filbrick has never in all his life seen his son look so scared. It had to be a nightmare, maybe one of those things about Bill? Because whatever it was has him scared pale, mute, and shaking like a leaf. It makes him angry all over again at the fucking triangle for what he did to their family. But that anger won’t do anything now.

Slowly, he takes a step forward. When Stan doesn’t flinch, he takes another. And another. Until he’s standing with him in the living room doorway where he slowly puts an arm around him.

“Here, let’s sit in the kitchen. It’s alright, just a bad dream. We’ll talk about it, okay? If you want.” Amazingly Stan walks with him through the entryway and into the kitchen over to the table. His glass of whiskey is still sitting there from before Stan came downstairs.

Stan is still shaking when they reach the table and he can’t move to sit down when Dad starts to pull away. He just can’t sit still, sit with the panic and fear running through him right now, he just-

Filbrick pulls Stan over into a hug. Not too tight, but just a light one to offer comfort while Stan continues to shake and shift on his feet. “It’s just a nightmare Stanley, everything’s okay. Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Okay?” He’s never actually offered comfort over a nightmare before, so he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. But Caryn has helped him deal with panic attacks before and the premise is the same.  

For a while, Stan doesn’t move and he still can’t say anything but he doesn’t pull away either. Because the hug helps and it calms him down some, lowering the level of fear.

They’re in the kitchen, he’s standing being hugged by Pops. Deep breath. He can smell a little bit of alcohol on his breath. Stan’s eyes can see the newly stained cabinets and the brand-new electric stove. The stove Ford bought just for him, because he loves him and wants him to be comfortable in their home.

He’s home and there is no more Bill.

Stan relaxes a little more and stops shaking enough to return the hug, but he still can’t bring himself to say anything. Other than the whiskey Dad smells like cigars, sea salt, and leather. He forces himself to take in shaky breaths against his shoulder over and over.

Filbrick doesn’t break the silence and instead just continues to try and soothe Stan, rubbing a hand back and forth across his shoulder. They can stay here as long as Stan needs, even if it is admittedly weird to be hugging anyone this long. He’s going to do this, help Stan. Just like he promised. This is a good start.

After a long time, Stan stops shaking from fear and instead starts quietly crying. Shoulders racked with silent sobs into Dad’s shoulder. They stand like that for ages too, until Stan has cried himself out.

Finally, he can bring himself to speak, even if it's just a whisper. “Have you ever been shot?”

That’s just about the last thing he expects to be asked after all that, but okay. Sure, he’ll bite. “Yes, I shot myself in the foot when I was a kid. On accident, but I think it counts.”

Stan can help it, he laughs. It’s a broken and muffled one, but it's good anyway. His shoulders relax and he has an easier time breathing when he stops. It makes him want to talk more. “Seriously, you shot yourself in the foot? You?”

Filbrick has to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes even if Stan can’t see. “Yes, seriously. My dad was teaching me how to shoot, at the range, but I’m thinking I should have taken a safety class or something first. Didn’t even realize it was loaded. I was messing around, something you should never do around firearms.”

Now Stan pulls back, keeping his hands on Filbrick’s shoulders while looking at him. All the fear and worry he’d felt is shoved off to the side with this news. “You used to screw around? I don’t believe you.” But he’s smiling, almost ready to laugh again if the situation wasn’t so serious.

“No really, here, let go for a second. I’ll take off my sock and show you the scar.” He waits for Stan to do so before bending down to remove the sock on his left foot. Given his age, the scar is old and faded but the circular shape is unmistakable.

Stan stares for a long time down at his father’s foot, mouth open a little in shock. When he snaps out of it, he goes to roll up his shirt sleeve. “I, uh, was too. Though old me didn’t exaggerate much beyond getting shot.” He points out the messy round scar on his arm for Filbrick to see.

Then Stan sighs, rolling it back down after a minute, lifting his gaze back to Dad’s face. “I only asked because that’s what my dream was about. Kinda.” He settles both hands in his front pockets to keep from fidgeting while his eyes dart around the kitchen nervously.

“You want me to get you a glass of whiskey? Then we can sit, and you can talk about it?” He offers, motioning to the table again.

“Yeah, alright. Sure.” Stan has no idea if he even likes whiskey but figures it can’t hurt. His old self would have mentioned if he had addiction problems, probably.

After grabbing the bottle of whiskey and a glass for Stan from the limited liquor cabinet Filbrick sits back down in his chair before pouring Stan a half-full glass. He keeps quiet, letting Stan speak when he’s ready rather than trying to force conversation.

Before speaking Stan takes a sip from the glass Dad pours him and decides it's not that bad. It burns, but there’s a familiarity with it. Maybe he used to drink a lot. Or maybe it's just his shadow self telling him he’s tried it before.

Keeping the glass between both hands gives him something to fiddle with on the table while he tries to explain the dream. “I think it was a nightmare. A memory of a nightmare, I mean. Bill had possessed Ford and trapped me in the house, the living room…” He takes another, longer, drink.

“The whole living room floor was covered in nails, like he hammered them up through the floorboards. And both the entrances were blocked by fire. The window was boarded up from the outside. I, uh, had to walk across the floor to get a hammer, to break the glass and pry off the boards outside.” His voice gets unsteady near the end and he can’t look up and across the table. He has to stop sliding the glass back and forth when his hands start to shake.

A long silence falls where he doesn’t want to continue. It's awful and he doesn’t want to ever repeat it. Like just saying it might make it happen, and this isn’t even the worst part. Stan finishes the glass and is surprised when dad wordlessly pours him another.

It gives him the strength to continue. “Outside, it was winter. Snow everywhere. I was bleeding from my feet, coughing up soot and blood. But Bill, he-“ It hurts, his chest aches just thinking about it. Because he knows it’s not real, none of it can be real. But it just-

“He possessed Ford and shot me. With a handgun, twice in the shoulder, twice down my left flank and through my lung, and finally with two shotgun blasts that tore apart my lungs and stomach so I couldn’t breathe. I could only look up at him, smiling with Ford’s face, laughing at me while I bled out and- “

Filbrick gets up, moving around the table, and pulls Stan up into another hug when he starts sobbing again. This hug is tighter, stronger like he’s worried Stan is going to disappear. Just hearing about the kind of hell Bill put Stan through makes him angry.

Part of him is relieved, in a sick way, because it’s a million times worse than anything he ever did. And, these kinds of awful things, explain why Stan doesn’t even blink at those old memories anymore. It's terrible. He should have been the worst thing to ever happen to him. But the universe just kept pining Stan against stronger fighters when he kept winning.

Stanley was too tough and it only made his life hell when death would have been kinder a decade ago.

“It’s alright, Bill’s dead. I killed him, you hear me? I made sure of it. It wasn’t real, none of it. And you are safe, your brother is safe. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to you again because I swear to God if anyone else ever tries to pull shit with you, I’ll fly out here and kill them myself. Demon or man, you got it?” He only just keeps the worst of the anger out of his voice and the volume level so they don’t wake Caryn in just the other room.

Stan continues to cry again for a while, not able to respond properly, but he does fully relax. Easing into Dad’s chest and letting himself hide there like he believes Dad will keep his word and keep him safe. Ignoring the logistics of the time delay with him having to fly out here in the first place, it’s a nice thought.

“You say that, but I think you forget how old you’ve gotten. If you can’t handle two rounds with me, I’m not sure how you’d fair against the kind of trouble Ford and I attract.” It’s followed by a chuckle, but laced with truth.

“There are worse ways to die than for the people you love, isn’t there?” He’s glad Stan is still pressed against his shoulder because it makes it easier to force the words out.

“Yeah, that’s true. It’s probably the best way to die, other than old age.” The panic and fear in Stan’s chest have calmed down almost completely and he feels lighter too when he pulls back to look at Dad again. “Thank you, for listening. For being better. This is the dad I wished I’d grown up with. But better late than never.”

Filbrick squeezes Stan’s shoulder and produces a small smile before letting go, “That reminds me. Hang on, wait here.” He steps away, walking across the kitchen to the small side table Ford usually kept mail on.

When he comes back, after pulling something out of a box, he presents Stan with a thick photo album. “That first day, while you were asleep, I called Schermie and had him mail this up. We sent him prints of all the old family pictures years back and I figured him sending a book of copies would get them to you faster than us flying home and doing it. It arrived this morning but with Ford’s crazy schedule I didn’t get a chance to give it to you.”

For several long seconds all he can do is look at the photo album, mouth open a little bit in surprise. This was, incredibly thoughtful. More pictures than Ford had and even if it didn’t jog anything, it would still be nice to have. He takes it, grinning down at it and then up at Pops. “Thank you, this is really nice.” He stepped a little further towards the light above the stove to see better and went to open it to the first page.

Then, Stan dropped the book and collapsed towards the floor.

Luckily, only because Filbrick was hovering, he was able to catch Stan before he got more than halfway to the floor. “Stan? Stanley?” Oh hell, what did he do wrong now? Just when things seem to be going right something has to go wrong. Maybe this house is fucking cursed.

After lying Stan down on the kitchen floor and double checking that he’s breathing he says to hell with it. “Caryn! Wake up! Go get the boys! Stan’s passed out again!” He doesn’t even get up, just yelling across to the living room with concern evident in his voice. “Caryn! Go get Ford and Fiddleford!” He yells louder, finally hearing movement across the hall.

Caryn stumbled into the kitchen, still wearing her nightgown, but turns right back around seeing Stan laid out in the middle of the kitchen floor. Taking the stairs two at a time she goes to Stan’s room first, not even getting to knock before Ford pulls it open. “Stan’s passed out again in the kitchen.”

She turns to go over into Fiddleford’s room next while Ford bolts for the stairs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

There wasn’t anything he could have done about the nightmare Stan had. If it was any number of the times they ended up with one of them dead in the yard it was hopeless. He’d only trigger Stan worse, as made clear when he sat up in bed. So, he’d been pacing, listening, for yelling or something from the rest of the house. Waiting for Stan to calm down and come back upstairs.

Yelling from his parents followed by muffled footsteps only made his heart sink. He should have tried anyway. What if Stan hurt himself, or did something else stupid? Hearing he’s only passed out is a relief but only briefly. He needs to see him, see that Stan’s okay.

Dashing into the kitchen to see Filbrick kneeling next to him doesn’t help matters. “What did you do!? What the hell happened!” In his panic and anger, he checks for a pulse and makes sure Stan is breathing even though Dad wouldn’t have just left Stan laying here if either was missing.

“Nothing! We were just talking through his nightmare here in the kitchen! Then I gave him that photo album Schermie mailed up and he just collapsed after looking at the first page!” He grabs it now, opening it back up to show Ford the picture.

Looking at it makes things only more confusing. It’s a picture from Mom and Dad’s wedding with him in a suit and Mom in a white dress. There is nothing about that picture that should bring familiarity, throw Stan into memory, much less pass out! He closes and puts the memory book aside because that can’t be it. It must be unrelated.

“What the hell is going on? Why are we up so early?” Fiddleford is dressed, mostly, and has a robe around his shoulders to cover his lack of a shirt. His eyes are half open and he looks dead on his feet. The guy could be sleeping for how aware he is right now. “Why is Stan on the floor?”

“I already told you Fiddleford, Stan passed out.” Caryn looks worried enough for both her and Fids, who otherwise seems clueless. Maybe the drowsiness from the gun is more intense than the notes made it seem.

“Mom, get a glass of cold water and dump it on Fid's head or something, we don’t need him collapsing too,” Ford suggests, watching as his friend gravitates to sit down at the kitchen table and lay down on his arms to go back to sleep.

Caryn gets a glass of water and then goes over to the table, pulling Fids back up to his feet and pouring the whole glass over the top of his head. “Sorry.” She says quietly, already letting him go to get a towel to clean up the mess.

Ice water does the trick and Fids actually wakes up, like he wasn’t really seeing the kitchen when he first came into the room with their mother. He’s lost for a moment, wondering why he’s wet and why he’s in pajamas, but then he focuses on the right thing. “Why is Stan passed out again?”

Do not throttle your best friend. Don’t.

It’s just the dream gun making him dumb.

Ford thinks he only sounds a little annoyed when he speaks, “We don’t know. That’s what we're trying to figure out. He just had a nightmare, something about us and Bill, and Dad was helping him through it, and now- “

“It’s like when he first went down in the basement, or maybe like the hallway? I don’t know, I couldn’t see through the door. He just went down, right after looking at the first page of the photo album Schermie sent in the mail.” Filbrick shifts a little nervously, guilt evident on his face. Somehow, this is his fault. What if it's another reset? Is Stan ever going to actually make progress or is this just how things are now, forever?

Despite being the least awake still, accepting a towel from Caryn, Fiddleford theorizes first. “Filbrick, did you ever comfort Stan through a nightmare growing up? A panic attack, maybe just while he was sick or something? Anything?”

He shakes his head, “No, of course not. Caryn usually helped the boys through those. I think the only time I was even around Stan sick was that time he had food poisoning from eating raw eggs on a dare.”

“It’s called Salmonella Dad, not food poisoning.” Ford corrects him instinctively.

“Whatever! Regardless, no. I never did any of that.” Filbrick yells in anger only a little at Ford but mostly at himself.

“Okay, what was the nightmare about then? What else did you talk about? We need details, specifics.” After cleaning up the water, with Caryn, they both go over to kneel with Ford and Filbrick next to Stan. Fids with Ford and Caryn with Filbrick.

“If it's all the same to you I really don’t think the nightmare had anything to do with this. And I don’t think I can make myself repeat it without at least two more glasses of whiskey either.”

That makes Fids look over at the two glasses, trying to make a connection somewhere without having any pins to tie the strings to. “Ford, what do you think? Could Stan of tied those memories to a specific food or drink?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t do that.” But he stops, unsure. He didn’t know creating fake memories was possible either, so maybe? He lets out a frustrated groan and hits his leg. “I don’t know! Maybe! Clearly none of us know anything! And I’m tired of it! I’m tired of this!” They couldn’t even sleep through the night without something going wrong with Stan and it was all getting to be too much.

Way too much.

“Would you guys shut up; I’m trying to remember my life story.” Stan brings up a hand, slapping Ford in the stomach because he can’t exactly reach Ford’s face from here.

Everyone freezes, four sets of eyes turning from each other down to Stan’s face where he’s moved that arm over his eyes. His nose is scrunched up, like when his head hurts, but otherwise, he doesn’t say anything else.

Time seems to stand still for ages, long enough that one by one they all shift from sitting on their knees around Stan to crossing their legs. But no one says anything, just waiting however long it takes for Stan to say something else, to move, to tell them what this is. What happened this time?

It's weird to actually have his family listen to him for once. He can’t remember (ha, can’t remember) ever having so much control of a room with them. Stan takes advantage of it.

After sitting up, and scooting down a little bit on the floor so he’s at the end of a circle, he just looks at each of them.

Too many emotions and thoughts run through him now looking at each of them. Too many for any one expression or feeling to appear. So instead, he just looks blank while in his chest it all crashes together. Despite looking empty, his eyes start crying all on their own.

God, he can’t believe it worked. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure, because it’s the memory gun and anything’s possible. But he just had a feeling, thought he knew. And that usually goes well, but this time it-

And they did it, all on their own.

His family got him back. They fought, tooth and nail, trying to remind him. No matter how hard it was, or how difficult things got. Or how much they wanted to kill each other. They kept going, kept trying and fighting and-

They listened to him!

Ford did it. Ford loves him, and they’re all here, now-

Dad did it. Dad really did it and he’s keeping his promise, and-

Fids, oh god Fids.

That’s what makes him break. Looking at Fids down at the end of the group. His tears turn into sobs but he pushes himself up onto his knees and all but lunges for the guy, pulling him into a stupidly tight hug right in the middle of everyone else.

“You absolute crazy bastard, we did it! You did it! You kept kicking these idiots around like it was nothing until it worked! You, God, you!” There aren’t even words for how happy he is, how proud he is of Fiddleford for sticking it out instead of giving up. He stayed strong and fought for him. “Maybe I’ll have to let you keep my gun if you’re going to threaten my dad for me again sometime.” He laughs, still sobbing, into Fid's shoulders. The robe he’s wearing. Why is he wet?

And more importantly, why isn’t anyone reacting?” He pulls back from the hug to see that Fids is just looking at him, wide-eyed, and seemingly in shock.

Looking around at Ford, Mom, and Dad the same expression greets him on their faces too. Was he not clear enough?

“Oh, come on, no hero’s welcome? I killed a god, come back from the dead, and you guys aren’t even going to hug me or nothing? Just look at me like I’ve lost it? Come on now, I hugged you in the hallway, didn’t-“

Ford is the first to wake up and act, almost tackling Stan into Mom and Dad from how hard he hugs him. “You idiot! You moron! I should kill you for all the stress you’ve caused me!” Ford yells, locking his arms around Stan like he’s never planning on letting go again. He starts crying too, pressing his face into Stan’s shoulder.

Stan returns the hug fiercely with one arm since he’s still got one around Fids. He’s still crying too, but that’s a minor annoyance. He laughs through the tears, digging the hand he’s got around Ford into his skin like he might disappear. The hold is tight enough that it’ll probably bruise. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But do you have any idea how much stress you caused me? Let’s call it even and I’ll promise not to do it again.”

Fids wakes up, lunging for Stan just like Ford did and finally returning the hug. Now he’s crying too, tucked over against his free shoulder. “You asshole! Speaking in riddles like that! Why couldn’t you just get to the point in the hallway, you didn’t have to make us guess like that!” But he’s not actually mad despite all the yelling. Just relieved that it's finally over. Stan remembers him and that means everything else the last few months, or it should at least.

He's about to pull back and start asking him about that when Caryn and Filbrick join the group hug from behind Stan. Caryn is crying now too, her arms more around Fiddleford than Stan since Filbrick is hugging him from that side with an arm around his wife and the other around Ford.

“Hey, I tried to spit it out. I was under some very weird restrictions. You wouldn’t have any idea how hard it was to talk for just a second. Much less two minutes. Lucky for you guys I’m the strongest guy possibly ever, you know, because I defeated Bill-“

Ford smacks him on the side of the face, “Just shut up and enjoy the fucking hug.”

Stan couldn’t stop smiling if he tried, way too happy right now. That comes out on top of everything else. Because he’s feeling everything. The loneliness, the pain, fear, worry, sadness, guilt, everything.

But joy? Nothing can top this high, not even all the negative emotions in the world.

“Language, Stanford.” God, he’s going to split his face open with how wide he’s smiling, especially when that pulls a laugh out of his brother. But he falls quiet, taking Ford’s advice and enjoying the hug because nothing short of him coming back from the great beyond (memory jail or whatever) will probably ever make this happen again.

So, he just leans his head over against Ford’s and lets out a content sigh, relaxing properly for the first time in well over a decade.

This is everything he ever wanted and somehow it worked. He got it, and now he’s never going to let it go.

Chapter 38: Right Back Where We Started From

It takes a very long time for anyone to break the hug. No one in the room seems willing to be the one to complain about the fact that they’re on the floor, much less pull away from it even after they’ve been sitting there for almost ten whole minutes.

Even if it’s the last thing he wants to do, Stan ends up being the one to break it.

Clearly, no one else is going to do it, so he will.

They all have so much to talk about still and that nightmare is still pretty fresh in his mind. Finishing that glass of whiskey, even if it's much too early to be drinking, doesn’t sound like a bad idea.

“Fids, any chance you still have that camera around here somewhere? I’m going to need you to go find it so we can take our first family picture in over a decade.” He gives Ford and Fids one last squeeze before pulling his hands away and trying to detangle himself from everyone.

Mom and Dad let go easily enough but don’t move far. Fids gets up, hovering for a minute, before running out of the room. Ford? He still won’t let go. Not that Stan is surprised after everything, but it is getting to be a bit much even for him. At least he stopped crying a while into the group hug, only covering some of Stan’s t-shirt in tears.

“Alright, come on Sixer, you need to let go. I promise I’m not going anywhere, but you’re making it kinda hard to breathe.” Stan chuckles a little but if he’s honest it’s a little triggering given the recent nightmare. Stan ends up physically removing Ford’s arms so he can get up with their parents, pulling Ford up by one of his hands.

Can anyone blame him for not wanting to let go?

Ford just spent the last ten years apart from Stan because of his own stupid stubbornness and was then physically put through hell for months. And just when they come back together? Stan had to leave again, like they weren’t allowed to just exist in the same space without something awful tearing them apart.

But that’s not going to happen this time. He’ll die before he lets anything, especially themselves, separate them again.

The glimpse in the hallway wasn’t enough, that hug wasn’t long enough, and the number of feelings he’s experiencing is overwhelming.

Drowning.

The love he’s feeling now is suffocating and it needs to be expressed. It takes an incredible amount of self-control to just hug Stan tight enough to make him short of breath instead of anything vastly inappropriate or unwanted.

This is exactly why he kept them apart, why he started building up walls at such an early age. Because he knew if he ever let himself truly love Stanley to the full extent it would ruin everything. He’s fucked up and Ford knows this isn’t something Stan could brush past and ignore. It would ruin and destroy their brotherly relationship or any semblance of one.

Stan would leave, surely.

A small, tiny, part of himself wonders if that’s true. Because of that one other dimension, probably the only dimension, where the love is reciprocated, but that was when they grew up apart. Those circumstances are different and somehow make it okay there, something that could be rationalized at least. But there would be no excuse here. It's wrong. He’s wrong.

He’ll live with it, hiding it, every day from now on. Like he should have been doing all along. Because if Stanley deserves anything it’s a brother. It’s what he wants, and Ford would give him the world. He’s done fighting himself, pretending he wouldn’t.

In fact, it warms his heart and shakes him with guilt to know that the sentiment is fully returned. If not only platonically.

Stan did, essentially, give him the world. He saved it, for him. Because of him too, but if they weren’t brothers, it would be an incredibly romantic gesture. Something out of a stupid romance novel.  

He has to stop thinking about that, these feelings, so he uses the time during the hug to try pushing them down and as far away into some dark corner of his subconscious never to see the light of day.

But, of course, it doesn’t work.

Now that the box is open it corrupts every thought and feeling. It scares him how overwhelming and pervasive the love is. Like he’s been caught in a tsunami.

Maybe this relationship, the new one they’ll have, will be Hell on Earth.

Him living and being around Stan constantly, needing him more than air, but having to silently suffocate living off small breaths fed by kind words and maybe the occasional hug.

After everything Stan went through for him, Ford feels like he deserves that.

But he can behave, he can act, he’ll have to. They’re going to be establishing a new normal, one where they’ve both been beyond traumatized. It’ll be fine, he’ll figure it out as they go. He just has to breathe and take it one step at a time.

When he’s physically pried off Stan he wants to yell, to scream, to complain.

To pull the stupid idiot genius into a kiss.

But instead, he settles for the hand helping him up off the floor. And it’s a relief when Stan doesn’t completely let go either, because he couldn’t have handled that. He would have had to object. Stan keeps a hand on his bare arm and remains standing next to him, not moving far away. Good, his heart couldn’t bear it.

Now is the time to say something. The hug is over, Stan is right here in front of him and there is so much to say. What does he remember? Everything? Most of it? Is he still forgiven? They need to talk, again, right now. But he can’t make anything of worth come out of his stupid mouth.

He’s left mute, just staring at Stan. Because yes, this is his brother. He looks tired but his stance is right. His shoulders are mostly relaxed and there’s emotion dancing in his eyes. Other Stan was missing that. The soul, the heart, wasn’t visible before. Now it’s back on his sleeve, alive and alight. It's beautiful.

“Hello? Earth to Poindexter? What, did we switch? Did I come back and you went away somewhere?” Stan’s grinning though, smile having never died, but now it's directed at Ford while waving a hand in front of Ford’s face.

Does he look stupid right now? Like an idiot in love? Or does he look normal? No way to say how much his face might have given away.

Ford clears his throat and gives himself a mental shake, settling the hundreds of thoughts bouncing around so he can spit something out. Anything.

“Are you sure the first family picture we take in a decade should be in our pajamas?” They are all a mess right now.

Stan’s shirt is wet both from tears and the water mom poured over Fids. His own shirt is a worn one from college with some holes along the bottom seams, and mom is in her nightgown lacking a bra. Dad isn’t even wearing a shirt either just pants. Everyone’s hair is a mess, especially Stan’s. Is this really-

“Absolutely. Don’t be ridiculous. This is a moment I want to remember. Not some doctored version after we’ve all done our hair.” Stan lets go of Ford’s arm and instead wraps it around his shoulder, moving over to stand in front of the cabinets. “Dad, get over here on my side. Mom, you stand over next to Ford.”

They are both too tall now to get away with standing in front of their parents so side by side is the best option. And Stan being next to Dad just makes sense. Ford and Mom are still mad at him, probably. Right now? He’s practically forgotten about why he should be mad. Metaphorically.

Dad brought him back and was the one to kill Bill. That’s redemption enough in his eyes.

Fiddleford finally runs back into the room carrying the camera and stands a good distance away while they all shuffle into place. He takes several pictures of the four of them before splitting them up. They take a few of just Stan and Ford, another couple of their parents, and one with Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford. And the last couple are of everyone squished together with Stan holding the camera out to get everyone in frame.

Upon finishing with the pictures Stan finally puts a little bit of distance between himself and everyone else, walking over to the table to put the camera down and to pick up his glass of whiskey. He finishes it all at once before turning back around to look at every one.

“So, now that we’ve gotten the hugs and pictures out of the way what else do you guys want to talk about? How about that weather, huh?” It’s meant to be a joke to break the silence that had fallen.

They’re all still looking at him, seemingly back in shock like before the group hug. Or maybe no one knows what to say, what to start with. If he remembers correctly, it has been a long and trying four days. So, he tries again, “Come on, you guys have got to have questions or something?”

Ford finds his voice again, naturally gravitating closer to the table but still allowing Stan some space by standing five feet away instead of directly next to him. It’s hard to do just that. “How much do you remember and what was the memory you meant in the hallway? Why was it that specific memory, were where you all this time and why-“

“Easy there, I’m afraid all those questions aren’t as simple to answer as you’d like. But I’ll try, alright? Breathe a little though,” He chuckles a little, tucking his hands in his front pockets, thinking about how to start and phrase things best.

“After you guys blasted me with the memory gun everything disappeared. A blank slate where I didn’t even recognize myself.” It’s hard to explain because the concept is foggy at best to him and the details smudge more the longer he’s back in reality. “You guys could pull up core concepts more than actual memories. Like remembering Ford, watching those films. I didn’t really have any control over that or much of anything. Because of where I was.”

For the first time since waking up his smile wavers a bit trying to put it into words. “Sometimes, it was like I could see things, or almost. But it was all very hazy. It was exhausting and.” Now he knows he’s not making much sense. That’s just it though, there wasn’t much reason to it. The whole thing was confusing. He stops trying to give a play-by-play. It won’t work, he can’t remember well enough.

“All I know is that I poured all of myself into that plan. The one to get Bill, the one I had to hide away. It made sense, when I got to crop up, that triggering that one. Healing it maybe? Symbolizing the passing of the memory book? Would wake me up. Which is what Dad did.” That’s more familiar, more solid. Something he knows, can stand on.

“The memory I hid the plan inside was the night I had my first nightmare after that day out on the boardwalk.” He looks at Filbrick now, “I don’t remember where everyone else was. But it was just Dad and I. So, I hovered in the hallway, watching him drink and mindlessly channel surfing. That was the start of me no longer trusting Pops. Insignificant, not too sad, boring to anyone but me. Just the perfect spot to hide something with the person I trusted least in the world. Guess having a crappy father kinda came in handy.”

Stan moves away from the table and back across the room over to Dad, pulling him down into another hug. One just for them. He doesn’t feel any hesitation or fear towards the guy now. Perhaps the others are still mad, but having seen and been through so much worse getting choked out in an ally doesn’t seem like enough to stay mad over.

So much pain can just get left behind, if he lets himself, and he’s gonna try. Dad changing, and being different, is more than enough to build something new and try again. It’s a relief when the hug is returned. “You two are nuts, flying out here. But I don’t know if I would have been able to come back without us fixing things. You being better, who I needed you to be. Thanks, Dad.” He pauses, for dramatic effect. “I still don’t plan on giving you any of my money though, just to be clear.”

Filbrick lets out an honest laugh over Stan’s shoulder, filling the room with it for a minute, “I don’t want your damn money, I’m just glad I have my son back, you idiot.” Hugging Stan is easier, he’s had lots of practice this week, but being honest is still hard. Expressing himself. Being able to hide his face in Stan’s shoulder helps. Then he can pretend it's just them two to avoid the embarrassment.

Everything just fell together so things would be okay. If their parents hadn’t flown out here, seen everything, and then committed with him to helping Stan. If they, as a family, hadn’t worked together and slowly worked through all their problems. Stan might not be here right now. He wouldn’t be.

But he is. Ford can see now that Dad has changed. That doesn’t magically fix things for him or make the anger over the truth go away. Forgiveness isn’t something he could give right now, no matter how many points bringing Stan back earns Dad. Okay, maybe he can think about it. But not now. For the time being, he’ll just let Stan have this and be happy. Trying to make Stan hold a grudge isn’t an argument worth having.

Looking at Mom it's clear she’s not going to be mad much longer. Her resolve already appears to have melted just looking at them hugging it out. At least Stan won’t have to worry about their parents getting divorced in that case. Would she have moved out here with them?

Ugh. Yeah, that’s a really good thing.

Ford loves Mom, but having her around all the time would be too much. Selfishly, he’s looking forward to everyone leaving so it can be just the two of them.

Stan’s the one to pull away from Dad and makes a point of ignoring the few tears Filbrick has shed. He moves on over to Mom next, pulling her into a hug of her own just as tight as when he recognized her in the living room. “Thank you for trusting me down in the basement. I know that was a lot, but you’ve gotta be the only person alive who would have believed me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”  

If Caryn had more tears to cry, having gotten most of them out during the group hug on the floor, she would have shed them now. Instead, she just returns the hug, “I may not have understood, but I know my son. You’re a good man. Of course, I trusted you.” There was no point in bringing up the part where she’d thought she was wrong, because everyone had been fooled by Stan’s performance, other than Fiddleford. “You know, we should have put you in acting lessons. Maybe gotten you into theater.”

That makes Stan laugh, long and hard over her shoulder, so hard he sheds a few tears pulling away. “As if we didn’t get bullied enough growing up. And do you have any idea how exhausting it is playing pretend? No, thank you. I’ll take boxing lessons any day of the week.” Still, it’s a nice thought. He gives her another squeeze before letting go.

That just leaves Ford and Fids for him to give his own individual hugs too, but maybe not here in the kitchen in front of everyone.

“Fids and Ford, I think maybe I should talk to both of you separate, upstairs if that’s alright?” But rather than giving either of them a choice he grabs Fids by the wrist and pulls him along back over to Ford where he grabs his hand, dragging them both out of the kitchen and towards the stairs as a group.

Fids ends up walking in front of the pair up the stairs, because there isn’t room for three to walk side by side. Stan lets go of him but keeps holding Ford’s hand the whole way up the stairs, down the hallway until they reach the space between their two bedrooms. “Ford, go wait in my room. I’m going to talk with Fids first. But I’ll be quick, alright?”

It gives him whiplash going from being across the kitchen from each other, to fucking holding hands, and back to being sent into a different room from his brother. Far apart again.

This can’t last. He can’t always feel like this forever after this, can he? Because that would make doing literally anything impossible. They can’t be glued to each other’s side indefinitely. That would be suffocating. It will fade because it has to.

They’ll never get anything done. And it would probably drive Stan nuts.

It takes more strength than it should to let go of Stan’s hand and walk across the short hallway into Stan’s room. But he doesn’t get any further inside than against the closed door.

He’s being absolutely ridiculous. At least he knows it.

After Ford lets go, easier than in the kitchen, Stan goes into Ford’s room with Fiddleford while another face-splitting grin graces his face.

Fiddleford is beyond overwhelmed. He feels like he needs to take a very long bath and maybe go for a walk or something to decompress after the rude and abrupt awakening from barely half an hour ago.

All of it was good. The dream gun worked like a charm, making sleep come easy and peaceful without any awful nightmares. It was perfect and exactly what he needed. No other gift would compare. And now Stan was back, really back, and his usually happy self too.

In the last several weeks Stan had slowly gotten quieter, more focused. It probably had something to do with all the math and science Bill had given him. His invention of this gun and whatever else he was doing every day once they parted ways. He became more reserved, and not as happy. But maybe he didn’t remember all that. Whatever had been the cause.

He’s the one to initiate the hug inside the bedroom, relief flooding him. Just because he hadn’t appeared affected while trying to work out what memory they needed to trigger didn’t mean he wasn’t.

No, on the contrary, he’d never been more worried. Because remembering where Stan hid everything was the only way to get his friend back. Their friendship was hidden away relying on Stan’s abusive father to trigger it into existence again. Or whatever Stan had meant in the hall.

They could have only kept trying for so long. Filbrick couldn’t have stayed here, lived here, forever. He would have had to go home, someday he’d die. And then those memories would have been lost. Stan would have been lost, forever. Fiddleford didn’t cry down in the kitchen but he does now, all the strength from this week evaporating.

He doesn’t need it anymore. Doesn’t want to be the strong one anymore. Stan fills the role better.

“Hey, it’s alright. You can relax now. Fuck, I know this had to be hard. All of it, but I’m so proud of you Fids. I didn’t articulate it very well in the kitchen. Kinda going through a lot still, but you gotta know.” Stan returns the hug while he talks, trying to soothe his friend as he cries.

“You handled everything perfectly. I mean, pulling a gun on my dad? That was almost as bold as facing Bill. Taking charge of everything? Helping figure it all out? You killed it, and I wouldn’t have made it back without you either. All of you. Fuck. Thank you Fiddleford. Anything you ever need, just ask and I’m there, you got it?” It’s no surprise that for a long time, all he gets back in response is more crying, but that’s okay. He’ll wait.

When Fids has calmed down enough to talk, he does it without pulling away. “I don’t know how you do it, how you did it. Being strong is so much more difficult than you make it out to be Stanley. I kept thinking about leaving, giving up, and I just. I feel awful about it. I’m sorry.”

Stan pulls back, keeping on hand on either of Fids shoulders so they can look at each other. “I know. Look, being tough doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid. I’m afraid all the time. It’s about doing it anyway, even when you’d rather do anything else. People who are tough, like you and I, don’t give up. Don’t give in. Doubts are normal. Especially in the face of what we just handled. But it's over now. I’m back, mostly, and you can relax.”

It’s a nice speech, but he can’t help nitpicking on the small things. “Mostly. What do you mean, mostly.” That’s bad. No, Stan’s right here. He can’t go away again, no. They can’t. He can’t do that, not again-

“Hey, relax. Calm down. I’m not going anywhere. Breathe Fids. I just mean I’m still missing some details. A whole lifetime of memories can’t all click together at once. I’ve got all the important stuff. Our memories, stuff with the others. The main stuff I’m missing is from when I was alone all those years. Little things that aren’t a big deal. But those will keep coming back with time, okay? Stop worrying. I just said to relax. You are bad at it. Maybe I should buy you and your wife a spa trip for the trouble.” He laughs at that, relaxing when Fids seems to calm down at his explanation.

“Stanley Caryn Pines, you will not be gifting me anything else anytime soon. That dream gun is already more than I can ever pay you back for as is.” He slaps Stan on the shoulder very lightly but smiles anyway.

“Fine, fine. Nothing until your birthday or Christmas. I’ll have Ford tell me or I’ll pickpocket your wallet and check your license.” It's good being able to joke and laugh with Fids. To look at him and remember. It makes ignoring bad emotions easier. Because they have to be dealt with eventually.

Not now.

Fids scowls, “Christmas? I thought you were Jewish?” More concern flares. He can’t help it. That’s an inconsistency that could mean-

“God, are you going to do that every time I say anything? I know, we grew up Jewish. But Ford and I aren’t religious anymore. Why do you think I spent Easter with you? Christmas is more fun than Hanukkah anyway, in my opinion, if you ignore the religious aspects. That’s all I meant, you worrywart.” He lets go of Fid's shoulders now but doesn’t move away.

“Oh, right. I suppose that makes sense.” He flushes, embarrassed now. It’s something to work on. Over the last few days, he’s had to question and analyze everything for clues and gaps in Stan’s memories. A habit he’ll need to break now.

Stan desperately wants to turn around and finally go see Ford across the hall, but he needs to make sure everything is cleared up first because there is way too much for them to talk about. They won’t be leaving that room for at least two hours at best.

“Are you good, is there anything else we need to discuss right now before I go have a real reunion with Ford?” He waits, managing to look patient, while Fids thinks.

After spending the last four days focusing on Stan and spending so much time with each other today is a perfect day for everyone to have some much-needed space. Its impossible for him, much less everyone else, to have processed it all. Fiddleford shakes his head, “No, I think we’re good for now. I’m going to try to take a nap since I’m still in the window with the dream gun. Just try not to kill each other over there or something.”

“Not unless you can kill someone from hugging them too hard, I think we’ll be fine.” Then he turns, leaving the bedroom and closing the door.

He hesitates right outside his own bedroom door, just looking at it.

This is it, the real reunion he’s been wanting and working so hard for. It feels like it shouldn’t really be here. But it is, and Ford is right inside this room. God, there’s so much to say. So much to apologize for even if they’ve already talked about most of it.

A small little part of himself is scared. Worried. That maybe Ford will change his mind. Maybe his brother had enough heart to get him back, help him remember, but that’ll be it.

This time next week he could be back in his car with all his crap and everything will have been for nothing. His pain and sacrifices will have been for no reason and opening this door means he’ll finally find out.

Stan finds the strength to put a hand on the doorknob but gets stuck there, unable to turn it or open it. Much less push and step inside. He can’t. He can’t do it again.

Even with most of his memories, his instincts. Him being here. He doesn’t want to go back to being alone. He just can’t. Not after all this.

It has to be enough, Ford’s forgiven him. Ford loves him, even from before.

It won’t happen.

It’s a fight with himself he’s been having since coming up with this plan.

Will he actually get to be happy or will Ford deny him it again? For a final time.

Because he won’t.

Stan won’t be able to live like this if the answer is no. Not with the nightmares, the pain, the scars, the memories. Not without his brother.

He forces himself to remember the kitchen instead.

Ford got up at the ass crack of dawn to refinish the kitchen cabinets and replace the stove for him. To make it different and to try and protect him from the memories.

Ford bought him a TV for fucks sake. Sharing a room with him. Staying with him as much as possible. Like the distance hurts him too.

Ford had been willing to let him forget and stay blissfully unaware, accepting him anyway. That had been a damn good lie, a lie for him. Ford isn’t a big liar. Or wasn’t growing up. Only ever for Stan. To protect him or to help him with a scam.

Ford has been worrying himself sick all week, over him.

It makes his chest ache.

Stan finally finds the strength to turn the knob, push it open, and step inside the room. The lamp from earlier is still on but otherwise, the room is dark.

All his worries and terror vanish momentarily when Ford pulls him into a hug and kicks the door closed behind him. It's just as tight as in the kitchen except here there is no timeline for when they need to part. And since they aren’t sitting it's also more comfortable.

Once again Ford has both arms wrapped around Stan’s chest and his face tucked back in against his neck and shoulder. While Stan was gone, he’d been unable to keep himself from crying either. They’re a mix of relief and joy.

The room feels suffocating with all the possibilities, the thoughts rattling around in Stan’s head and the tension only gets worse the long and longer they silently hug. He needs to know and hear for himself that his fears are ridiculous. Otherwise, he’s going to choke on them.

“Ford,” God his voice sounds small and like he’s on the edge of tears himself, “We’re good now, right? I mean, I know we talked about it before. I remember, but I need to hear you say it. That it’s, we aren’t….” Stan keeps his own head buried in Ford’s shoulder, face flush.

Stan knows he’s being silly and ridiculous. Ford won’t throw him out again.

At least he hopes not. He really really hopes not.

Ford starts to pull away.

Fuck.

I’m going to end up living in my car again. I’m going to have to write up a will so Fiddleford gets all my crap and my dumb car-

No, he can’t do this.

Not again.

Please, don’t.

Just don’t, I can’t.

Ford shakes Stan’s shoulders, keeping both hands on him, while he talks. “Stanley.” It breaks his heart to see his brother look so afraid. It floods him with guilt all over again to see he’s made Stan feel this way. Like even after everything, all this, Stan still thinks it wasn’t enough.

It’s stupid, the first stupid thing Stan has done in months.

“I am the worst brother in the world and I don’t deserve everything you’ve done for me. But, if you’ll let me try, I want you to stay. I’m going to find a way to make it up to you. And I never, ever, want you to even think for a second that I would throw you out. This is your home now if you want to stay here with me, and there is nothing you could do that would change that. I love you, and I’m sorry, I-“

The damn breaks and Stan starts sobbing.

That’s enough. He doesn’t need to hear whatever other nice things Ford had been going to say because everything so far is already more than he ever hoped to hear. He pulls Ford back into the hug, somehow holding onto his twin even tighter than before like this is a dream and he’ll vanish anytime now. It certainly feels like it.

Stan wasn’t completely insane this whole time.

For a while there, especially near the end, he thought he was going crazy. Making up love where none existed. Even if Ford kept the picture, he’d started trying to rationalize it for other reasons. Tried to justify the postcard too as just needing a favor from a sucker willing to do it.

He’s never been so glad to be right and wrong at the same time.

It’s a relief that eases the tension in his shoulders and renders him incapable of talking for a long time. Yeah, there are things he needs to say, but those can wait until after he’s gotten this out. It’s been a long time coming and Stan couldn’t hold it back if he tried. Ford doesn’t seem to mind anyway, just falling quiet and returning the hug again.

Without a clock in the room, Ford can’t be sure of how long they stood by the door with Stan crying loudly getting it all out. It could have been only a few minutes or several hours. But by the time Stan has calmed down and his shoulders stop shaking Ford’s arms have loosened a little from the exhaustion of holding the same tense position but otherwise make no move to let go.

Stan’s chest feels infinitely lighter and it allows him to find his voice again, “I thought so, but I just had to be sure.” His voice is ruined from crying so the humor intended gets lost on the way out. “I’m glad I was able to finally get you to make up your damn mind. Maybe try being a little less stubborn in the future, eh?”

Ford wants to yell but holds his tongue. Stan should never doubt that he’s loved, never should have. But all of his past actions haven’t exactly expressed that sentiment. Eventually, he’ll make Stan believe. It’ll just take time. “It had nothing to do with being indecisive. I just came to a realization of how stupid I was being over the course of this traumatic event. Holding you at arm’s length never did either of us any good. I’m sorry.”

The squeeze Stan gives him makes his chest constrict and he relaxes a little, “And you know being stubborn is a Pines family trait. It-“ Now probably isn’t the time to bring up his own trauma, but it also can’t be avoided forever. “It’s how I got through everything on the other side of the portal. Otherwise, I would have lost my mind or given in.”

It hurts to learn that he was right to assume Ford went through hell on the other side of the portal. Stan tenses up a little but doesn’t apologize for it. He knows, or thinks he knows, how things would have gone otherwise. “I’m proud of you for hanging on tell I could get you back. And we can talk about it, if you want. That list is at least a mile long.” It pulls a tired chuckle from Stan.

When he first came back talking about it and confiding in Stanley was all he wanted. Right now, he feels far too tired to even begin explaining it all. “We can, but not right now. It’s a long story and I think getting you back was already emotionally draining enough for today.”

Fids might have the right idea about trying to take a nap while it's still dark out. He’s exhausted too, but he doesn’t want to let go of Ford either, even if he’s just across the room. A thought he’d been considering for days before remembering rattles around upstairs for a while before he can make himself spit it out.

“Do you think, after everything, you’d maybe want to…” Everyone is ridiculous to think he’s brave if he can’t even ask a simple question. “I think, maybe, it might help, both of us, if. Well.” He can feel Ford about to pull back to look at him. No. He’ll lose all nerves if that happens. “How would you feel about sharing a room again? Like when we were kids?” It’s not even that out there of a question, but his mind seems to think something is wrong with it. Why?

Ford stops and freezes for a second in surprise. Then resumes pulling back enough to look at Stan. His face is still red from crying, covered in tear tracks, and he also won’t quite look at him fully either. Like he’s embarrassed for even asking.

Oh, and him just not saying anything isn’t helping either.

“Look, if you don’t want to- “

“No!” Ford interrupts, looking away, and flushes a bit red himself. That was too loud, but he doesn’t want Stan to feel rejected over anything for even a second. “I wouldn’t be opposed, is what I mean. We’ve both been through a lot and if you think sleeping in the same space would help then it can’t hurt to try.” He is not going to read into this, it just makes sense.

That allows Stan to relax a little. Ford is embarrassed too, but It’s a welcome suggestion. Good. “Some of my nightmares are about you, or will be. Which might make it hard. But if we’re going to live together it’ll be the only comfort either of us will have through them. Easier if we’re right across the room.”

Is this a can of worms he should be opening right now? Probably not. But- “What do you mean by that? I know earlier you must have had a nightmare about me being possessed….” He leaves it open-ended, not forcing Stan to answer if he doesn’t want to.

“Here, let’s move and sit on the bed while we talk about this. It’s a long story.” Stan kind of lets go, pulling Ford over by his arm to sit down cross-legged on his bed after pushing the blankets aside out of the way. Even then, in a more comfortable position, it's hard to make himself talk about it. Even if Ford’s the one most likely to understand.

“Between rounds of torture, Bill would give me nightmares on my rest days.” They’re sitting directly across from each other, barely six inches between their legs. For comfort, he offers a hand out to Ford and is relieved when he takes it. Now he can look at their hands instead of up at Ford. “Those nightmares all shared a similar theme. You and me hurting and killing each other. But they always felt so real, like it was actually happening even if afterward I would wake up on the couch fine and unhurt.”

Ford is listening, but only distantly. Because a new horror is starting to dawn on him and it makes him squeeze Stan’s hand impossibly tight.

No. Bill didn’t. He couldn’t have, could he? Is that possible? But-

“Sixer, you're gonna break my hand. What’s up?” Now Stan looks up, trying to work out what he said that upset him so much. Why does Ford look so scared? He hasn’t even told him what the nightmares really entailed. This is just the start-

“Shut up. I think I need to go first about my time on the other side of the portal before you tell me this.” Maybe, as they talk, his horrible theory will be proven wrong. He’d pray it is if he was religious.

When Stan stays quiet, he starts. “My body ended up in the nightmare realm, the space between dimensions. Bill kept me with him in what I can only assume was his house. Looked like a living room sort of dungeon of sorts. But-“ Slowly, he loosens the hand currently crushing Stan’s and looks up from his lap, has to look at Stan for this.

“I wasn’t there, most of the time. I’d estimate the first half of the time, before you and him started getting along, he was, moving me around.” Deep breathes. “I believe that Bill was moving my mind between other Stanford’s he had deals with. Swapping my consciousness with theirs. Then torturing them in my body back in his realm. And, in most of them. They had to be universes where he also had a deal with you. With that other Stanley.”

“Because, my travels followed a similar theme. The first one I woke up in I was lost and confused. And I panicked opening the door, I-“ He’s starting to shake a little, but keeps his head up. “I shot you, with the crossbow. Looking back it might have been Bill who did it, I can’t be sure, but I think, possibly-“

The more Ford talks the more an overwhelming feeling of dread settles over him. He’s following the train of thought, experiencing the same horror. With his free hand, he brings it up to stop Ford this time, not wanting him to say it. Because if he says it, then they both know. Then it's true, and that’s, that’s…

“What you mean to tell me, is that all those dreams I had. All those times you killed me, I killed you. Us both dying.” He doesn’t say it either, just letting it hang there with his hand still covering and stopping Ford from speaking. Stopping it from being uttered out loud.

The suspense goes on for ages.

Neither of them says it, but both of them think it. The horror is almost tangible and thick in the air.

Ford removes Stanley’s hand, holding that one now too.

“I think, that Bill was controlling us. Swapping both of us around. And making us torture each other. Watching each other die, kill ourselves, hur-hurting each other. In some distant reality, it was real.” His voice is barely a whisper and now his tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Well, now it's out there.

They said it out loud and now there isn’t any taking it back.

All those dreams of killing Ford, being killed by Ford, Bill making them die together. Those were real.

Somewhere, in a distant universe, there is a Stanford who woke up to his house burned down and his brother shot to pieces in the front yard.

Probably went to jail for murder.

That’s-

And in others, that was him. He’d woken up, in some, and Ford would have been dead, and-

Stan can barely breathe and has to look away from Ford, down at their hands sitting between both their laps. So much blood, so much pain, and it was real. Bill really did those things. Running torture experiments in other dimensions using his two favorite puppets. Had to be.

Just two. Only two realities where no one had to die. Out of what? Dozens? How many had it been? He’d never bothered to count because each death had bled into the others after a certain point. All the pain pooled together, making one big red and black puddle.

But those were people.

Them. It was them. A real Stanley somewhere.

Him, that was another him, doing those things. And then waking up to-

Stan has to be the one to stop them both, letting go of Ford’s hands in favor of grabbing his shoulders and giving him a shake. Giving himself a shake back to reality so they don’t both get lost. Using one hand he makes Ford look at him, leaning forward a little waiting for his eyes to refocus.

“That wasn’t me. Or you. I would never, ever, hurt you. All of that, was Bill. He may have made us watch, we participate to an extent, but it was not of our own free will.” That doesn’t stop the guilt at all, but-

“Bill killed those versions of us. I played the game. We, played the game. And it sucked. It was awful. It hurt. But we, get to live.”

Wonderful, now on top of everything else Ford has to live with survivor’s guilt. As if everything else wasn’t enough. It's all so awful that he can’t even think of anything to say, anything that will make it hurt less. There isn’t anything they can do.

“Maybe, for all we know, it was a simulation. Bill was good at making hallucinations. Maybe he just made us hallucinate together somehow. No other people involved.” Stan tries to rationalize, because that would be better. Less awful.

“No, because not all of them were bad.” He regrets admitting it because it would have been kinder to let Stan convince himself it was fake.

Too late to take it back. “There was one, that I got dropped in, where the world was happy.” For the first time, he can’t bring himself to smile talking about this.

“It was a universe where we got separated at birth. Mom and Dad raised me as an only child and you and Schermie got adopted elsewhere, by a nice family in Alaska. Later in life, we met in college. Moved to Gravity Falls. They dealt with Bill by creating this bracelet that would knock Ford out if he was possessed, rendering his body useless to Bill. But it was still possible for me to be moved in and out. They got to be free, in their own way, like us now.”

“The details, the joy, of that world don’t fit all the others. No one died there. Because Bill couldn’t force me to hurt other you. And that Stan had never made a deal of his own. They were happy, really happy. And. They had to be real, it was real. I’m sure of it.”

So much for blissful ignorance.

Couldn’t Ford let them have one more win?

“Was that the only one, the only one where we got to live?” That can’t be the only one. Maybe for him, because he only ever remembers dying and killing. Ford’s experience was clearly a little different, so it wasn’t impossible.

“One other. It was still dark, but I think we lived. Maybe. Right after that good one, I got thrown into another universe. I don’t know, Bill was trying to teach me a lesson or something...” Ford looks away, down at his own lap and hands. “In that one, the portal opened up and I came through into the house. Eventually, I found you upstairs. In this room.” He turns to look around the bedroom and then up at one of the exposed beams near the middle of the room above where the chairs are now.

“In that dimension, when you couldn’t open the portal, I guess you decided to kill yourself. You hung yourself, with that noose you found, I assume. But, I-“ He has to look away, curling in on himself and choking up over it.

Stan lets go of Ford momentarily but only so he can pull him over onto his lap and into a hug while his brothers starts crying. It's all too easy to picture because it’s an option he thought about after finding the already-tied rope. If it wasn’t for the summoning spell, he might have entertained it a little more. If he’d had less to work with- “Hey, it's okay. You don’t have to finish. I’m right here, and I think I get it. You got me down, did that crappy CPR you tried on Dad?”

Ford laughs around the sobs but otherwise falls quiet for a while until the crying tapers off. He needs to finish, to tell Stan what he did. “I got you down, got you breathing again. Usually, the phone lines don’t work, because Bill cuts them. But they worked, letting me call for help in that universe.” More deep breathing, but this part is a little easier. He’s proud of this part, it’s almost good.

“Bill took control after I got off the phone. And pulled out a hunting knife, intending to make me finish the job upstairs. After we got to the top of the stairs, I convinced him I’d do it, without him needing to control me.” He smiles, just a little, “I tricked him and then threw myself down the stairs to try and wake that Stanford up, so Bill couldn’t possess him anymore. I don’t know if we actually lived because I woke up back with Bill. But I tried, I really tried-“

Stan shushes him, keeping both arms wrapped around Ford tight. “See, in a reality where we had choices you decided to let me live. It wasn’t our fault. Just Bill, like always. We’re okay, you did good. I’m proud of you for fighting over there just as hard as I did here. You got smart.” There’s a little bit of humor in his voice from where his head is resting on top of Ford’s.

That makes him scowl, “Excuse me, I’ve always been smart. I just got smarter.” Tougher might be the better word for it. They both did through all this. Which is how they survived.

A slowly growing smile starts to creep up on Stan’s face. “Hmm, maybe. But you still aren’t that bright. Because if you were, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” Before Ford can see it coming, Stan starts to tickle him, moving both hands from Ford’s sides up to his armpits.

The ensuing fight results in Ford being unable to breathe, Stan’s hair getting messed up even more, and both of them laughing harder for almost five minutes than either has in years.

It’s a good break from the serious and heavy conversation and at the end they sit back across from each other, catching their breath. Ford fixing his rumpled clothes and Stan brushing out his lengthy hair with his fingers so it doesn’t tangle.

“You’re the worst, you know that?” But Ford’s voice is far too fond to come across as angry or annoyed like it would have as kids. He can’t even remember the last time Stan tickled him, because he hates it, but how could he object when they both needed a good laugh? Like he had much of a choice anyway.

“I think you meant to say I’m the best for cheering you up about our horrible lives these past few months, but I’ll take what I can get as a thank you.” God, he needs a haircut. Maybe that’s what he’ll do today, go into town and cut his stupid hair. No point showering then if someone else is just going to wash it.

Since both of Stan’s hands are busy Ford reaches over and puts a hand on his knee, “Thank you, Stan. I needed that. I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard.” Then he removes the hand, returning it to his lap, and shuts up. Anything else would sound too gross and sweet to be strictly platonic.

Stan doesn’t blush or flinch and just shakes his head smiling. “Your welcome dork. So, what room are we going to live in? Mine, yours, or one of those empty ones you have in this mansion of yours?” He shifts back on the bed so he can take his morning meds and grab an actual hairbrush before moving back near Ford again.

Now that was something to consider. Which room would be large enough for both of their beds and their stuff? Neither of them had a large amount considering how bland Ford’s own room was and how little stuff Stan owned right now. Closet space would be the real issue, but maybe they could get an armoire in addition to the closet? Or, they could each keep their own rooms but just have two beds in each? That way eliminating how much crap they’d need to move and allowing them to still keep their own space?

“My room is the biggest upstairs other than the attic. Would you like to keep all your stuff in here and then we just add an additional bed in each room? It would make getting dressed easier just being able to go across the hall from whichever one we are staying in that night. Or, we could just put beds in one of the empty rooms and keep all our crap where it is so we sleep in a third separate space.”

For someone who had responded casually when agreeing it sounded like Ford had thought of every possible way to implement the idea. It made Stan chuckle, returning the brush to the nightstand and pulling his hair back in a ponytail. “How about we put another larger bed in your room since this one is just a twin? Then we sleep over there, watch TV over here, and dress in our own rooms. Plus, if we ever grow out of it, then we only have to move one bed out of your room.” Given the recent level of horror they discovered he doesn’t expect that to happen anytime soon though.

The idea of growing out of it seems ridiculous to him, because if Ford had it his way they’d be sharing a bed, but he just nods instead. “Alright, sometime after our parents leave, I’ll make arrangements. For now, I still have the cot.”

“We could switch you know; let you take a turn sleeping in a real bed tonight. That thing can’t be good for your back in the long term.” He offers, knowing tonight he’ll probably get very little sleep anyway.

“It’s okay, it's only for a few more days. For future visits, we’ll need to set up a proper guest bedroom in the empty storage room on the main floor. Mom seems to believe we’ll be hosting everyone this December. Are you willing to help me decorate the house for guests?” He looks back over at Stan and frowns when he sees a single tear escaping Stan’s eye.

Just because he can remember doesn’t make any of this feel less fake. His family is really here, and now Ford is talking about having them around for Christmas or Hanukkah, whatever, and decorating. Being together. How could he not cry at least a few tears about that after ten years of being alone every December?

“I would love that. We could set up two guest rooms down there if I can convince you to go through all your junk and downsize a little bit. I just didn’t want to throw anything out without getting permission. Most of that stuff looks like garbage to me. Then we’d have a room for Ma and Pops and Schermie and Mary. Huh, guess we’d have to kid-proof the house too.” His voice breaks with that last word because he’s never even met their nephew.

Will they even want to come if they know he’s here? The family screw-up? “Did anyone call him about that card I sent?”

First of all, none of that stuff is junk. It’s spare parts and research, but he doesn’t say that. Maybe they could move more stuff up to the attic and rearrange some stuff later to accommodate an additional bedroom. This is Stan’s house too, considering he contributed to the mortgage. Most of it, actually. It’s their house now. How difficult would it be to get Stan’s name put on the deed?

“We’ll go through it later, a project for after everyone leaves.” Like taking down the portal. “And yes, Mom called and gave Schermie a less insane story to explain everything. Said you’d been in a car crash on the way to visit me and lost a lot of your memory. I think she said you’ll be expecting a card in the mail? It might have come with that photo album. You’ll have to check.”

Maybe they would come, so long as everyone else was here too. Later he’d have to make an effort to talk to their other brother. “I’ll call him and let him know I’m doing better later. And later today I think we could both go for a haircut. I’ve never seen your hair so long.” He smiled a little wider and laughed, “Oh, the townspeople are going to freak seeing both of us at the hairdressers.” It makes him laugh just picturing the receptionist's face later. And then the gossip that would spread.

“You didn’t do anything too bad under my name that you failed to mention, did you?” The people in town already think he’s crazy because of Bill’s nighttime drunk adventures. It makes him shudder to think about facing anyone even just for a haircut.

“I don’t think so. There was one night,” He stops, pausing. How much should he say? Should he tell Ford about the tattoo now and get it over with?

No. Ford has enough guilt to deal with. Stan can live with sleeping in a shirt for the rest of his life. “I’m pretty sure Bill got me arrested. Or at least handcuffed by the cops, that’s where I got my pair from. By the way, where are those and the key?” A quick check under his shirt confirms his piercing is still there, but the key is missing.

So, Bill enjoyed getting drunk and testing the law regardless of whose body he was in. Wonderful. “They’re down in the basement, why?” He frowns seeing Stan stick a hand up under his shirt, like he’s checking for something. “You should probably return them you know; I don’t imagine you’ll need them again. You might even get in more trouble if Bill took the key too.”

That makes Stan frown again, looking away and then back cause Ford is staring at him. “The key wasn’t something Bill got from the police.” He lifts up his shirt to show the bellybutton piercing, “It’s mine, actually. A lot of cops will handcuff you in the front if you don’t seem like trouble. So, I got a key and had someone put it on a piercing. You wouldn’t believe how easy it was to get out of custody after that. Worked almost every time.” Even if it's sad he still smiles through it, pulling his shirt back down, because he always thought it was genius. Every criminal he ever met seemed to think so anyway.

The revelation makes Ford’s eyebrows shoot up, looking at the piercing and then up at Stan’s face. The lengths Stan went to during his ten years running from the law makes his head hurt even if it is clever. All he can do is shake his head. “What did you do if they cuffed you behind your back then?” Maybe those were the times Stan went to jail.

That was unexpected, “First thing you try is jamming them with your shirt. Half the time they don’t even lock the cuffs. If that doesn’t work you can either try jumping them, getting them around front, or breaking your thumb. But, that’s a pretty extreme option especially if you’ll only be in jail a night or two. Why, are you planning some big crime you need help with?” The idea of Ford committing a crime makes him snicker, unable to help it.

“No, of course not. Just trying to take an interest in one of your hobbies. It would probably have been more efficient to get a piercing on your lower back with another key so you're covered on both sides.” He’s pretty sure they do those if you find a big enough shop.

That suggestion sends Stanley into another laughing fit, doubling over his lap and unable to stop for a minute. It's just too funny, Ford is ridiculous. When he’s done, he lets out a tired huff of air, shaking his head. “Don’t tempt me. I may not be planning on getting arrested again anytime soon, but that’s a good idea. I wish I’d thought of that years ago.”

The air is lighter now compared to earlier and it's nice, really nice. “You know, there is one more thing I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Now that you are back, that is. I didn’t want to bring it up until then, since other you wasn’t really, well. You.”

Ford doesn’t look tense or serious so Stan doesn’t let himself panic that it's something bad. Hell, it could be something good. Like hosting holidays here. Maybe Ford’s going to talk to him about an idea for their birthday? That is coming up quickly, “Shoot Sixer, give me the pitch.” He grins, leaning over on one of his hands.

Ford glances over towards the dresser at the picture Stan has sitting there and then gets up off the bed. He goes to grab it before sitting back down, holding the frame between them. “In that one good dimension, where we grew up apart, we don’t live in Gravity Falls full time. During the summer they sail around the world researching anomalies, kinda like in our dream. I used most of my time there reading up on all the technical inventions other Ford made for their ship. Because, I was hoping that when I finally got home maybe you’d be willing to give me another chance at our dream. We’d have to start over and build a new ship, but between Fids and I, it would be ten times better. You’ll help too, of course, and when it's done we can-“

Stan has pulled Ford across into a suffocating hug, practically squeezing the life out of him in comparison to all the other ones they’ve shared since he woke up. He also starts crying again, ignoring the frame being smooshed between them. These tears are pure joy because this is so much more than he ever could have expected out of getting Ford back home.

Forgiveness, probably. Brotherly love, possibly. Their dream? Never in a million years. It was too much to hope for, too perfect of an idea. Maybe if he’d died and gone to a metaphorical heaven, but here on Earth? He almost doesn’t believe he’s even awake. Maybe he's dead.

“Stan, you’re choking me a little,” Ford complains but can’t help letting out a wheezy laugh that finally gets Stan’s death grip to loosen some. Enough for him to breathe and move the frame off to the side on the bed. “Is that a yes then? You’d still want to sail with me after everything?” The death grip suggests yes, but he wants confirmation before he starts drawing up plans and making lists of books he needs.

“Ford, I’m pretty sure nothing short of being bedridden and dying would stop me from sailing with you. Of course, I’ll go with you. I’ll help however and wherever I can in the process.”  Briefly, he glances over towards the closet. He’ll need to give Ford those books a lot sooner than he expected if they’re going to be building a ship. Later, in a week or two once they start doing designs. For now, he’s just overjoyed that this is going to happen.

This makes everything he put himself through worth it because now as a reward he’s going to get to sail around the world on the adventure of a lifetime with his best friend and brother. Their new ship will probably be a total nerd fest that he’ll need instruction manuals to run.

“You just have to promise that you’ll explain how to run all the science stuff you plan on adding. We both need to know how everything works for us to stay safe, alright? We aren’t going to go through all this and then drown or something equally stupid.” Stan finally pulls back as he gives his one condition, keeping both hands on Ford’s shoulders and being completely serious.

Ford has to pull back further, to put more distance between their faces because his stupid freak thoughts are flaring up being so close to Stan. But he’s smiling, grinning, and blushing too. Surely that could be excused as excitement or nerves from before getting confirmation.

“Of course, we’ll make sure you understand all of it. Oh, and I’ll put together a first aid kit too with a whole packet of safety protocols. Before we set sail, I think we should both take at least some basic first aid classes in case of injury. Maybe, since money isn’t an issue, we could even take some classes on sailing in preparation…” He rambles on, mostly talking to himself as he starts lecturing about the different systems he’ll be implementing from the other dimension.

The vast majority of what Ford says goes right over his head. It’s a bunch of technical science and math that Fiddleford would probably flip his lid over. But Stan just smiles and nods along. How couldn’t he? This is for their ship?

It’s going to be the most amazing thing anyone’s ever seen!

And he gets to do it with Ford, his favorite person in the whole world.

Chapter 39: Housekeeping

Notes:

This is accidentally the longest chapter I've written for this fic. XD Sorry about that, but also not. I might not be used to writing happy stuff instead of angst for these two. Anyway, enjoy this extra long one, and thank you again for all the comments. You guys are so nice. :)

“So, Mom, what do you think about us doing something for our birthday before you and Dad go home? I know it’s a couple of weeks early, but we haven’t celebrated it together in a long time.” Stanley asked quietly, handing Caryn the now clean plate to dry.

It’s much later in the morning, sometime around nine, after everyone had eaten breakfast and gotten ready for the day. Just like back in high school once Ford got started on something he could talk for forever and it took Mom coming up to get them for breakfast for him to shut up.

Because Stan wasn’t going to ask him to stop no matter how far outside his scope of math Ford’s speech was. After so much silence and such a huge void where Ford was supposed to be, it was good just listening to him talk regardless of what about.

They’d gotten ready for the day intending to go into town both to straighten out the identity switch Stan had pulled on everyone and to do some shopping. There was a lot to do in town.

Caryn accepted the plate, drying it with the dish towel before putting it away in the open cabinet. “That sounds like an excellent idea, and I take it you have something specific in mind?” After spending so long away from Stanley she couldn’t stop smiling around him if she tried, so she doesn’t.

Yeah, his face already hurts and he hasn’t even been back for five hours. He’ll give himself crow's feet or something. “One of our stops in town is going to be the library to pick up some books. I’m going to use the computer to print off some bookstores in Portland for Pointdexter anyway. He doesn’t think he can get all the nerd books he needs in town. I thought maybe I could see if there are any fishing charters not already booked for tomorrow somewhere along the coast.”

“They only have six slots usually which would be me, Ford, Dad, Fids, his son Tate, and you. Unless you’d rather explore around whatever town has an opening. The trips should only last four hours and then we could come join you, get lunch, and head home?” It’s a little bit of a selfish idea. Because he hasn’t been out on the water in ages. And as far as he knows Dad has never been fishing. Fids and Ford? They’re nerds. They’d probably rather stay home and do calculus. But it sounds fun. Even if all they end up doing is sitting around on a boat.

“That sounds expensive honey, especially so last minute. Isn’t it a four-hour drive out to the coast from here one way?” But that’s the only real objection she can think of. It does sound kind of fun to be left alone to explore a coastal town while the boys go off on a boat somewhere. “What about Fiddleford’s wife, do you think she’d want to come with? I don’t know her, but I’m sure we could find something to do for a couple of hours.”

Even if his hands are still wet, he leans over and pulls Mom into a side hug, “We’d have to get up early, but I bet we’re already going to call it before it gets dark today after this morning. We’ll also have to take two cars for everyone. I can drive Ford and Fid's family if you and Dad drive separately? You could take Ford’s car so you don’t rack up miles on the rental. It’s in good shape, perfectly capable of the long drive.” He hands her another plate, smiling down at the soapy water like he won the lottery again.

“That sounds perfect then. Do you want to do anything after we get home? Cake?” They’ll have to do something; it wouldn’t be much of a birthday without it.

“How about you ask Ford about it, plant the idea of doing something tomorrow night, and let him surprise me back? Here,” He hands her the last plate and drains the sink. "Could you run this past Fids so he can talk with his wife?" Hopefully, she wouldn't have a problem with it. "I'm going to go out to the car, just grab Ford when he comes down. As far as he knows, it's your idea."

Caryn laughs, handing Stan the dish towel to dry his hands with, “Alright, fine. You know, it's nice seeing you two get along again. All of us getting along.” She pulls him into a hug before he can run off. “Thank you for bringing us all back together.”

“Awe, Ma, you’ll make me cry again.” But he doesn’t pull away. It’s good to hear someone else appreciates it after all the damn work it took. “You’re welcome, and seriously. Don’t let him sneak out after me. The fucker barely leaves my side now.” It pulls a laugh from him as he steps away and darts out of the kitchen and onto the porch before Ford can make an appearance and spot him.

After putting the last plate away and hanging the dish towel back up she goes to stand in the kitchen doorway. It only takes a minute for Ford to come downstairs from changing and she has to grab his arm to keep him from just running right out the door. “Hang on honey, before you go running off there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

It takes a lot of self-control not to scowl at his mother. The feelings he gets when he’s away from Stan’s side for too long have not yet faded, making it very difficult to do anything that involves being in separate rooms for more than ten minutes. It’s now been almost fifteen since he went upstairs to change, brush his teeth, and gather what he needs to go shopping.

His wallet is nowhere to be found. After almost five minutes of searching with Fids they learned its has to be in the glovebox of his car. Which is going to add at least two more minutes before he’s back at Stan’s side. Plus, whatever this conversation takes-

“Yeah Mom, what is it?” He manages to keep from vibrating despite not removing his hand from the front door handle.

Caryn just looks amused but doesn’t comment on it. “You know it’s been a long time since we all celebrated your birthdays together as a family. Why not celebrate it early before we fly home? I’ve already got an idea for tomorrow morning, but why don’t you think up something for tomorrow evening? And if you go to the store, maybe try to pick up some candles, unless you have some around here?” She says it all in a rush like she’s had more than five minutes to think about it.

Now this is something worth stopping for.

Ford glances outside through the window on the door just to double check Stan is already waiting in the car before they discuss this. What should they do for their birthday? He’d almost forgotten it was coming up at all since he’d hardly done anything for it in so long. But now their parents are planning something for before they leave? What could they do? What would Stan want to do?

Evening isn’t exactly a good time to go fishing so that’s out the window. Is there anything happening in town that might be fun? It will be a Friday, maybe-

“I think I’ll see if one of the bars in town has something going on that looks interesting. Maybe karaoke or something?” Now that would be a sight, the whole family out drinking making a fool of themselves. Or at least Stan, Fids, and Dad anyway. He’d be the driver. No way in hell would he be participating. But Stan would enjoy it, without a doubt. “I’ll get back to you when we get home later. Maybe I’ll come up with something better by then.”

“Alright, just think about it and let me know so I can plan the rest of the day accordingly. Now go on and have fun.” She lets go of his arm now, barely containing her laugh when he jerks open the door and bolts out of the house, slamming the door behind himself.

Not only does he need to think of something to do for their family birthday celebration, but one day isn’t a lot of time to think up a gift either. Even if technically it's not required, it feels appropriate. Good thing they’re going into town. Oh, but they’ll need to separate to do gift shopping. Whatever, he can stand a twenty-minute stroll around the mall to find a gift. If he can even figure out what Stan would want.

Before getting in Stan’s car, he makes a stop at his own to look for his wallet. Fids had been pretty sure he left it in the glove box. But it's not there, so he looks under the driver’s seat and then the passenger seat. He didn’t lose it, did he?

The last place to look is down in the footwells in the back which is where he finds it, half under the seat on the passenger’s side. But that’s also where he finds a piece of paper taped under the seat.

That’s odd. The whole rest of the car is spotless inside and out. Why is there a piece of paper here?

He carefully removes the tape from the folded piece of paper and sees it has his name written on the top, ‘Stanford Pines’ but nothing else. That’s not ominous or anything.

OH!

Could this be one of those surprises Stan had told him about in his tape? Maybe, but why here in the car? Whatever, best to just open it. A glance over to Stan’s car show’s he’s trying to pick something on the radio, busy. Ford opens up the note, being mindful of the tape, to read.

 

Hey Stanford,

Long time no see! Just kidding, I have no idea. You could find this two hours after I lose my memory or three years. This is supposed to be the last surprise you find so hopefully it's something closer to the latter. (Though hopefully not actually three years) I’ve left you something in town at the electronics store that I bought and told them to hold for you ahead of time. Just show them your driver's license and they’ll be able to give it to you. Or they should, unless it’s been like a decade. I don’t think they hold stuff that long. That would suck.

But I’m going to assume you found this before then for optimist’s sake! It also comes with another letter. However, I couldn’t make every single letter easy to read. That one is going to be a big puzzle for you. I used all of my super nerd powers Bill gave me to make it almost impossible to crack!

Because, well. You know in your tape when I changed my mind at the last minute? I was terrified to tell you the truth. What I was going to tell you is in that letter which I’m unsure if I even want you to figure out. Hence why it's so difficult.

This would usually be the part where I give you a clue because that’s how scavenger hunts work. But again, I don’t want you to know. So, I’m making it intentionally difficult. Okay, I’ll give you one. Because it would be mean to leave you with nothing.

The solution for the letter is pages and word numbers from three different books. The code is color-coded with red, green, and blue to represent each one. That’s it, that’s all you get. Good luck!

-Stanley Pines

 

He reads the page a second time frowning deeply to himself. What on Earth? What could Stan possibly want to tell him so badly but also not want him to know at any cost? So much so that he left a cryptic puzzle and treasure hunt he has to work out.

This is ridiculous and impossible!

It’s exactly the kind of thing he loves.

Stan is going to tell him whatever he couldn’t in his tape. It’ll probably just take a while for him to decode the letter. Hopefully, it's still at the electronic store since this paper couldn’t be more than a few weeks old at most. Maybe a month, but certainly no more than that.

“Yo! Sixer! You coming or do you want to get left behind?” Stan calls from over in the car where he’s gotten out and put down the top. He’d also moved his box of mix tapes and letters for himself into the trunk to be safe from the wind, just pulling out his rock tape to listen to on the drive.

Stan yelling makes him jump but he puts the note inside the interior pocket of his coat with his wallet before climbing out of his car and heading over to join Stan. He’s just short of blasting rock music but Ford can’t bring himself to be mad. Instead, he hurries over gets in the passenger seat, and turns down the radio enough it won’t damage their ears while buckling up.

“So, what’s the first stop you want to make in town?” Stan asks, putting the car in drive and turning around to back out of the spot and head off down the driveway.

“Probably the bank first, then we can go schedule our haircuts for later, giving ourselves about an hour or so to find what we need at the library. Then we could go to the mall and do what shopping we need there unless we run out of steam.”

“Sounds good, though we need to get our lie straight for Marge at the bank before we go in.” Stan laughs a little, turning onto the main road and picking up speed. With the top down it makes Ford’s hair blow all over the place since his isn’t long enough to put back.

“What do you mean our lie?” Ford asks, frowning and crossing his arms while trying to ignore the wind. Stan did this on purpose to screw up his hair.

“She thinks I’m you, but she’s going to find out the truth. Don’t worry, I’ll do all the talking. Just tell me, if you went anywhere in the world for something science-related, where would it be?” Stan doesn’t speed like he usually would.

New him, so hopefully no more additions to his rap sheet. Especially not if he’s going to be here for- Well, forever.

At least Stan is giving him a heads-up about the lie instead of just throwing him into it. That never went well as kids when he wasn’t given a briefing of some sort. Something science-related, maybe a research project far away… “How about I spent this spring down at Pantanal Matogrossense National Park doing research in the Amazon Rainforest?”

Stan turns his head and looks Ford up and down once before shaking his head, “Nah, you don’t have even a slight tan. Try again, something indoors this time.”

Ford scowls but knows Stan’s right. He’s far too pale to have been working in such a humid and sunny climate for several months. “Okay, what about Sterkfontein, South Africa? I was working in a lab there for a Paleontology dig sight uncovering dinosaur fossils.” It isn’t exactly the kind of science he wants to be known for, but it's not like he’ll become the dinosaur guy over one small lie.

Stan starts cracking up again, unable to help it, because he just can’t picture Ford dusting off rocks for a living. But it's far away and could explain a sudden absence which is what they need. “Alright, that’s pretty good. Just remember that part and I’ll handle the rest.” Before Ford can try to make more conversation Stan turns the radio back up, blasting You Really Got Me by The Kinks.

Everything right now should annoy him endlessly. The air blowing his hair around, the blasting music, even Stan’s occasional drumming across the steering wheel. He’s supposed to be driving! But it doesn’t. Not very much at least. Some, but not enough for him to yell at Stanley like he used to as teens. Near the end of high school, he never would have let Stan do this on the way to or from school. Or anywhere, to be honest.

Now? It’s like the patience he has grew tenfold. Maybe he’s matured or maybe all that time away from Stan has given him a new appreciation for his brother. Almost losing him so many times makes anything Stan could do seem ignorable or even enjoyable. At least this is anyway.

Stan looks happy and hasn’t stopped smiling in hours. Good. That’s how things should stay from now on. It warms his heart to be able to give Stan that, making him happy too. Plus, this silence gives him some more time to think about their birthday.

If there isn’t something going on at a bar in town what else could they do as a family for it? There is a mini golf course in town they could go to, but would that be a bit childish? Is it supposed to be cloudy tonight? They could maybe stargaze, or use that telescope he still has in storage? He’ll have to grab a paper while they’re in town.

And what about a gift? What would Stan want? He already mentioned potentially buying some more clothes at the mall today if they have time but otherwise hasn’t mentioned anything. Having that letter of things Stan wants to buy would be helpful right about now. Maybe just a safe? Like Stan mentioned in the tape? No, there isn’t enough time for that before tomorrow.

Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf comes on next but doesn’t reduce Stan’s singing enthusiasm.

What about a fishing rod? Oh, that’s perfect. Sure, Stan won’t be able to use it for a while but he’d love that. Maybe on their actual birthday, they could even rent a boat here in town and he’d get to use it then! That’s what he’ll do. Surely somewhere at the mall, they’ll sell those. Will the library have books on fishing rods? God, forbid he buy a crappy one.

Stan only turns the radio down again when they finally pull into town, lowering it to a more respectable volume for residential areas. When they get to Main Street where more people are some people look their way despite the reduced volume and Ford tries to slouch some in the seat.

With the top down hiding is almost impossible.

“Don’t be rude Ford, these are our neighbors. You should try and make a good impression.” Stan gives his shoulder a light push and makes sure to wave at anyone they pass despite not knowing any of their names.

“Stanley, we live out in the woods. We don’t have any neighbors.” But Stan is already parallel parking in a spot a short walk from the bank, the haircut place, and the library in front of a meter between two other cars.

“Sure, we do Ford. This is where we live, shop, bank, and everything else. You don’t want people making up their own stories about you. Which is what will happen unless you interact with them. Without all that Bill weirdness we both get to start over, so try and smile a little, will you?” Stan gives him a grin, as if he’s capable of anything else, and then turns off the car, climbing out and pocketing the keys.

Usually, he’d close the top before leaving his car sitting out like this given his general distrust of other people. But, just this once, it feels okay. This is a small town and he doesn’t think anyone is going to try and hotwire his car in the short time they’re in the bank or library. Gravity Falls is admittedly one of the safest places he’s ever been, minus Bill.

Maybe Stan is right. He has lived here for six years but barely spoken with anyone unless it was necessary. Like the pharmacist, the librarian, and the person at the grocery store when checking out. Stan didn’t say he had to talk to anyone, just smile. That’s not hard to do as long as he looks at Stanley. It's more difficult not to, when phrased like that.

After putting quarters in the meter Stan motions for Ford to follow him over and into the bank. He’s painfully familiar with the place even if he doesn’t have an account here. Just Ford’s. But they’ll fix that now.

“Marge! Long time no see! Tell me, how are the kids doing? Staying out of trouble I hope?” No one is inside other than the one middle-age woman standing behind one of the reception stations. Ford is supposed to stay quiet until whatever his cue is, so he just sticks close behind his brother. Whatever they’re lying about will make more sense in a minute.

“Oh yes, they’re doing wonderful. Three is a handful, but Dan and I take it all in stride you know.” Then she looks up from some paperwork she’s filling out and her eyes get wide with surprise. She takes off and fixes her glasses looking at the two of them. “Oh my, it seems I’m looking at double! Stanford, why didn’t you tell me you had a twin brother!” She’s looking at Stan as she says this, still looking shocked.

It’s a good thing Ford waited until he was back to do this because Marge is familiar with him. She might not have let the real Ford into his account without him being here to explain all this away. “Funny you should say that.” Stan looks guilty and a little sheepish. “Look, I came in here with my brother to straighten some things out. Back in January my brother here,” Stan throws an arm around Ford’s shoulder.

“Went away for a fancy science trip of some kind. It was last minute and didn’t leave him much time to make arrangements with his bills and everything. So, he called me to come house sit and take care of the place. Pull the old twin switch again as adults, you know?” Stan laughs, letting go of Ford now.

“Basically, I’m not Stanford. My name is Stanley Pines. And this,” He gestures both hands at his brother, “Is the actual Stanford Pines. He said it was cool and all, spending his money for what was necessary, but there just wasn’t time to explain it all. You know? So, I’m sorry I lied to you.” The finish off the act he even rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and won’t exactly meet her gaze.

Marge’s expression changes drastically throughout Stan’s explanation. Starting with surprise and shock, over to displeasure and anger, and finally settling on some frustration mixed with understanding. She turns to Ford now, looking him over. “Is this true, did you give him permission for the last six months’ worth of account access? I’m going to need to see both of your IDs as well, gentleman.”

Damn, Stan’s a good liar. He knew, but damn. Still impressive to watch every time. “Yes, of course I did. It was very last minute. I got the call about the dig sight in Sterkfontein, South Africa late at night and had to fly out in the morning. Luckily Stan was only a two-day drive away in New Mexico where he’d been working at the time. He made sure my house didn’t fall apart in my absence.” He pulls out his wallet and passes over his ID while Stan does the same.

For a minute she just looks at the IDs, back up at both of them, down, and then sighs. “Alright, well I’ll have you fill out the paperwork you should have filled out six months ago but otherwise he had permission. No harm done. Do you want a copy of your bank statements?” She takes both their licenses to go make copies, briefly disappearing before coming back with them and the paperwork.

“No, that’s alright. I already got them in the mail to review. Thank you though. While I’m here I did want to make a withdrawal, but we can do that after I go fill this out…”

The whole process from the lie to walking back out the door onto the street barely takes fifteen minutes. Ford fills out paperwork, and Stan makes more small talk with Marge about her husband Dan, and their kids. The Corduroy family in town. He walks out with a card for her husband's lumber company’s contact information while Ford has the money he withdrew.

If they plan on building a boat, they’re going to need wood! Maybe he can even get them a deal because Marge likes him.  

“I can’t believe that worked, did she seriously never notice or bother checking your ID this whole time? Could anyone of walked in there and just said they were me?” Ford shakes his head. They don’t look that similar, do they?

“Marge started a month after you disappeared. She used to be a stay-at-home mom until her youngest finally started school. The other girl from before never liked me but couldn’t prove anything. Marge, being new, had no reason to question it. I just told her I started working out and growing my hair out.” Stan laughs, walking with Ford down the sidewalk even when Ford jabs him in the side.

“That’s not funny!” Okay, it's kind of funny. But mostly embarrassing as the slight blush on his face suggests. Stan is awful.

“I’m a riot and there is nothing you could say to convince me otherwise.” Before Ford can object or respond Stan opens the door into the hair salon and walks inside.

The whole time he was dealing with Bill, he couldn’t let himself get comfortable here. In his head, this was all temporary. He had to keep his head down and not make a name for Ford here because that’s who he was. Now? Stan can be unapologetically himself and interact with the townspeople. It doesn’t feel like he has to hide and it's nice.

And just like he imagined the women at the front desk in charge of appointments gives them a funny look because they’re twins. That is never going to get old. For ten years he was without Ford and he missed this! He missed people doing double takes thinking they saw wrong. Ford hated it, because it made them noticeable which was exactly why Stan liked it. They're unique and how could he ever be embarrassed by that?

“Uh, can I help you?” The young woman behind the counter said, popping her gum.

Ford is going to die today, isn’t he? Unlike in the bank, there are actual people in here, looking at them. His face was already red before coming inside but it only gets worse seeing the weird looks coming their way. The instinct is to look away, hide his face, and just get this over with as quickly as possible.

But- Stan told him to try smiling. They live here. Anything they know about him from before doesn’t have to stay that way. He looks back at Stan where he’s scheduling both their appointments for in about an hour. Still grinning the whole time.

So, he tries to smile, waving a little when he gets looked at the next time. It earns him a small smile back from one of the people waiting. It's unsure and hesitant, but still a smile back.

“Alright, we’ll see you at ten thirty. Thank you very much, Stacey.” Stan gives the woman a wink even if she couldn’t seem to care less and then turns to leave, the whole thing taking less than five minutes.

Well, he didn’t die at least. Still embarrassed and unsure, but not dead. He’ll never be as bold and carefree about this as Stan, but maybe he doesn’t have to be a hermit either. “Library now?” Ford asks, continuing to follow Stan. How is it that he knows this town better than him despite only being here a fraction of the time?

“You got it Pointdexter. We’ll need to clear up your identity again with the librarian and get me a card, but otherwise, we can both go our separate ways inside. I’ll get that list of stuff you wanted from the computer and you,” Stan digs around in his pocket and pulls out a piece of notebook paper. “See if your big brain can find me a couple of books on these subjects. The max to check out is ten but that should allow for two books on each. I trust you to use your best judgment about which ones I’ll get the most out of as a beginner.”

Ford takes the list to see what kind of books Stan wants frowning a little. Stan hadn’t said anything about checking out books of his own. Basic Wood Working. Boat Carpentry. Sailing Basics. Navigating by the Stars. Saltwater Fishing.

Ford feels like he’s going to throw up just reading the list. Stan, a man who has rarely ever picked up a book in his life, was now planning on reading as much as possible to help build their boat and prepare for their trip.

“Come on, you won’t be able to do all the math we need if you get run over by a car.” Stan grabs Ford’s arm and pulls him along to get him moving again while they cross the road at the light to get to the side of the street with the library. “And if you can’t find exactly what I want don’t grab anything. We plan on making a trip to Portland soon anyway, I’ll just find what I need then.”

He walks a little faster now to keep pace with Stan having more than just his list of books to be excited about. Being ahead of Stan he doesn’t feel like he needs to hide the love-sick look he must be wearing. He’s absolutely doomed and all of this is going to be impossible. This is hell. But maybe he’s a masochist? Because he is enjoying himself despite the pain.

“Jeez, wait up Sixer. You have to at least let me pitch my lie to the librarian before you go running off.” Stan has to almost run to keep up, laughing to himself at Ford’s enthusiasm bounding up the steps. He’s barely able to catch him before Ford can disappear inside.

The lie goes over just as easily as it did at the bank, except Ford ends up having to make some small talk with this woman about the dinosaurs he hypothetically dusted off for a minute to sell it. He knows next to nothing about dinosaurs so he draws up some crap that sounds sciencey but isn’t from the right field of study. And as soon as Stan has finished filling out the paperwork for his library card Ford gets a small cart for their books and disappears into the familiar maze to find what they need.

“Sorry about him, he’s a total Dork and can’t wait to start his next pet project.” Stan excuses Ford’s rude departure while waiting for his card to be made. He forgot how nice it was to just talk to people. After spending months and months all alone most of the time it's great to be able to just talk even if it's not about anything important.

“Oh yeah, what’s his project? Does he plan on cloning a dinosaur or something?” The woman chuckles about it while handing him the card.

It takes everything in him to keep his mouth shut and not brag that Ford probably could do that if he wanted. Actually, maybe he’ll have to ask about that. A pet dinosaur would only be the coolest thing ever. “No, he’s planning on drawing up plans for a boat we’re going to build. He’s got twelve Ph.D.s and plans on getting his money’s worth.” This is something appropriate to brag about while putting the new card in his wallet.

“Really? Well, isn’t that something? You know people around always shared stories about his place. You know, gossip. But him being a scientist makes a lot more sense. I take it you’ll need a lot of parts for that boat?” The last time he’d been here there hadn’t been time for flirting given he was being tormented by a demon, but now?

“Some, yeah. Why, you don’t happen to know who owns the scrap yard in town, do you?” He chuckles, shaking his head.

“No, but my uncle runs the tools, parts, and supplies store in town. I’m guessing you’ll be over there a lot soon enough.” She digs around in a drawer and then writes something down on a sticky note before handing it to him. “This here is Bobby’s number. If they don’t have it in store, he can probably order it for you if you give him a call.”

Do people in this town give out personal information to anyone with a big winning smile? Whatever, he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I appreciate this, but you know I didn’t expect to get your uncle's number after chatting you up.” He gives her a flirtatious smile this time and offers her back the piece of paper.

It makes her flush and take it back, writing a separate number and her name on the back before passing it across again. “Call me sometime, maybe if dinner goes well, I could get you a family discount.”

How could he object, she’s cute. Yeah, he’s pretty busy, but he and Ford aren’t always going to be glued together at the hip. Just most of the time.

He ignores the funny feeling in his chest (pain maybe) and nods, “I’ll see about that first chance I get. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go do some web searches for the dork.” The sticky note goes back into his pocket with the business card from Marge on the way over to the computers.

Why does his chest feel tight looking at her number? That’s not usually how he feels when flirting and definitely not after landing a date or hookup. She was cute for God’s sake! But the feeling in his chest only gets worse the more he thinks about it. Maybe he’s still forgetting something that’s causing these weird emotions.

For the most part, he’s fixed. Almost all his memories are back together. The main and important ones. Unless one is still missing?

What, does he have a secret girlfriend he doesn’t know about and that’s why his chest is causing a fuss?

Not impossible, just unlikely. He’ll have to sort through all his old letters and see if they bring anything to the surface. For now, he’ll just forget about her number.

He has work to do anyway. So, he focuses on that. He starts up two computers at once, since the library is extra empty on this beautiful sunny day, so he can look stuff up for Ford and himself at the same time on the slow internet.

It takes a long time to print off the list of bookstores Ford wants from Portland and get a comprehensive list of fishing charter companies to call when he gets home. But he eventually gets it done and his own pages tucked away folded in his pants pocket while carrying the ones for Ford around. Finding him is probably hopeless, so he just hangs around the computer looking into the three main towns with fishing charters.

In the time it takes for Ford to find all the books Stan even manages to print off a couple of lists of stuff to do in the main towns. Astoria has several charter companies, a whole street of antique stores, and over a dozen places to eat. Hopefully one of them has an open morning slot when he calls because that looks like it’ll be the most fun for the girls.

The library is quiet and after closing out of everything Stan stays at the computers waiting for Ford to come back. Finding him would be pointless in this place since he’d probably just miss him coming downstairs.

He pulls out the number again to look at it, trying to figure out what’s causing the weird feeling in his chest. Looking between the number and the girl over behind the desk nothing clicks. Maybe he used to have a girlfriend who looked like her and broke his heart? Most of his love life is pretty much nonexistent memory-wise. Like the ten years between high school and here.  

It took ages to find everything Ford needed in the library. His books were easy to find because they were within the same vein of stuff he’d checked out before. All of it was upstairs. Stan however had very specific requests that he wasn’t very familiar with. Even following the Dewey Decimal system, it took time. But he was able to find nine out of ten books that fit Stan’s request. They only had one good book on reading stars on the shelf.

Finally, he was able to bring the cart downstairs to find Stan sitting behind one of the computers. The smile Stan had been wearing all morning was gone now, replaced with one of slight confusion and a tiny frown. It made his heart sink right up until Stan seemed to hear the sound of the cart and his brother’s eyes shot over towards him.

Thank God. Stan hadn’t forgotten, he was just thinking about something. Maybe remembering something else? From how it had been described there were still a lot of small less significant memories he didn’t have access to. That’s probably what this was.

As soon as Ford came back into sight the feeling went away and the smile came back naturally without needing to be forced. “Hey, I was able to print off those bookshops in Portland for you to call later. I also printed off some over in Seattle just in case these don’t have what you need.” Getting up from behind the long turned-off computer he meets Ford halfway across the room to pass him the papers. Just seeing the number of books Ford grabbed makes him chuckle.

“Excellent!” He briefly looks at the papers before pocketing them so they can bring the cart over to get everything scanned. “I wasn’t able to find two books on star navigation, so I got you a third book a carpentry instead to avoid wasting the trip.” Over at the counter now he shifts his ten books up first for the women to scan and then Stan’s, pulling out his library card to they can hurry things along. They still have time before their haircuts but it wouldn’t hurt to be early.

It took until right now for Stan to realize that reading all these might be a little bit challenging. His one eye was still pretty crappy and might give him a headache if he spends too long reading without a corrective lens. Ugh. He’d need to figure something out when they got home. If they were going fishing tomorrow, he should at least read some of that book this afternoon.

Hopefully reading about fishing will remind him in more detail of the times he has been on a boat and gone. Factually he knows it’s happened, but the memories and vivid experiences are still missing.

After they’ve scanned all the books, Tina, that’s her name, even gives them a tote bag to carry them in, on the house. Ford is too busy trying to get out the door to notice why and Stan is left still very confused following behind him when the wink she gives him causes his chest to do another weird twist.

With twenty minutes till their haircut, they end up sitting in the waiting room for a while just waiting for it to be their turn to get called back after putting the books in the car and closing up the top. It was nice having it open, but now that they had stuff in the car it was unnecessary to risk anything getting taken or messed with.

“Are you alright? I noticed you were looking a little confused in the library before you spotted me. Did you remember something else?” or forget goes without saying as Ford speaks quietly from their spot in the corner.

This doesn’t feel like the kind of thing Ford could help him with since whatever it is must come from the ten-year gap. No one except him used to know anything about that time. Especially since he had never been honest with Mom during that period. He could tell the truth and should, just for the sake of honesty, but he doesn’t want to worry Ford either when this is probably nothing.

“The librarian just gave me a weird feeling is all. I assume it has something to do with a memory I don’t have back yet. Nothing to worry about, I was just trying to pinpoint it while waiting for you to finish.” He shrugs, glancing around the room before continuing. “Do you happen to have a spare pair of glasses at home?”

About what he’d expected then which gives Ford some relief. It feels good to be able to read Stan again like how they used to be able to as kids. As teens, they never lined up this well. Is this what he was missing putting up all those walls? Seems ridiculous now. “I think so, or maybe an old prescription. Why, is your eye bothering you?”

“No, not now. But if I’m going to be reading, I imagine it might start. A pair of your old glasses with one lens popped out should do for now. After Mom and Dad head home, we can pull out that bionic eye and maybe think about using it. We definitely can’t do surgery while they’re here.” That pulls a small laugh out of him for the first time since leaving the library.

Ford can’t help frowning at that. “Stan, isn’t that a bit extreme? A proper pair of glasses would likely fix the problem. It's also a lot safer than cutting out your still mostly functioning eye. I’m not a Doctor, I don’t think I’m qualified enough to be doing that for you.” If something went wrong, if Stan died or something, it would be his fault.

“Relax, It’s not that serious- “

“No, it is that serious. You’ll be losing your eye Stan and fully relying on a bionic implant you no longer know how to make repairs or adjustments to. If something goes wrong or fails, you’d be half blind because all that knowledge used to make it is gone. You don’t remember.” He insists, making sure to keep his voice down even if they’re the only ones in here.

Stan shuts up because Ford is right. The version of him who invented the eye is long gone and never coming back. He made sure of it. So, they would essentially be screwed if it failed. Maybe, even if he doesn’t like it, he should at least try glasses first. Then if that doesn’t work, they can revisit this.

He sighs, hating when Ford is right. “Alright, I see your point. I do have a lot of faith in myself though. I mean, it's by the same guy who made that dream gun. You said so yourself it's brilliant, didn’t you? But this is something I can’t take back. I get that. I’ll just have to see about getting insurance so I can visit the eye doctor sometime.”

Ford expected more pushback on this and the lack of one makes him frown deeper. The Stan in the videos sounded excited about the eye. Hell, he would have put it in himself if Bill possessing him wouldn’t have risked damaging it. So why isn’t Stan arguing more? “Stan, are you sure you're alright? Usually, you aren’t so easy to admit I’m right or that you're wrong.”

Stan just shrugs looking over at him, “I feel fine. I just don’t see a point arguing about it. What would I say? That it’s a cool bionic eye and that makes all the risk worth it? Should I argue with you just because that’s what we used to do?”

Ford looks Stan over inquisitively. This is weird. For the first time since Stan’s woke up, he’s acting out of character. Not by much, but enough that it’s a concern. He’ll need to discuss this with Fiddleford when they get home later. For now, he’ll let it go. “No, I suppose not. And for the record, your insurance cards for my healthcare plan should come in the mail next week. I called yesterday to have you added. Then we can schedule you an eye appointment, maybe a doctor and dentist one too just to get your records started here in town.”

Stan smiles again at that, “Thanks Ford, you didn’t have to do that you know. But I appreciate it anyway.” Before much more can be said the receptionist calls them both forward to go in the back and have their haircuts done by two of the stylists. Stan gets to have another fun moment where the two women give them weird looks because they’re seeing double bringing his light smile back full force.

The conversation about hair doesn’t last that long since most hair stylists know how to cut a mullet. For now, he doesn’t want to get too adventurous. Besides, right now Ford has short hair. While the town is getting used to having identical twins around it’ll help to have some length to differentiate them. Secretly, he doesn’t mind the mullet either. When it's styled right it can look pretty hot, but he’ll use the other excuses if anyone asks why he kept it.

Ford, unlike Stan, does not talk throughout the whole haircut. Stan is talking more than enough for both of them, drawing both of the women cutting their hair into a seemingly meaningless conversation. Stan has always been able to do that. People find it charming but right now he finds it annoying. Jealousy rears its ugly head listening to Stan make both women laugh. He’s being ridiculous and it’s a good thing his hair is done long before Stan’s. That way he can pay and cool off out of earshot from Stan’s unintentional flirting.

But that’s the thing, it could be intentional. Stan is free to flirt with whomever he wants. Ford has no claim on Stan in that way. They’re brothers! If Stan chatted someone up and decided to go on a date, he would have no good reason to object other than his feelings. Which, for the sake of their familial relationship, he has to keep his trap shut about. This is the part that sucks.

It reminds him of how he felt when Stan started dating Carla in high school and there hadn’t been any other choice but to put more distance between them to avoid being in agony all day every day. How can he handle this differently when, not if, Stan eventually starts dating? Or at the very least engaging in hookup culture. That would be easier, but still hard.

No plan comes to mind. The only course of action he can think of is to finish their ship as quickly as possible and get Stanley out at sea. He can’t date anyone if there’s no one around, right? How fast can you build a boat with three people? The size boat he’s got in mind could take years even with Fiddleford helping as an expert welder, engineer, and carpenter. They’ll have to find ways to speed it up. That’s the only way to avoid all this pain.

It doesn’t take long, maybe an extra five minutes, for Stan to come out into the waiting room with his new haircut. It’s now cut back into a much nicer version of the mullet he’d been wearing when he first arrived in Gravity Falls. While he pays, he continues to make small talk with the stylist before finally turning around to find Ford looking like he’s sulking in his chair near the door.

“Yo, Sixer, why so glum chum?” He slaps a hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to get up, and then frowns when his brother just turns to head back out onto the street without saying anything. That’s weird, isn’t it?

Stan hurries to catch up quickly. “What, do you not like the cut they gave you? I think it looks good. Though I think you’d look cooler if you tried to spike it up using gel or something. You know, kinda like Billy Idol? Without the glasses, you could probably pull off punk.” He nudges Ford while walking back to the car. At least Ford isn’t moving as fast now.

Calm down. He’s being ridiculous and his thoughts are completely irrational. Having Stan’s full attention again calms him down some. For the sake of not getting mad, he embraces it even if he knows he shouldn’t let that make him feel better. He even flushes at Stan’s suggestion, finally looking at Stan’s new haircut.

Did Stan lose weight while he was in the portal? That’s the same haircut from before, maybe a little shorter, but Stan’s jaw looks a little more defined now. Did Stan starve himself or was it the torture and pain that limited his mobility and eating habits? Maybe Stan just ate healthier having a kitchen to cook with instead of fast food on the road? That one made him feel the least guilty so he decides on that one even if it’s likely a mix.

“Punk, really? Next, you’ll be telling me to buy a spiked collar and a fishnet shirt.” The idea makes him laugh, keeping his eyes on Stan while he unlocks the car so they can both climb inside. “You’re going to stick with the mullet? I thought you’d go shorter since you hate long hair so much. Not that it's bad, you make it look good, I just-“

Stan laughs while starting up the car before looking at Ford, “We can’t get identical haircuts, you dork. We haven’t done that since mom gave us bowl cuts. People need to be able to tell us apart somehow. With it trimmed again the top part stays out of my face so it's less annoying. Plus, it makes me look cooler than you.”

In retaliation, Ford reaches over and turns up the volume blasting the next song on the tape, Smooth by Santana. The action only affects himself though causing the sound to hurt his ears a little while Stan just laughs and yells over it at him. “You’re only proving my point!” Stan pulls the car out onto the road and starts driving again towards their next stop, the mall.

Stan turns down the song some while they drive, continuing to wave at people as they go but otherwise focusing on the music and road for the most part. Turning- The wrong way. “Uh, Stan, where are you going?” Ford adjusts the volume down further.

“Relax, I’m not having a memory lapse. I just remembered my gym membership is tied to your credit card. I’m just going to go in and change the card. When it runs out later this summer, I’ll reopen it in my name instead of yours.” The gym is only a street over and the parking is free here. “Just wait in the car, I’ll only be a minute.”

Stan gets out before Ford can even ask when his brother had time to get a gym membership. Is that how he lost the weight? When given a steady place to live was working out something Stan made a priority? He lets himself watch Stanley walk over into the building, his eyes wandering, before turning his head forward and flushing bright red after realizing what he was doing.

He’s supposed to be ignoring and pushing these thoughts away not indulging himself! Stan has been back less than twelve full hours and each minute seems to only make this more and more difficult. How on Earth is he ever going to survive doing this for the rest of their lives?

Whatever. He’ll figure it out because he doesn’t have a choice. Stan wants a brother so he’ll get one. Maybe one who’s a bit of a perv, but his twin doesn’t need to know that. He’ll just pull out some tricks from Stan’s extensive lying toolbox. Yeah, sure…

Barely a minute later Stan is climbing back in the driver’s seat, hardly giving Ford time to gather himself. “See, no problem. The guy didn’t even care the name on the card was different from the membership.” Glancing over at Ford he looks a little red. It's almost hot out but is Ford cold? The vague memory of Ford always being chilly does sound familiar. “Hey, can you roll up the window? I don’t want to mess up my new hair on the drive over to the mall.” He cranks up the window on his side while Ford mirrors him.

Ford forces himself to talk so they don’t just end up sitting in mostly silence while he rots in self-hatred. “When we get to the mall do you want to split up? I’m going to check out the bookstore there and stop by the camera shop for Fids. You wanted to go look at clothes, right? We could meet back up at the car in about an hour and a half? That should be enough time to finish everything?”

Stan turns the volume back up a little, Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin coming on next, “Make it two hours. I haven’t gone clothes shopping in ages. And you shouldn’t have to rush yourself in the bookstore either.” He should get another car key made for Ford while they’re here. “Hey, can I see your house key? Maybe I’ll see if I can get myself a key made If I have time while we’re out of the house.”

That makes Ford focus a little more on the conversation instead of his internal feelings, “You didn’t already make yourself one?” But he pulls out his keychain anyway. “Here, you can just take all three to have copies made. The silver is for the back door, gold is for the front, and the other is my car key. You might as well have a copy of each in case you ever need to borrow my car.”

“I’ll make you one for mine too, if I can. I don’t know how long it’ll take or if they can even do it the same day.” Stan takes the ring of keys and pockets them in his hoodie for later. “You can take the car key when we get there if you want. That way you can make trips to the car with books. Clothes aren’t that heavy to carry.”

Finally, Ford finds himself smiling again, unable to help it when Stan is being thoughtful. It’s impossible to stay mad at anyone, even himself. “That’s alright. I’ll get the books last. Plus, they might not have all the ones on my list. It’s not a very big store.”

Ford doges Stan giving him the key by bolting out of the car too fast for Stan to follow, leaving his brother laughing alone in the parking lot before heading inside at a more leisurely pace.

Getting the keys made only takes twenty minutes and Stan’s able to walk out with the original set, one for himself, and a set of spares they can decide what to do with later. Personally, it just makes sense to give them to Fiddleford. When they aren’t home in Gravity Falls who else could they trust to keep half an eye on the house? No one. But since it's not just his home it seems right to discuss it with his brother before just handing them over.

Now he has to make another tougher decision. If they were celebrating their birthday tomorrow with family, he should probably have a gift, right? There were the books his smart self made but that needed to be saved for later when they started work on the boat. Ford would disappear for a while once given the books. Better to save that for when being around his brother eventually starts to get suffocating.

It’s not normal to stick together constantly, that feeling has to come eventually.

But what else could Ford want? He’s got a house, all the books he could ever want, a nice car, nice clothes, everything. There isn’t a tangible object he can think of that Ford would value over any of his other crap. Not unless it’s a cool invention or something signed by one of his nerd idols.

There is an antique store in the mall, maybe he could go do a little bit of window shopping and see if anything jumps out at him? His feet are already moving in that direction before he’s fully made the decision. It’ll probably just be a lot of junk, but it’ll be a wide variety of junk which could give him an idea for something specific. Worth a try.

Meanwhile, Ford made a beeline for the electronic store near the back of the first floor. It was the only one in the building so that had to be what the secret note left meant. Sure, he could ask Stan about it, but if he doesn’t remember any of the science Bill gave him the point would be moot.

Stan also might try to stop him from working it out, since he already stopped himself once during the tape. Even if Stan doesn’t remember what this scavenger hunt is for, a bad feeling might crop up, influencing Stan to stop him.

What could cause that? What is so secretive that Stan would only kinda tell him but make it nearly impossible to figure out? It only makes him more curious and more determined. The electronic shop is pretty empty and after a glance around he knows there isn’t anything here for him other than to just ask about whatever is being held for him. Hopefully, it’s nothing big.

Ford went right up to the counter to talk to the guy currently reading a newspaper, “Hello, a friend of mine left something here for me under the name Stanford Pines to pick up later?” He’s already got his license pulled out to show the guy when he puts his reading down to look at Ford.

“Hmm, let me check in the back.” He gets up off his stool and goes into the employee area for several minutes before coming back with a box slightly smaller than a shoe box already gift-wrapped in plain brown paper and clear scotch tape.

There’s a note on top that the guy picks up to read, “Stanford Pines,” He mutters looking at the license. “Let me check your hands, says I’m looking for a guy with six fingers?” The guy counts them and gives Ford a surprised look but then just passes the box over in a black plastic bag. “Yeah, that’s gotta be you. Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before. Enjoy your WM-2 Walkman and Sony MDR-E252 headphones.” The note from on top gets crumpled and tossed in the trash before the guy goes back to sitting down with his paper like Ford was never here.

He wastes no time leaving the store and finding the nearest bench to sit on. It would be better to wait until he was home and alone to do this, especially since Stan could walk by and see him. But it feels pretty safe here near the back away from all the clothing stores. And his curiosity is going to kill him if he doesn’t look now.

Just like the guy said inside the box is the latest Walkman model and the latest headphones to match already out of the packaging. But also, two tapes. One is labeled ‘The Code’ and the other title doesn’t make any sense.  It must already be in the code Stan was talking about.  

(123;14) - (65;4) - (8;71)

Each pair of numbers is highlighted in one of the three colors Stan mentioned. Red, Blue, and green. The code is easy, or it looks like it. The hard part is going to be figuring out what books the numbers are connected to. Do the colors mean something? Is it a book with the corresponding color?

For now, he pulls out the headphones and puts them on, checking if the Walkman has batteries. Ford finds a pack of two underneath the tapes still in their plastic. After first putting in the batteries he slots in the tape so he can hit play and listen to the secret code.

“For the sake of short-handing this, I will not be reading out every single parenthesis and dash. You will need to keep track of the code and listen to it all at once so you don’t get lost. Color will come first, then the first number, then the second. Begin. Red, 12-67. Red, 16-35. Blue, 2-5….

The code goes on just like that in Stan’s voice. It sounds tired but steady as he slowly reads off the numbers and punctuations for Ford to write down on a piece of paper. He pauses the cassette, rewinding it to the beginning, and puts everything back in the box for now. Later when he gets some alone time he’ll sit down and write out and highlight the code. On the back label of the tape is the time length of the recording. Just under a full hour of Stan relaying the code.

Stan left him a note in the car with the tiniest hint possible so he’d pick this up from the store in town with a puzzle that takes an hour to relay by tape?

Why did Stan add the extra step instead of just writing down the code? Probably a deterrent to make him give up and let this go.

Stanley doesn’t know him at all. This just makes him more invested in working it out.

And he will, just not now. Maybe tonight he could sneak down to the lab this evening and write it out on paper to get started?  

Fiddleford’s help would be invaluable on this because he was around Stan during this time. He might be able to point the books out more easily. Except this code once solved is a message directly intended for only him, no one else. It has to be cracked alone or not at all.

That’s the fun of it. Part of the challenge.

After packing up the box in its bag he forces himself to continue even with the plastic bag in his hand and the weight of everything inside burning his skin. It’s killing him not knowing.

The antique store is just what Stan expected. Mostly full of junk, really old boring clothes, and books that haven’t been useful in over three decades because of how outdated they are. It kinda reminds him of back home in Jersey with the familiar smell but otherwise, it’s a snooze fest.

There is nothing here that jumps out at him walking through looking at display cases, shelves, and paintings around the shop. He’s about to give up and turn back around and leave when he spots an old fishing net in the very far back corner. It makes him think twice, not because of the net, but because maybe it’s a nautical-themed display.

And he was right. That corner of the shop has a whole heap of ocean-themed stuff. An old diving helmet, some different colored sea glass, and pearl jewelry in the display case. But the thing that finally inspires him is a set of two pirate swords down on the very bottom shelf of the display case. They both look like they need to be sharpened and polished but otherwise, they appear in fine condition.

The wood hilt appears to be a lightly stained oak and the condition allows him to overlook the missing scabbard they should each have. It takes a lot of effort not to let his face split out in a grin looking at them. Sure, no one is around, but the last thing you do when bargaining is let the person you’re buying from how much you want the item.

Especially when the price is so steep.  But the shelf they sit on at the bottom has a layer of dust to suggest no one has even asked to pull them out for a while. The shop owner should be willing to take a cut on the price just because of that. He pretends to look around some more as if anything else in the store could outshine what he’s already found.

The swords are expensive. He will not pay full price. It’s like a mantra he has to tell himself over and over again.

Considering Stan has talked a restaurant owner into giving him a bowl of soup for a quarter before he’s not surprised at his ability to bargain the price down lower and lower on the sword. They’re still expensive, but it’s an absolute steal.

The man can’t argue when Stan pretends to be an expert on the swords, claiming their replicas instead of authentic 18th-century swords. They don’t come with paperwork, so the guy has nothing to stand on there. Next, he points out the missing leather scabbard’s which knocks it down another chunk until the guy just seems to cave wanting to get Stan out of the store.

The final offer of two hundred dollars down from four is as good as he’s going to get so he takes it. Odds are the swords aren’t real. Something that old wouldn’t have lasted this long without being maintained in a museum. But they could be someone’s pride and joy. Some blacksmith in the last fifty years must have made them either for themselves or on a high commission.

Eventually, they landed here, practically waiting for Stan to find them.

They get wrapped up in a box and he makes a trip out to hide them under some tools in the trunk. With his hands still free, the present secured, it’s finally time to go clothes shopping. It’s a good thing he still has well over an hour. Maybe it’s his poor memory but Stan can’t remember a single time he’d bought clothes straight out of a real store. Just thrift shops for as long as he can remember, especially growing up. Where to start?

Every single time Ford comes into this book shop he thinks it’ll magically have more options than it did last time. And he’s always wrong. The selection on boats is just as limited as all the other scientific sections. The shelves are piled high with romance books and science fiction novels instead. Give the people what they want, but come on. All the skill teaching books shouldn’t fit on one shelf.

After talking with the clerk at the front for a while it seems this shop also can’t order most of the books he wants either. It’s frustrating but he remains polite and just buys the three books he was able to find. When they get home, he’ll call around in Portland. Hopefully, one or two stores can get him what he wants. He’s not above contacting a company that builds boats to find out what college their workers attend. That bookstore would definitely have what he needs.

A quick stop at the camera and film shop to drop off Fiddleford’s pictures to be developed and picking up a couple new rolls only takes a minute. All that leaves is finding a fishing rod for Stanley. If given more time Ford is confident he could build one that is nicer than anything in store but unless he wants to stay up all night there isn’t time for that.

Ford finds a sporting goods store up on the second floor and suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing that the bookstore didn’t take long. On top of sports stuff, there is a lot of outdoor gear and a whole wall of fishing rods to pick from. There are also guns for sale behind the rear counter but he ignored those in favor of browsing. Except, he doesn’t have any idea what he’s looking for. The library didn’t have any books on just ‘fishing rods and reels’ so he’ll have to resort to grilling the technical information out of the older gentleman behind the counter.

Stan made a list before they left the house, after taking stock of his closet, of what he needed to get. Two new pairs of shoes. Seven to ten various t-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. A new belt. And lastly, a new jacket. Even with such a simple list picking anything out and trying stuff on took forever. Because he’d always bough clothes used or been given them second hand it took a lot of arguing with himself to buy the smaller size.

Clothes stretch, they’re supposed to fit a little weird at first.

Despite the strict list he ended up walking away with a little more than he intended. A pair of sneakers and work boots, six plain t-shirts, three band shirts, three flannels, a few tank tops, a new swimsuit, four pairs of jeans, two pairs of shorts, two of the same belts, and lastly a nice leather jacket. It was more money than he’d ever willingly spent on himself.

Especially the jacket. It took ten minutes of just standing looking at it in the mirror, loving it, before forcing himself to walk to the register before he could chicken out.

Walking with the bags, everything condensed so he didn’t look ridiculous, left him feeling guilty sitting on the bench near the front of the mall waiting for his brother. It was irrational because money wasn’t a problem. He had plenty of it. More then he’d ever need.

Maybe right now everything was just getting to be a bit much. His life had been so awful and terrible for so long. Now the lights had come on, blinding him after living in the dark for almost thirty years.

No, we are not going to cry sitting in the mall. At least wait until we get home.

The smile he’d been wearing had disappeared. Was that just how clothes shopping was? He wouldn’t know. God that’s sad. His whole life was sad. Hopefully Ford wouldn’t take too much longer now that his energy was drained.

Fuck. He still has to make a few phone calls when they get home. It makes Stan sigh just thinking about it.

At first, the employee working just seemed to be trying to work out what exactly Ford wanted. Trying to make a sale without fully explaining what Ford would be buying. ‘Is it for deep sea fishing? How big of fish are you looking to catch? Is your brother an experienced angler? How heavy of line do you want?’ But eventually, Ford got him to explain what all those technical words meant. What made the difference between all the different options, which poles would be more versatile in different environments, and it allowed him to finally start making choices about Stan’s gift.

Eventually, they’d be out on the ocean, so a pole capable of handling large fish was a must. Ford picked out a carbon fiber fishing rod and bought one of each type of reel. Spincast, baitcasting spinning, and a fly. Those could be swapped out interchangeably. Next were several various lines; monofilament, braid, fluorocarbon, wire, and fly. Two of each type so Stan had a heavier line or a light one.

With everything he was buying the guy behind the counter gave him a discount on a tackle box to store the lines and the basic lure set Ford settled on before packaging everything up.

Only then did it occur to him that it was going to be very difficult to hide the bag and what was inside when they met up back at the front of the mall.  The two much smaller bags he had weren't going to blend well with the rod he’d just bought. Should he go home with Stan and come back later in his car?

No, the store might be closed before Ford could come up with a good excuse to go back into town. How was he supposed to get this bag into the car?

Using a different exit out of the mall Ford decided to sneak outside and just hide the bag underneath the car behind one of the back tires on the passenger side before going back into the mall to meet up with Stan. He’d just need to pretend to tie his shoe and then put everything in the footwells of the back seat. Faking being warm would be excuse enough to remove his coat to hide the bag for the trip home.

The more Stan tried not to think about things the worse he felt. It was ridiculous! He knew that everything was fine. Bill was gone. Ford and him are good, great even. Their family is back together. He even remembered Fiddleford! He had money, and now his life was going to be perfect.

But this was why he had liked the idea of not remembering. Then he wouldn’t have had to feel all this. The guilt, the pain, the loneliness. It’s just echoes of the past, but it still hurts like its happening now. Time will make it easier, being happy will too, he’s just got to deal with it when it happens.

It’s almost worse than physical pain. That has an end, but the chasm inside his chest does not.

After getting back inside the mall Ford slows to a walk to recover from running out to the car and back around. It only takes a minute for the main entrance to come back into view, including Stan sitting on the bench off to the left.

He looks sad, almost like he’s in pain.

That isn’t right. Today is a good day. Stan has several bags set on the ground right next to him and he’s just looking off out the glass doors at the parking lot. Looking but not seeing. But he’s fidgeting with his watch too, so its not a memory?

What then?

Ford purposefully walks a little louder and gets to watch Stan realize he’s back. It’s like watching the lights come back on in a cold house. The fidgeting stops and his face briefly leaves view to gather his bags and stand. But by the time he’s turned back a light easy smile is back in place like he wasn’t just looking completely crestfallen sitting alone.

It’s weird. Because the display plays exactly how a lie does when Stan’s fooling someone. But- No. Stan isn’t lying about being happy. Is he? Things are good, right? It looks like Stan had fun shopping with his full bags at least. So why?

Ford doesn’t get it but whatever it is he needs to fix it.

“Heh, not much luck with the bookstore I take it? At least you got a few to mark off your list. Only, like, three hundred to go.” Stan can’t make himself put a lot of humor into his voice, or too much joy either. It’s only one o’clock and he’s dog tired. Once Ford reaches him, he turns and walks for the door, letting the other walk ahead and mostly just looking at his feet.

Ford gets the door for Stan and keeps pace with him, trying not to stare too much for fear of making Stan’s soured mood worse. “It’s only forty-five books, but yes.” Maybe he shouldn’t press just in case, but- “Are you alright? You looked kind of, lost. Before you noticed me.”

Stan just sighs, passing some of the bags over to the one hand to dig out his car key, “Yeah, I will be. I’m tired. It’s been a long week, long year, long decade. I’m gonna feel down about it sometimes Ford. It’s normal, I think.” He unlocks the car and then pops the trunk, putting his bags inside before walking around to the driver’s side to climb in.

The only good thing about Stan being down right now is that he completely misses the bag under the car. Allowing him to grab it and put all his stuff under his coat before climbing in on his side.

After a pause he responds, “Is there anything I can do to make it easier?”

Stan ponders that, really considering it, before looking up and over at Ford, “You being around makes it better. It doesn’t go away but sitting in the mud with someone is better then sitting in it alone.”

Before buckling up Ford moves over closer to Stan’s side and offers him a hug instead of saying anything.

It makes Stan’s shoulders slump the rest of the way as he accepts it. Maybe Ford is a cause of a lot of the pain, but for some of it he’s also the best medication. They stay there for a while just sitting in the parking lot with the car running. Stan doesn’t start crying again, just sitting with the pain. It’s good. Just like all the other stuff he’s got going for him now.

Stan feels really lucky to have Ford around now.

For the millionth time Stan knows he made the right choice getting him back.

Chapter 40: Puzzle Pieces

“Are you sure you’ll be alright with me down in the basement for a while?” Ford needed to ask, hovering in the hallway near the elevator with Stanley.

After their very long hug outside the mall, Stan had seemed to cheer up again. Not to the same level as the trip into town but still better than when Ford had found him sitting on the bench. Now that he knew his presence helped Stan so much, he was reluctant to separate, even if the new puzzle from the mall was yelling at him from down in the lab.

“Yeah, I’m sure Sixer. I’m just going to finish putting my clothes away and maybe spend some time with Ma. You go get some reading done. Just try to bring me up that spare pair of glasses later when you come up to call those shops in Portland.” Once Ford was downstairs, he’d be able to finally go out and bring the swords upstairs. Thinking about the present and their trip tomorrow lifted his spirits a little higher, and made his smile a little happier.

“Alright, but if you need anything just come find me. Don’t just sit up in your room alone. The house is full of people to keep you company.” Ford gave him another brief hug not just for Stan’s comfort before stepping back and taking the elevator downstairs.

Stan had expected to get a little bit of time alone in his room just to sort through his new clothes but he barely had time to hide the sword box under a blanket on the bed before there was a knock. “Who is it?”

Fiddleford has spent all morning writing up his notes on Stanley’s progress and his own experience with the dream gun. Those two things had kept him busy down in the living room with Caryn, but now that Stan was home, he fully intended on spending more time with him. He had missed his friend in just the five days he was gone! “It’s Fiddleford, can I come in? I saw your car was back and I just thought- “

His smile came back full force hearing Fids trying to talk his way into the room. “You can come in; I was just putting clothes away.” The door opened before Stan had even finished speaking and it made him chuckle a little.

Stan pulled open drawers in the dresser and grabbed hangers out of the mostly empty closet while Fids spun one of the chairs around so they could talk while Stan organized his new crap. “I see your shopping trip was successful. Did you get anything cool?”

That was all it took for Stan to momentarily abandon the clothes in favor of locking the bedroom door, “Mom told you about our little birthday plans tomorrow, right? Well, I figured I should probably get Ford a gift. Come over and take a look at what I got him.” He moved the blanket out of the way and opened up the box to show Fids the two swords once he came over to the bed.

At least his knack for conning people wasn’t going to be completely wasted now that he was leaving the life of crime behind. (Or trying to at least)

Fiddleford was quiet looking at the swords despite his small smile. “They’re wonderful and I bet Ford’s going to love them, Stanley. You’ll need to eventually find a safe place to store them unless you plan on mounting them as decoration.”

Fid's lack of enthusiasm didn’t go completely unnoticed, “I’d rather they come with us on our boat, just as soon as we have one to keep them on. What’s the point of having pirate swords if we aren’t going to use them? But I’ll leave that up to Ford to decide.” Ford had to have a sharpening block around here somewhere, but first.

“Why the long face, aren’t you excited about tomorrow? Mom did tell you about the fishing trip, didn’t she?” Maybe Fids was the type to get seasick and was just trying to think of a way to get out of the trip. Or, maybe he didn’t want to go at all.

Fids just sighed shifting on his feet nervously, “Well, about that actually,” guilt was evident on his face, “I called to talk with Emma and she wouldn’t go for it. Didn’t sound too happy about me going on a fishing trip when this week was supposed to be work-related either. We had a bit of a spat on the phone earlier.”

Things had leveled out in their marriage for the most part leading up to the portal, but there was still that constant underlying tension since the accident with the portal. He’d never been truly honest with her about everything and that had just made explaining away the nightmares more difficult.

Hopefully given time things would settle, now that everything was over and done with, but for now, he still had to be careful. No sense in rocking the boat just to go fishing.

Now that all the other trouble in Stan’s life had been dealt with this seemed incredibly tame. A small problem that a simple phone call would fix. He just needed some details.

“Fids, what exactly have you been telling her about all this? I know you said you kept things simple. Us working on a project while Ford was out of town, what with her not liking him, but if I’m gonna help you I need to know all the lies.” He guided Fids over to sit in the two chairs, turning them to face each other since the projector had been moved back to the attic and out of the way.

In comparison to Bill, his marriage issues had seemed minuscule. Things would be alright given time. Hopefully. But he’d still tell Stan anyway because it would feel good to share. “She knew Ford and I were building some big machine. Something Nobel Prize-worthy, but I never told her exactly what. I didn’t want her to worry about how dangerous it was. Then when Ford and I fell out I claimed it was something to do with the long hours.” Fids shifted back uncomfortably.

“Pretty sure she knew that was a lie, especially because of the nightmares. I guess it’s been festering for a long time now, both of us just ignoring it. Then when you came to town, I said you were house-sitting while working on a different project. She liked you. Probably because you were right.” He lets out a huff having to admit it. “All this time without using the memory gun was good. I spent less time in the basement, and more time being present at home. Pretty sure that’s the only reason she hasn’t brought up separation, again.”

“Look, I know you wanted my family to come with you, but you shouldn’t get involved in our issues. We’ll do something on your actual birthday with me, you, and Ford instead. Emma has work tomorrow, and Tate has school. It’s just not gonna work out this time.” He tries to let Stan down easy, still feeling bad about it while being firm.

Stan isn’t going to pretend to know how marriage works. He can’t even remember the last time he was in a long-term committed relationship. Probably high school. But he thinks he sees the problem here anyway. Fids was lying. Which isn’t something you should do with someone you’re building a life with. And, maybe, he could talk to Emma for Fids and straighten most of this out. Especially if he’s already on her good side.

But this isn’t his call. It’s not his business.

“I’m gonna say, as a professional liar, you shouldn’t have kept all this from her. You can’t keep hiding it, not all of it. Because otherwise, it’ll keep rotting away at the foundation like mold. This isn’t the type of thing you can just ignore. Kinda like my stuff with Ford. It just caused a lot of pain and resentment.” This whole experience sucked, but it taught him a lot too.

“If you want, I could help you talk to her. Hell, I’ll do it for you if you want. Because I think now could be a good time for some honesty. Everything’s wrapped up, we have a trip tomorrow that would be good family bonding for you guys. Sure, she’ll be mad. But you can make her a little mad now or lose her later.”

What is he, a life coach? Stan has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at that thought since this is serious.

Stan was right about the memory gun having side effects and about his ability to trick a demon. It might not be so far-fetched to take some of this advice and save himself the heartache later.

But even if he was honest now Fids doesn’t think a day is nearly enough time for his wife to get over being mad to go on a fishing trip together tomorrow.

“I don’t think this is the kind of thing you could do for me, Stan. Doesn’t change that you're right though.” It makes him sigh.

“Sure, I can, just go get the phone and I’ll write you up a speech to give her. Then when she responds put it on speaker so I can coach you through it. The whole thing should only take an hour or two, depending on how deep in the hole you’ve gotten yourself.” Stan gets up to go dig a notebook out of the bedside table and a pencil.

That makes Fiddleford laugh seeing Stan already starting to write stuff down before he’s even agreed. “You really don’t have to do that Stan. This is my marriage after all. I know you’re a smooth talker, but-“ That makes him pause.

He doesn’t have the language skills to talk his way out of this.

But Stan might.

Isn’t this morally questionable though? What is this, high school? He’s an adult, he shouldn’t be having his friends write him a script. It’s kinda like writing a prom invite and having your friend deliver the news. Isn’t it?

“Fiddleford, have I ever steered you wrong before? You might need to help me make the script more personal, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Seriously. I just want to help, please?” Stan can have two agendas at the same time. Getting Fids on the boat and helping his friend.

Well, it's not like Stan can make things worse, right?

Stan talks out loud while Fids writes the script and the whole time Stan puts clothes away. It takes over an hour of working on it before Stan deems it ready.

In that time Stan called and made arrangements on the phone for the fishing charter so they’d have details for around the end of the call. If it went well.

“Stan, I don’t know if I can do this. Are you sure this is going to work?” Fids asks, holding the phone in one hand with the number dialed in but not hitting call yet. The script is sitting in his lap ready for when Emma picks up, but-

“Relax Fids. It’s all right there, including potential dialog options as you go. It’s foolproof. As long as she hasn’t secretly been having an affair nothing can go wrong.” Stan laughs a little when that makes Fids scowl. “I’m joking, just dial the number and get this over with. And remember half the sell is in the tone. You’ve gotta let your emotions bleed into the words even if you don’t mean them. People eat that up, so Emma probably will too.”

“Is it normal to feel guilty that I’m letting you help me with this?” Fids asks, delaying this further.

“Probably. Don’t think of me as a friend, consider me a therapist. Maybe I’ve never held down a long-term relationship, but coaches don’t play, right?” Stan laughs even harder until Fids shushes him and hits dial and speaker so Stan can hear.  

Please don’t pick up. Just be busy doing something and let the phone go to voicemail.

Please.

Please-

“Hello?” Emma says on the other end of the line.

Fids looked down at the script since Stan insisted he follow it word for word to avoid any hiccups.

Whatever. He’s the ‘expert’.

“Hey, Em, are you busy right now? I’ve been doing some thinking since our argument earlier and I think it's about time we talk about some things. Mostly me talking, if you’d be willing to listen?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end followed by a sigh, “Fiddleford, if this is about that fishing trip I already said-“

“No, it’s not about the fishing trip. Look. I was talking with Stan and he was telling me how much of an idiot I’ve been since moving us up here to Gravity Falls.” The silence that earns him on the other end of the phone is his cue to keep going.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry for lying to you. I was never telling you the real truth and it hurt our relationship. If you’ve got the time to spare, I think you deserve to know, now that I’m done being an idiot…. Please?” Letting his feelings bleed into his tone is hard, but that’s why Stan made him practice before this.

The urge to hide those feelings is strong because they hurt. Faking them, even if he does feel them, is easier on the phone. He’s watched Stan do this and been on the other end of it enough times to know how it should sound.

Fids ignores the grin Stan is giving him.

“Alright, I’m listening. Go ahead.” She says tentatively, the sound of her dragging a chair over to the phone is audible with the line on speaker.

“When we first moved up here for Stanford’s project I kept the details a secret. I didn’t want you to worry about how dangerous the work was. Ford drew up these plans for an interdimensional gateway. I know, I know. It sounds nuts, but the math was there Emma! Really! And it worked, after a while we got the thing up and running, that’s actually what happened back in early December.” He makes his voice a little unsteady now, getting quiet for a minute like Stan wrote he should.

“We were running tests, making sure it was safe, and-“ More silence and a sigh. “There was an accident. I went past the caution line and went partway through the portal. Luckily because of a safety tether, Ford was able to pull me back. But what I saw on the other side, it’s what’s been causing all my nightmares Em. I won’t tell you what it was, but it was bad. I’d never been so afraid in my life. It’s the real reason I left the project then and there.”

Emma interrupts on the phone now, sounding worried and a little mad. “Fiddleford, why didn’t you just tell me? I get that the work you two were doing was important, but it’s not like telling me would have hurt anyone.”

Fids flips the page and continues, “I don’t know, I just wasn’t thinking straight. Thought sharing would hurt you or Tate. And I didn’t want to admit moving up here was a waste of money in the end either.” As they go it gets easier and feels less forced. Like just bringing this up gets them over a big wall that he’d known was there this whole time. It doesn’t feel like he needs to look at the script much but he does anyway just for the sake of it.

He doesn’t want to screw this up now that things are going right.

“Oh, it wasn’t all bad. Sure, we lost some money selling the house. But this place is okay now that Tate’s adjusted. It’s certainly safer than our old neighborhood.” She’s smiling a tiny bit on the other end and it comes across the phone. “Anyway, go on.”

It’s a relief that she’s not that mad yet. He always thought she’d be more upset about all this.

“Right, so. After I left the project what I saw in that other dimension gave me nightmares. So, I started using this device Ford and I made ages ago to-“ He takes it back, the script is the only way he’s going to spit this out. “I used a memory gun to erase what I saw from my head. It was that bad. And I spiraled, damn near losing myself. God, I’m sorry. I should have found a better way to deal with it, but I just. Couldn’t. It was something so awful and I was dealing with it alone.”

“Until Stan came around in January. You remember Ford leaving town and he started house-sitting? That’s not exactly the truth either. Ford, because he was continuing the work alone, managed to fall through the portal and get trapped on the other side. That’s what Stan needed my help on, fixing the portal and trying to get Ford back. I’m a little more mechanically inclined than he is, and Ford was my friend. Even if we fought the last time we saw each other.”

“It worked to. This week, last Saturday, we got it open and we got Ford back. He’s been in rough shape, but we’ve also been working on tearing the portal down, knowing how dangerous it is now.” He laughs a little, “And with Stan’s help, I’ve been dealing with things better. Healing, I guess. This is part of that, telling you what was really going on. Because I should have never lied in the first place. Do you think you could forgive me?”

The other end of the phone is silent for a long time but the line stays open. Stan didn’t prepare the script for what to do if she just didn’t talk at all. Looking up and across Stan just holds up a hand and mouths ‘Wait’ still grinning like an idiot.

“Honesty is a good first step Fiddle. It all sounds pretty crazy, but I know how smart you are. And how dumb you can be. So, I believe you. But I don’t want you getting involved with any more crazy life-threatening schemes with those twins. You hear? And that memory gun whatchacallit? I want that gone too. I want my husband back, not some mad crazy scientist. I’ve almost lost you once, I won’t be so forgiving if you do something like this again.” There is still some anger in her voice, firmness, but no fury at least.

Stan is almost splitting his face listening, motioning for Fids to flip the page.

Huh? They didn’t write any other-

Oh, Stan did. Bastard.

“I know, I won’t. The next project is going to be much safer. No more world-ending adventures for me, I’m finished. The next project is this big boat Stan and Ford plan on building, which I’ve been invited to help with. I’ll keep being honest. You can even come around and see it as we progress if you want. It’s gonna be really something.”

“But I should tell you. Part of Stan helping me recover was involving a new invention. Ford made it for me. It’s a dream gun, that blocks out that one bad memory while I sleep so I don’t have nightmares. Went through lots of testing, unlike the memory gun. Rats for weeks before human trial. The only side effect is it makes me drowsy. But it helps. I’ve been able to finally sleep for the first time in six months. Figured you should know since I’ll probably be using that for a while. Kinda like the sleeping pills but way healthier for my liver.” The script says to laugh but it comes out as more of a chuckle because he wasn’t briefed on this part.

Now the smile sounds bigger across the phone, “That’s awfully nice of him, the least he could do after being the cause of those dreams in the first place. Stan really seems to be rubbing off on everyone. Where the hell was Ford hiding him before all this?”

Now that’s off script, so Fids improvises and waves off Stan as he starts to scribble. “They didn’t used to get along. It took Ford going to another dimension for them to fix their relationship. But it’s all better now. Stan’s staying in town for good. And that boat is for a dream they’ve had since kids. Once it's done they’ll be gone a lot during the spring and summer traveling the world.”

That pulls a laugh from his wife and he finally relaxes and smiles, “So you mean to say we’ll be friends with boat people? I knew Stan was well off, but you didn’t tell me by how much. I guess it makes a little more sense why he’s got such a nice car and can plan spontaneous fishing trips while the rest of us have to work.”

That makes Fiddleford laugh long and hard, unable to help it.

Stan crosses his chest and pouts, pretending to scowl even if he’s not actually upset.

“It’s not just about that. Stan and Ford haven’t been on good terms in a decade. This is their first birthday together since they were seventeen. Plus, they’re parents flew into town after not hearing from Ford for months so the whole family is here. Stan invited us along because he really wants me to go. But I think he also wanted to give Tate an experience fishing. I’ve certainly never been on a boat in my life, but Stan has. I think it would be good. Even if you don’t want to go you think I could bring him? I’ll be home Saturday afternoon so I can help him catch up on any homework he misses, scouts honor.”

“You were never in scouts,” But Emma chuckles a little anyway. “Well, I do think it would be good for you to spend more time with him…” She seems to be thinking about it. “I don’t know, is Stan around? I’d like to ask him about the details first.”

Stan throws out a hand for the phone, moving to the edge of his seat to accept it.

“Hang on, I think he’s in his bedroom across the hall.” Fids gets up, walks to the door, and knocks, then comes back to hand Stan the phone. “Stan, Emma wants to hear a little more about that fishing trip.”

It takes everything not to yell when Stan takes the phone and turns it off speaker, “Emma-May, what may I help you with?” He snickers a little at his joke and Fids would smack him if this hadn’t all gone exactly as Stan said it would.

Whoever Stan ends up marrying someday is going to be a very lucky woman.

The laughter on the other end is audible even with the speaker off, “Hey Stan. Before I decide if Tate can go, I want to hear a little more about what you have planned. How long it’ll be, what time, who’s all going to be there, and there better not be any drinking on this boat-“

“Relax, I can hear your pretty hair turning gray from here, “ Stan ignores the glare that earns him from Fids for kinda flirting with his wife, “To start things off I’m not taking no for an answer. If you can’t go then Fids and Tate can’t either. I know you’ve got work, but I’ll pay you to call out sick or something. No joke. My mom’s going to be left all alone at shore while us guys go out on the charter and I need you to do me a solid here.” Stan gets up to pace while he talks.

“Eh, eh, eh! Before you say no let me lay out the deal. You call out and I’ve got everything handled. I’ll drive, bring you breakfast and coffee since it’ll be early, and I’ll make Fids give you some spending money from that check I gave him for helping me get Ford back. And, to sweeten the deal, how about I watch Tate for you guys once a week? A reliable babysitter so you guys can do date nights, huh? I’ll be a bro, give you two some well overdue alone time.” Stan laughs when Fids tries to grab the phone. “Hey, I’m not done talking!”

Fids is going to kill Stan and he’s blushing something awful but quickly gives up so he can try and hear what his wife has to say in the silence of the room.

Stan knows he’s won when another round of laughter greets his ears before Emma can even answer. “Alright, alright. You’ve sold me. You can drive and I’ll spend time with your Mom. She better be half as fun as you though. Now give me the details so I can make some arrangements.”

Stan holds up his hand for Fiddleford to high-five while he keeps talking, “May I just say, you are the best. And Caryn is where I get all my best qualities from. You two will have a blast or my last name isn’t Pines. Plus, she’s almost as good at bargaining as me. You’ll be in great hands if you see something you like.”

“The charter leaves the dock at ten AM in Astoria which is about a four-and-a-half-hour drive. You’ll want to be ready to get Tate in the car at five but it’ll be dark so you can get more sleep on the way. The boat will be back by about two and then I figured we could eat in town before driving home. Ford's supposed to have a surprise for me in the evening, so there won’t be much time to hang around as a group afterward, but everyone will probably be pretty tuckered out by then anyway.” Stan double-checks the note he wrote when scheduling the charter as he talks.

Emma is writing her own notes down on a piece of paper, “What kind of clothes should Tate wear and should I pack him a lunch? We don’t own a fishing rod anywhere; do they provide those or- “

“Just bundle him up nice and warm, the breeze coming off the ocean will be chilly, oh and a raincoat if you’ve got one. I think they have some for adults but I don’t know about kids. They provide the rod and life vests, but do you guys have a cooler or something? I don’t think Ford does but if we catch fish, we’ll need something to keep them in.”

More scribbling, “I think we might have one in the garage.”

“Perfect, you’re a doll. For snacks, you’d be best sticking with something easy on the stomach just in case he throws up. Shit, I’m going to need to stop at the store and pick up some Dimenhydrinate too. I don’t get seasick but who knows if anyone else will. Oh, and fishing licenses! How could I forget!” He almost yells looking at his notes but shuts up remembering this is supposed to be a secret.

“Fids knows Tate’s social security number, right? We’ll have to go into town and pick them up, probably now before the place closes. If you have any other questions don’t be afraid to call. Just make sure you aren’t talking to Ford before saying anything, this is supposed to be a surprise.”

Fiddleford only looks a little offended that Stan thinks he wouldn’t know that. Emma laughs again, “Give him the phone so he can write it down, just in case.” Stan listens, unable to stop smiling while Fids writes it down on a scrap of paper and then says his goodbye. 

“What did I say? Am I the best or what!?” He yells after Fids has hung up.

Now Fiddleford punches him in the shoulder, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! That shouldn’t have worked!” But he’s smiling and grinning the whole time unable to help it.

“Fids, If I can talk a god into killing himself, I’m pretty sure I can help you get laid.” Stan laughs harder when that gets him punched again but then grabs the notes about the fishing charter and his new leather jacket out of the closet. “Alright, alright. I get it, I’m killing you. Relax. Let’s run into town and pick up stuff to wrap and sharpen the swords and the last-minute supplies.” He grabs his wallet and pockets it before following Fids out of the room to go put the phone back.

How could he be mad when all in one conversation Stan effectively fixed his marriage and got Emma to change her mind about tomorrow?

Stan is a wizard and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

*

It only took an hour to relay the code down onto a piece of paper but Ford made sure to keep one headphone off the whole time in case the elevator came down and he needed to sweep everything into a drawer.

Luckily that never happened and he finished the incredibly long letter without any interruptions.

Then he went over everything and highlighted the words in their corresponding color on the second listen which left him sitting with the finalized code.

He just needed the right books.

This wasn’t a math code or language code, but instead a random guessing game. Or that’s how it felt.

For red, the answer seemed obvious. The journal. That book was red and during the long battle with Bill, it had played a key role for Stanley. He would just need to ask for it back to fill in all the red highlighted words. No problem.

The other two colors were where the real difficulty began because Stan didn’t read. Or at least he didn’t used to, not before all this. And Ford wouldn’t know any of those books anyway, he wasn’t here.

Blue could, in theory, be the research on the bionic eye. That box had been blue and so were the folder and notebooks inside. But it wasn’t a book, not really. Unless Stan meant the instruction manual he’d explicitly mentioned in the tape?

Nah, Stan had been very specific in the letter. Book. It had to be a book.

Stan wouldn’t have been a dick and just picked something off a shelf upstairs, would he? No, certainly not. Everything Stan did was with intention. Doing that intentionally would make this puzzle truly impossible.

So, he wouldn’t, right?

To keep himself from losing it, he’d go with no for now but make sure to keep a list of every book they brought into the house. It wouldn’t be a new book; it was one already here.

If not the stuff about the bionic eye, then what was blue or green?

To make himself feel better perhaps he could make a list of all the green and blue books in the house, just in case it came down to having to randomly try them one at a time.

Or, maybe if he just filled in stuff from the journal, he’d get another clue somewhere as a reward for figuring out the first book?

The sound of the elevator dinging interrupted his thoughts and Ford quickly swept the shoe box into the deep drawer along with the Walkman and letter so the desk was empty when the door opened and Fiddleford walked in.

The cleared desk in front of Ford made him pause in the doorway of the lab. That was weird. Stan had said Ford would be in his study so being in the wrong room was odd enough. Now he was just sitting not even working on something?

OH.

Ford probably thought he was Stanley and just didn’t want to ruin whatever present he had gotten his brother. That made sense. It also made his big smile wider. Now that they got along it made him understand why siblings were such a big deal. Maybe-

“Hey Ford, hiding a surprise from Stan I see? Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I just came down to see if you forgot anything in town. I’m gonna run in before the mall closes to get Stan a present for tomorrow while he picks up some smokes for your mom.”

Thank God for birthdays.

In the future, he’d need to remember that Fids is an expert at seeing through deception now, because of Stan. Being more careful and having something to play pretend scientist with next time would be safer. There was just no way to explain the code to Fids without him wanting to know what the message was.  

“Ahh, Mom told you about that, did she? Any chance you have ideas for what Stan would want to do tomorrow evening? After whatever Mom’s got planned, she wouldn’t say.” There was the Karaoke idea or mini golf. But Fids would know what the rest of the day looked like already, giving him a small hint if his plans needed to be something at home.

Not board games though, that would be a disaster.

Considering they were going fishing and driving over eight total hours the next day going somewhere else after getting back would be out of the question. “How about making smores and maybe playing some drinking games around a fire outside? That sounds like a good way to finish out the day. Plus, it’s not hot enough outside yet to worry about all the bugs. Or maybe we could play cards? I don’t know if Stan is a big drinker. I’ve never seen him indulge other than this morning in the kitchen.”

The other part of the day involved getting out of the house then. But what? Fids wouldn’t tell him, even if he asked. Damn him. He hated surprises. Especially now when everyone was conspiring against him.

“Do me a favor and find out on the drive into town. If yes,” He got up and went over to a different drawer to pull out paper to write a short list for the liquor store. Then below it he added wrapping paper, smores, and candles. “Here, take this list and,” over near the door he grabbed his wallet out of his coat pocket and passed it to Fids, “this. I’ll go see about digging out a small firepit in the backyard while you’re gone.” Tomorrow they could move the benches on both porches in the evening. Otherwise, Stan might notice before it was time.

He accepted the list and gave it a once over, unable to help the chuckle seeing the wrapping paper. “So, tell me, what’s the gift you got him? Or did you make it? I’m dying to know.” The list goes in his pocket with the wallet and he crosses his arms waiting for Ford to pull something out from wherever Ford had hidden it.

Oh, thank God he’d put the stupid bag down here after sneaking it out of the car while Stan was upstairs. Not having the present in here would have been hard to explain.

“It’s over here,” Ford stood up and pulled the bag with the fishing rod and tackle box out of the closet to show Fiddleford, keeping half an ear on the elevator just in case.

The more Ford pulled out of the bag the harder it was for Fids to keep the ear splitting grin off his face. There was no chance that Ford knew about tomorrow’s plan, but Ford did know Stan. Ten years apart but you wouldn’t have been able to tell by looking at the gifts they got each other. “Oh, he’s going to love this. I’m just glad we didn’t get him the same thing.”

That jealousy he’d been dealing with over Stan and Fiddleford’s relationship was ridiculous and luckily, as more time went on, it got easier and easier to ignore. Maybe he was usually emotionally blind, but the pair did seem to be good friends. Nothing more.

At least part of his brain was still able to think rationally when it came to Stanley. “I thought so. And by the way, do you happen to know where Stan has been keeping the journal? I have some editing to do after everything.” Ford began packing the stuff back into the bag and moved it back to the closet for safekeeping.

“I’m pretty sure he was keeping it downstairs in the lab. Inside your desk? At least that’s the last place I saw it.” If it was up to Fids, he’d rather just burn the damn thing now that everything was over. But it was Ford’s life work. Maybe he could rewrite the journal but edit out the bits about Bill. “We’ll be back later, but make sure to get to bed before five. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” He warned before turning and leaving the basement.

After the elevator had gone back up to the main floor Ford took the stairs down into the third floor of the basement. After flipping on the lights, he ran over to the desk. The journal was tucked away inside the closed compartment exactly where Fids said it would be. Before going back upstairs he grabbed the handcuffs, the key, and that spare pair of glasses for Stan and then ran back up to the lab. That way he wouldn’t need to go back to that level until they started taking apart the portal.

Half an hour later, after pouring over the journal and the puzzle, the majority of it was still absolute nonsense. Almost all of the words Stan had selected from this book were mostly Verbs making understanding the letter impossible. He would have to find the other two books before the not knowing drove him insane.

There was also no clue in the letter. No finished sentence to point him in the next direction or anything. Why? There were lots of whys about this letter. Why couldn’t Stan just say this on the tape? Why couldn’t Stan have just left him a letter, a normal boring one? Why did Stan purposefully hide the first note somewhere he shouldn’t have found it in time?

Part of his mind wondered, maybe, if this could, just maybe…. Could this be a confession? A love confession?

That stopped the hundreds of other questions and thoughts bouncing around inside his head. No, that couldn’t be what this was. Ford was just reading into things because that’s what he wanted this to be. It was probably something boring. Or maybe something sciencey like that bionic eye? Maybe this whole scavenger hunt would lead to an invention for him, like Fid's dream gun. Yeah, that had to be it. Ford wasn’t going to leave any room for argument with himself.

Instead, he flicked through the journal page by page looking for any sort of clues he might have missed. Maybe Stan had written a note of some kind in the book directly or-

That.

One of the words on the third page was underlined faintly with a pencil mark. So light you’d almost miss it. Ford grabbed another piece of paper and began going page by page, writing down all the underlined words (and appreciating the marks hadn’t been made in pen) until he’d reached the back of the book and there was nothing else to add. Ford looked at what all the different words added up to.

This book was the easiest of the three to figure out. Hence why it’s the first one in the code. Congrats. Without another hint there is no way you’d get the next one and as much as this should stay buried, I promised I’d give you a chance. The second book, green, is hidden in a box.

“That’s a shitty hint,” Ford complained out loud, glaring at the piece of paper and clicking the pen he’d used to write it. Sure, most of his books were in the study which limited the options, but a box? The house had almost as many of those as it did pieces of wood. It would take a whole day to go through them all. And how was he supposed to know which one was right? There were hundreds of green books in the house.

Whatever. This whole puzzle better be worth it.

For now, Ford locked everything back in the drawer and headed downstairs to start going through those boxes first. He’d start making lists of blue and green books starting at the bottom and working his way up. One of them, or rather two of them, had to be the right ones.

Chapter 41: Dusk to Sea Salt

Despite having most of his memory back Stan still didn’t think it was a good idea to use the dream gun on himself. For one, he needed to wake up earlier than everyone, but there were also a lot of memories with Bill he hadn’t gotten back yet.

Sure, it would be ideal to never get those back, but he couldn’t know what kind of clash the memory gun would have with the dream gun. Especially considering it had only been tested on someone who blocked a handful of memories, Fids.

A whole mind worth was more complicated and not worth the risk.

Instead, he spent the night having fitful dreams, tossing and turning, mostly just waiting to wake up and get the night over with. Most of the memories that decided to haunt him tonight involved being alone. Glimpses of himself sulking at a booth in a diner, a bar, curled up alone in the back of the car. He knew he’d been alone a lot, but seeing endless flashes throughout the night only made the feelings in his chest infinitely worse.

Waking up alone in bed it was all he could feel for a while.

Not today. We aren’t doing this today. Tomorrow or the day after we can do this, but not now. Just one more good day, then you can stay and rot in bed for a week. Alright? Just get up, please just get up. One more day. Get the fuck up-

Finally, after a lot of arguing with himself, Stan sat up in bed. It was barely three according to the clock they’d brought over from Ford’s room. Stan turned off the alarm set to go off in fifteen minutes and got started for the day. The less sitting around with his thoughts he did, the better.

Showering, brushing his teeth, and getting dressed only took twenty minutes, allowing the rest of the time for making breakfast. Cinnamon rolls, breakfast sandwiches, and coffee. Luckily, he wasn’t alone in the kitchen for long before Mom got up to join him shortly before four and Dad came in a little later.

That had to be the thing he was going to miss the most after they left.

The amount of people in the house assured that Stan wasn’t alone with his thoughts and feelings for very long. He tried not to think about what he’d do after everyone was gone, because it just wasn’t reasonable to stick by Ford’s side all the time. If memory served him right that would only drive his brother away again, like in high school.

No, he couldn’t stand that. Not again.

Getting Fids or Ford up was almost impossible because of the dream gun. He managed to force them both (one at a time) to get dressed, brush their teeth, and wash their face before just getting them both in the car. Breakfast got packed in a lunch box to keep it warm, coffee in two thermoses with cups, and everything else they’d need packed in the trunk he’d emptied the night before.

Mom and Dad took Ford’s car, getting a head start on the drive, while he went into town to pick up Emma and Tate. The unsettling feelings that he’d had since waking up had not gotten better but at least had not gotten worse. Time. That’s all it would take. The further into the drive they got, the closer to the sea, the more at ease he’d get. And maybe Ford waking up instead of just sleeping against the window would help too.  

The two dorks would still be asleep for another hour since they’d both used the gun around six, so arrived at Fid's house he parked the car and got out to put the cooler in the trunk and connect up Tate’s booster seat in the back. Even with the light inside on the two didn’t even stir.

He passed back the smaller thermos of coffee, the container with two cinnamon rolls, and the tin foil-wrapped breakfast sandwiches to Emma and Tate before putting the car back in drive to finally head out of town. Things were going well. He just had to keep repeating it to himself. Ford still had no idea about the surprise, Fids and his family were here, and they were going fishing! It’s good. Great. Fantastic.

Reading the book on saltwater fishing the night before had not jogged any memories though. The glasses had kept him from getting a headache, but he’d hoped to have some idea what he was doing before they got to the coast. Maybe that’s what it would take to bring the memories back? The smell of sea salt and a cold ocean breeze.

On the way out of town, Stan couldn’t stand the silence anymore, turning the radio on quietly to a classical station because he didn’t know what would or wouldn’t be appropriate with a kid in the car. Maybe it was the classical music that did it, or the familiar drive towards Portland, but whatever it was gave him the first taste of a physical hallucination in months.

One minute, he was just driving along on the beautiful green summer road in the early hours of the morning, and the next it looked like midafternoon, and a fresh blanket of snow was covering the world.

Why today? Why couldn’t this happen some other day? Not now.

As far as he could tell nothing else had changed. The car hadn’t magically become empty, the road was still the road, and traffic was still real traffic. It was just the scene that had changed, the lighting and weather.

The smart thing to do would be to pull over and wait for it to pass. Because a hallucination was still a hallucination and it meant anything could be fake. He could just be driving along, thinking he was on a road, but actually be in the ditch.

Except he was one of two adults in the car awake. And he couldn’t exactly tell Emma what was going on. That would lead to questions, concerns, and maybe backing out of the trip altogether since they’d barely left Gravity Falls.

So, he kept driving, holding the wheel a little tighter and having to remind himself that the snow wasn’t real. He didn’t need to actually look for black ice because it wasn’t real. It was just-

What was it then? Yeah, it was summer. There shouldn’t be any snow, at all. But then why was he seeing this? Was he reliving a memory while driving? That couldn’t be safe. Like, really couldn’t be safe. But what else could it be? Hallucinations only happened when Bill-

No. That’s not what this was. Bill’s dead. Very dead. His mind is just still a little scrambled is all. Nothing to do with that demon. Can’t be.

Luckily the winter wonderland only lasted about ten minutes and for maybe a total of five or so miles before the road went dark again, back to morning and summer. The change back allowed Stan’s shoulders to relax the tiniest bit and his hands to loosen from where he’d been white-knuckling the wheel.

It was only another couple miles after that before a semi-reasonable explanation came to him.

That was the stretch of road near where he’d pulled off to sleep before actually driving into Gravity Falls for the first time. Where he kept waking up, dozens of times, in nightmares. Yeah, that had to be it. Nothing to do with Bill, just a lot of bad memories layered over each other in that one spot.

Fiddleford was the first between the sleeping pair to wake up, mostly because Tate had started poking at his arm trying to wake him up so he could get help reading a book while Emma was sleeping. The topic of saltwater fish made Fids smile while quietly helping Tate read through the book. Even if it mostly just resulted in being asked if they’d be catching any of them today while out fishing. Maybe? Though probably not the colorful ones. He’d never been fishing before, so he was almost as clueless as Tate.

It took him a minute to notice that Stan looked- Not how he should given the adventure they were on. He looked tense and almost upset but like he was masking his face into something closer to bored. “Here Tate, why don’t we ask the expert in the car about which fish we’ll catch, huh?” He suggested quietly, flipping back through the pages to the beginning before starting to include Stan in the conversation.

Fids was an absolute saint. He’d been lost in thought, allowing himself to get worked up while trying to keep himself a semblance of calm. But when it came to kids? This was easy. After only a few questions, which his brain helpfully provided real answers for, he was able to relax for the first time since getting in the car and leaving the house. Tate asking if they’d be catching any clownfish even pulled a choked laugh from him, trying to keep quiet so they wouldn’t wake Ford or Emma. “No, I don’t think so. Clownfish are to small and live on coral reefs. I don’t think they’d be good to eat, even if we could catch them on this coast.”

“We're going to eat them!?” Tate yelled, waking up Emma and making Ford stir in his seat by the window. Fiddleford gave Emma a sorry look when she sat up, grabbing her coffee out of the cup holder in the door.

Whoops.

Stanley laughed, louder and harder this time without trying to keep quiet. God kids are fun. “Well yeah, what did you think fish sticks were made out of? Don’t worry though, we’ll only keep the mean ones to eat. Stop them from causing trouble.” Stan unzipped the lunch pale on the middle seat and passed Fids back breakfast and another disposable cup for the coffee.

Tate seemed to consider this, looking at the book in his lap again for a few seconds. “Do you think we’ll catch a shark today? That would make for an awesome show and tell next week if I brought in a shark!” Tate started flipping through the book, excited at the prospects.

Oh, to be a kid again with such a wild imagination and no clue about the world. “Hmm, it's not impossible, but I think we’re a little more likely to catch sea bass, Ling Cod, Cabezon, or kelp greenlings. Whatever we catch we’ll make sure to take a picture of you holding the biggest one for next week, how about that?” Stan kept most of his eyes on the road but couldn’t help glancing back in the mirror to see Tate franticly flipping through the book in search of the fish he'd listed off with Fids helping him search.

Ford finally started to wake up, thoroughly confused by why he was in the car. Hadn’t he been in bed last he checked? Ugh, it must be the dream gun. Sure, Fids had said they’d need to get up early for today’s surprise but- What time was it? He opened his eyes, glancing at the radio on the dash, and let out a groan. Fids and him would need to work on adjusting the dream gun to a window of less than twelve hours otherwise they’d spend half their lives asleep or drowsy.

At least his teeth were brushed and he had the distant memory of Stan forcing him to wash his face before getting dressed. So that hadn’t just been a weird dream, a glance down at himself made that clear. “Where are we going and how long have we been in the car?” Ford finally looked over at Stanley. It was a great relief to see his brother smiling just as wide as he had been yesterday on the way into town. But a quick spin in his seat left him more confused. “Where are Mom and Dad?” What was Fids family doing here? Not that he didn’t like them, necessarily (even if Emma didn’t like him), but-

Stan just laughed, opening up the lunch box and pushing it over towards Ford. “Relax, they are driving separately. We’ve been on the road for just under two hours. We’ll be passing through Portland soon. Here, eat a cinnamon roll and a breakfast sandwich. Oh, and there’s coffee too, down by your feet.” Stan made a general motion towards the thermos but before he could answer any more questions Tate interrupted.

“Ling Cod are ugly! Look at how gross they look; we can’t eat them!” Tate turned the book around to show Stan the picture of the fish with its big mouth hanging open on the page. “Look!” He insisted, almost dropping the book over the front seat in his effort to show Stan. Fids ended up taking the book, leaning forward to show both Stan and Ford before Tate fell out of his seat.

Stan reached down to the glove box and pulled his fishing book from the library and flipped it to a page he’d tabbed with a sticky note the night before. “Oh, they are ugly, aren’t they? But that’s a good thing. We wouldn’t want to eat all the pretty fish, otherwise the whole ocean would be ugly. Here,” He passed the book to Fids over the seat. “That page I tabbed has pictures of the kelp greenlings we might catch.”

Ford thought, for a minute, that he might still be sleeping. It wasn’t a perfect dream, given Fids family being in the back seat instead of their parents, but it was still close. Stan was grinning, talking about fishing, and offering him a very good and still warm-looking breakfast. He rubbed at his eyes and pinched his arm once just to be sure he was awake. “Wait, are you telling me we’re going fishing?” He tentatively pulled out the breakfast sandwich, still staring at Stan.

The family in the back seat began to pour over the new book, each parent taking turns explaining the pictures and the words on the pages while Fids worked on finishing his breakfast in between. An easier air settled in the car now that everyone was awake, one Stan wasn’t familiar with happening here. For the longest time, he’d been so alone in this car. Maybe that’s what caused all the discomfort this morning, the idea of being trapped in this car again? Whatever it was, it was gone now. Thank God.

“Duh, of course, we are, Sixer. You aren’t telling me you bought Mom planning something, did you? I’m the master planner in the family. We’re taking a fishing charter out from Astoria at ten. It's technically four hours long but we’ll head back to shore whenever we’ve reached our bag limit as a group.” Stan glances over at Ford for the first time since getting in the car and would smile wider if it was possible seeing how surprised Ford looked.

It felt like Stan was reading his mind. But that wasn’t possible. Stan was just- good at this kind of thing. Suddenly all the yelling and talking from Tate in the back seat about fish made a lot more sense. Good thing he hadn’t tried to plan some sort of night fishing trip, Stan would probably be sick of this by the time they were-

Shit! He should have brought Stan’s gift! Then he could have used his rod! Did they provide rods? He didn’t own life jackets either, what all had Stan bought specifically for this trip?

It took a lot of effort to not drop his smile seeing Ford’s mind racing over in his seat instead of eating his food.

Usually, he could tell what his brother’s thoughts were about, which direction his brain bolted when presented with information. Now he wasn’t sure. For all he knew Ford might hate the idea but not want to say so to hurt his feelings.

No, don’t think about that. Just ask. Talk about it instead.

“I can’t completely read your mind, what’s rattling around up there, dork?” Stan kept his eyes on the road ahead, a good excuse not having to look at Ford. It’s fine, relax. Today’s a good day.

Ford had been getting lost, feeling guilty about the expenses, gazing out the window. Looking back at Stan the ease he’d been wearing was tenser but still joyful. What had he missed while zoning out? A glance in the backseat was no help with them still pouring over the book with Tate. He just kept staring at Stan for a minute before speaking quietly. “Did you cover everything? I mean, fishing requires life jackets, rods, tackle, bait, licenses, a cooler, and who knows what else. That’s a lot Stan, and-“

Oh good, it’s just the normal kind of rambling Ford stumbles into all the time.

It makes Stan’s shoulders relax again and he let out a sigh of relief. “Calm down, I’ve got it. The charter covers rods, tackle, and most junk. All we need are warm clothes, raincoats, and the licenses. Fids and I bought those yesterday when we went back into town. The main expense was the charter itself. But I can’t imagine a better use of the money, not when we’re all here together. Well, we will be. You know what I mean. Mom and Dad are a little ahead because we had to pick up Emma and Tate.”

Ford calms down then, shoulders mirroring Stan’s. Right, of course, Stan has thought of everything. The second trip into town and why it took so long makes a little more sense now. He turned his attention to the sandwich Stan had passed him to finally start eating it instead of objecting further. “Good, sounds like we’re all set then. It’ll be great.” And he means it, this will be fun. Minus the awkwardness of Emma and Tate being here.

Having finished his own breakfast and coffee Fids finally reached over the seat and taped Ford on the shoulder to get him to turn around. Once he has, Fid’s held up a small note right behind Stan’s headrest so he can’t see it. ‘I put your gift in the trunk, just in case you wanted to give it to him when we get there.’ Fids is grinning the whole time and then hides the note once he’s sure it’s been read.

Now Ford really smiles, unable to stop even while he eats. The worry about the money disappears and instead, he just finds himself looking at Stan in the driver’s seat. He looks so happy and excited for today and it makes Ford’s chest hurt just watching him.

Instead of glancing into the back seat, like he’d been doing before Ford woke up, Stan keeps glancing away from the road over at Ford. The first couple of times he catches Ford looking he ignores it but by the fourth time Stan’s convinced something has to be on his face. Because why else would Ford be looking at him instead of out the window, or maybe at his food? He’s got some cheese smeared on the edge of his lip but Ford doesn’t seem to notice or care.

It cracks him up, making Stan laugh even if it appears to be about nothing.

“So, now that everyone’s awake what kind of real music am I allowed to play in the car?” He asks the back seat, glancing in the mirror before starting to mess with the radio dial to find something good and appropriate. He ends up settling on something called Flock of 80’s which isn’t just rock. The kind of music he listens to probably isn’t kid-appropriate.

“Whatever is fine,” Fids whispers over the seat. “He’s not quite at the singing-along stage anyway. We still have a few years before that.” Tate seemed too enthralled with the book Emma was helping him read to care about the radio anyway.

Getting through Portland this early in the morning turns out to be a little more of a challenge than Stan had thought and it almost made him wish they’d left a little earlier. But thanks to the number of people in the car he’s able to use the carpool lane through the majority of the city, bypassing the worst of the traffic. And once they get out, he speeds just a little to make sure they don’t arrive late.

The whole time Stan’s distantly aware of Ford looking at him between eating and drinking some coffee from the thermos, but a glance in the mirror of the sun visor confirms there wasn’t anything on his face. So why is he staring so much? His mind doesn’t come up with any good answers other than it having something to do with how long they were apart these last ten years.

Not to mention what they both went through during their dreams, seeing each other but being the cause of all that pain. Even if technically, it was Bill’s fault. Damn near everything was that fucker’s fault.  So, just like when he’d first woke up, Ford was probably just feeling particularly clingy again now that he was awake. Fair enough, so was he. But that was normal. A given even!

The whole drive went by quickly, faster than Stan could ever remember a drive going, because of how nice it was. Tate continued to ask more and more fish questions as they drove and Stan continued to humor him. Some answers were legit and others he just made up on the spot. The kid didn’t seem to care if they were true or not. If anything, Tate seemed almost as excited about this trip as Stan felt on the inside.

How could anyone of expected Ford to take his eyes off Stan during the drive? He was happy, ecstatic even, and it only seemed to get more intense the closer to the coast they drove. The traffic didn’t bother him, or the endless questions from the back seat. There was no way Stan learned all those answers from the one book he’d been reading yesterday before bed. And he knew for a fact Blue Whales were not the size of a train, but it was too entertaining to watch them talking over the front seat to interrupt.

Stan was good with kids and now it made a lot more sense why Tate and Emma were here. Maybe they were a package deal and Stan had needed to invite all of them for Fids to go? Or maybe Stan just wanted them here.

When given the opportunity why wouldn’t Stan want to entertain and hang out with Tate? He certainly seemed to take an interest in fishing to the same extreme as him. It warmed Ford’s chest further, more than just seeing Stan smile did, and it took real effort to morph his smile into something gleeful instead of lovesick.

It was a relief when they finally arrived in Astoria and there was something else to look at other than Stan and trees. The place was small but bustling, alive with tourists and shops. Stan didn’t even glance at the paper directions he’d pulled out of the glove box onto the middle seat, like he’d been here before. Ten years of driving around the country must have given Stan a good sense of direction. Maybe he’d even memorized the directions before leaving.

 As they got into town Stan couldn’t help but roll down his window, just a crack, to breath in the salty air. Any remaining tension in his chest, remnants of early this morning, disappeared like nothing had ever been wrong in the first place. How could there be when the ocean was right there?

The Pacific, unlike the Atlantic when they’d lived in Jersey, wasn’t accompanied by a gross undertone of filth either. Just pure sea salt that made your nose burn a little on the first deep breath before it was eased by the smell of fish, seaweed, and alga. The water here had real color too with the sun shining and only a few clouds in the sky. Beautifully blue. It was the perfect day and Stan made an effort to savor the moment as he took each turn closer to the marina.

“Oh, by the way, I had Mom and Dad borrow your car for the drive so they didn’t run up the bill on their rental. They only get so many miles over the week. Figured you wouldn’t mind as long as I do your next oil change in July.” Stan mentioned as he drove into the marina’s parking lot and Ford’s car came into view down at the end of the row.

How nice, Dad was standing outside the car holding a space for them.

Ford let out a loud laugh and just shook his head. Of course, Stan would use the car key he had made the day before to loan out his car without asking. He wasn’t mad though because the logic made sense. “You don’t have to do that you know. The care of both our cars doesn’t fall on you just because we live together.”

After Stan had parked the car into the spot and while Emma and Fids began to get out, he responded, “I know, but I don’t mind. I like working on cars Ford. Now, come on. I’ve got a rain jacket for you in the trunk so you don’t get sopping wet.” He gave Ford a playful push towards the door before turning off the car, pulling the lever to pop the trunk, and getting out.

Ford almost hit Filbrick with his door in the rush to get out and around the car to the trunk before Stan caught sight of his present, even if it was wrapped. But he didn’t need to worry because Fiddleford had gotten there first and was pulling out raincoats for everyone, passing them around before helping Tate put his on. Fids had hidden the box back behind the cooler and it was for the most part out of sight.

Stan, instead of going for the trunk, went around to Ford’s car where Mom was getting out of the passenger side. “Hey, before you and Emma-May go off running around town I had something I wanted to give you first.”

Caryn continued to get out of the car, shaking her head and wondering why Stan was whispering. “Stan, it's your birthday. This trip is already more than enough, you shouldn’t be giving me any sort of presents.”

But Stan wasn’t having it, this was important. “I know, I know. It’s not a present. Here.” He reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his handgun below view, blocked by the car. “You two girls are going to be walking around in an unfamiliar town, alone. You know how to shoot, don’t you? It would just make me feel better if you’d keep this in your purse, please?”

The sight of the gun made her jump since she wasn’t expecting it, “Stan, I don’t think that’s necessary. You know I have my pepper spray and pocket knife. A gun is just overkill.” She quietly argued.

This is the part where he should back off, but he just can't here, not this time. Stan just got her back for the first time in a decade. She needed to keep herself safe. Especially when Dad isn't going to be with her. “Mom, this will scare off anyone before they get close to you. This feels like a safe town, but I won’t be able to enjoy it out on the water without you taking this. Here, I’ll show you the safety, and it's already loaded. Please, Mom?”

Before Caryn could object again Stan was showing her how to hold it, use the safety, and left it in her hands giving her no choice but to put it in the car with her purse. It makes her scowl but she doesn't complain again, “Fine, fine. But only for your sake. I’m not going to need it.”

“Of course not, this isn’t Jersey.” Stan gave her a small hug when she finally accepts it. It gives him peace of mind, letting him relax again. Once the gun was put away, he directed Mom over to the group at the back of the cars to introduce her to Emma where she was giving Tate a small lecture about behaving and listening to his father.

“…. And remember to keep your life vest on, and Stanley will have motion sickness meds if you get sick, and-“ Stan put a hand on her shoulder to interrupt, “Emma, how’d you like to meet my mom, Caryn?” At least it worked, getting Tate off the hook to stand by Fids while Stan introduced the pair. It was understandably a little awkward, at least for Emma, but in the time it took the pair to get in the car, Caryn had taken over the conversation and was chatting her ear off, making for an easier flow.

Just like Stan, they were both born to talk.

“We should probably check in then, huh?” Filbrick spoke up, moving out of the way while Caryn pulled Ford’s car out of the spot and drove off with Emma to start their adventure. “Right, yeah. That’s the whole reason we got here early.” Stan was the last person to change out his jacket in exchange for a raincoat out of the trunk, but when he moved to close it, Ford objected. “Wait, hang on-“

“Here, Stan, why don’t Filbrick and I go get us checked in. I think Ford had something he wanted to show you in the trunk before we set sail,” While he talked Fids picked up Tate, carrying him on his hip to keep the boy from running off. The last thing they needed was him tumbling off the dock in his excitement.

Stan didn’t even question it, pulling the piece of paper with instructions out of his pocket and giving it to Fids. “It’s over in boat slip A8, we’ll come meet you over there in a few minutes.” He watched them walk off as a group of three before turning back to Ford. The grin he was wearing was extra stupid compared to earlier. “So, you got a gift for me?”

It took a second to focus having the full strength of Stan’s smile aimed at him but Ford shook himself out of it. “Yes, actually. Here.” He moved the cooler out of the way and pulled the large box to the opening of the trunk before motioning for Stan to open it. “Happy Birthday, even if it's early.” Did this all technically count as their birthday celebration for the year or would Stan want to do something else in a few weeks? They did have ten years to make up for.

Just looking at the large box it already felt like too much. But being this close to the ocean it was pretty much impossible for him to be in a bad mood, even over a gift he otherwise didn’t think he’d deserve. “Awe, you shouldn’t have! Damn, I would have brought your gift if I’d known we’d be doing this now. You’ll just have to open it when we get home.” He reached over and pulled Ford into a hug with one arm around his shoulder, using the opportunity to screw up his brother’s hair before letting go and turning back to the box.

Having his hair messed up made Ford flush a little bit but didn’t dim his smile watching Stan messily tear open the wrapping paper and box to get at the gift. Instinctively he started cleaning up the wrapping paper while Stan moved the box onto the edge of the trunk to look at what was inside.

After opening the box and moving the crumpled-up newspaper used as tissue paper all Stan could do was stare for a minute. That was a fishing rod, and a tackle box, with several different reels. He blinked, stupidly, for another minute before finally moving to pull stuff out and look at all of it item by item.

It didn’t matter that he didn’t know what the difference in reels or when what tackle would be appropriate. Ford had researched to figure out a wide variety of options, just for him. Stan felt ridiculous when he started crying looking at it and had to put the box back in the trunk, turning away some to attempt to hide the tears. Later he’d have to thank Fids for giving them a minute to do this alone. “Jesus Stanford, you didn’t have to do all that.” He tried for a laugh but it didn’t come off right because of the tears.

Ford moved to stand next to Stan, putting an arm around his back in a half hug. These had to be tears of joy, especially with how red Stan had gotten while looking at his gift. “Of course I did, you deserve it, Stanley. All of this, you deserve to be happy. Especially for our birthday.”

Stanford was going to kill him with kindness one of these days. It was a rather dramatic flip from how awful he’d been before the portal. Now probably wasn’t the time, because the answer could ruin everything today, but- “Ford, what made you change your mind? I know we’ve both been through it lately, but I don’t get it. Did it really take a big sacrifice to get you to like me again?” His voice is tentative, needing to know but also dreading the answer.

Ford waits until Stanley looks at him again before answering, “You remember that good dimension with us being raised apart and bonding later in life? That was the first dimension I was able to talk with you, or another you, in ten years. I shared our whole tragic story and he told me theirs. And it made me realize how fucking stupid I was. I had such a big head from such an early age and-“ Ford sighs.

“That world proved to me that I was wrong. Things didn’t have to be this way, this terrible way, and-“ It makes him laugh now. “Other you was pretty wise, gave me some good advice. Showed me your perspective as best he could without living through it like you did. I never listened or gave you a chance to explain anything but he made me listen. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. He even insisted you’d get me home somehow.” His voice gets sad, turning a little to look towards the docks behind them before back.

“He was right, no matter how much I didn’t believe it then. I never thought I’d be back here. But I swore If I did, I’d make things right. Fix things, and I’m trying Stan. I know it’ll take time and I still understand if I never can, but-“ Ford gets interrupted by Stan pulling him over into a real hug.

“Shut up, you sap,” He laughs into Ford’s shoulder, smiling again around some more tears. “You admitting your wrong at least three times in one speech is an excellent start. The nice fishing rod doesn’t hurt either though. I’m just glad to have my brother back because you’re the best. You know that?” When he pulled back, he squeezed Ford’s shoulders. “Go grab the fishing licenses out of the glove box with the motion sickness medication while I put this together to use!”

Only Stanley could be so forgiving after all the horrible things Ford had been the direct cause of, but rather than objecting he just accepted it and went to get the licenses and medication before coming back around to watch Stan put the pole together. He opted to put on the spinning reel and the heavier Fluorocarbon fishing line from the tackle box. That took a few minutes and then Stan put the rest of the lures into a backpack he had brought. The licenses and motion sickness medication went in there with everything else.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Stan caught the trunk right before it closed and pulled his keys out of the leather jacket and a camera still in its case. “This is what Fids gave me as a present. Mom’s going to want lots of pictures.” Finally, Stan closed the trunk and started walking towards the docks with the rod over one shoulder and Ford occasionally bumping against the other.

Today was perfect.

*

Being out on the water again for the first time in God knows how long was exactly what it took for Stan to get the memories he had of this back. After a long safety talk with the Captain, Austin, and his first mate, Logan, they began the trip out of the harbor.

It was a mostly quiet affair with them all looking off at different parts of the water and no one got seasick. Dad figured he wouldn’t, considering he’d been fishing before, but it was a pleasant surprise for Fids and Tate.

Just looking out at the water from his seat near the front of the boat brought back memories just like in his dreams. Flashes and pieces of different ones clipped together. Sometimes they’d last minutes but never the full length. Just the good parts. Josh teaching him how to thread a fishing line, tie knots, and explaining the rest for hours in between bringing up crab traps together. Emptying the traps, getting pinched for the first time, and hundreds of others.

The memories brought a softer and fonder smile to his face than the earsplitting childhood excitement the drive down here had given him. He did know what he was doing, it had just taken getting out on a boat to bring it back. Maybe it would have been a better use of his time getting his rod set up now that he could recall how, but he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

“What did you remember this time?” Ford finally asked, unable to continue just watching Stan look off at the ocean’s horizon distantly. What was causing this new and nostalgic smile? He kept his voice quiet, leaning over so he didn’t have to yell over the engine or the water.

“That summer I was up in Maryland trapping crabs. I did a whole lot more out on that boat than haul up pinchers for three months.” He leaned back in his seat, bumping his shoulder against Ford’s. “Josh, the owner, taught me how to fish too. Never got to stay in one place for too long, bringing up traps, but you can still learn a lot about fishing without keeping a line in the water. I wonder if he’d still be there, running the place. You think next time we visit Jersey on our boat we could swing up to their harbor?”

That knowledge, the topic, made Ford far more seasick than the motion of the boat did. But he couldn’t stop himself from spilling the truth despite the pain it would cause. Stan was the only person who would believe him. “You remember that picture in your photo album from that summer? That’s the guy, Josh, who adopted you and Schermie in that other reality.”

Stan could only stare at Ford for a long minute, blinking a few times and then falling into a fit of laughter that could be heard over the engine and got Dad and Fiddleford looking his direction. To their credit, he did sound like he was losing it. Maybe because he was a little. “That’s a good one Ford! Fantastic joke! You’re getting better at those you know. Next, you’ll tell me he died or something.”

When Ford doesn’t say anything, just looking sheepish and then sad down at the floor, Stan stops laughing. It makes him swallow.

“You're being serious, aren’t you? That’s the guy? I thought you said I grew up in Alaska?” He skirts around the other part entirely.

“You did. It was a company. Part of the year in Alaska, Maryland, and a trip out near China at one point too. But I guess in that universe they lived in Alaska most of the year. And-“ He sighs, “Josh died, sometime when you were in college or near the end of it, I think. Stan didn’t give an exact time, but that’s around the time he took partial ownership, afterward. Heart conditions ran in their family which is why they adopted in the first place.” He ignores the weird looks Dad is giving them from across the boat listening.

By that logic, that would mean. Ah. That explains why Ford never answered his first question. Josh was probably dead, maybe died not long after he left based on the timeline. It stings a little because they’d been pretty good friends. Not father and son like in that other reality, but he could see it. How it would have been.

“Huh,” Stan paused, turning to look at Ford and then across the boat at Filbrick. “Well, that sucks to hear. I’ll have to give them a call when we get home and send my condolences. But at least we’ve got your dad, huh?” He joked, giving Ford a nudge in the side even if he looked less than enthused by the joke.

“You still remember their number?” Ford asks shaking his head and giving a small smile across the boat at Dad but mostly keeping his attention on Stan.

“You know you aren’t the only twin with a good memory. I just never bothered using it for the same stuff you did. Don’t worry, I’ll prove it once we start working on our boat.”

That sentence is all it takes for the crew, Austin and Logan, to get sucked into their conversation. Just the mention of them maybe someday having a boat gets them asking questions about what kind, how big, what year it is, what they’ll be using it for. When Ford doesn’t have the technical answer Stan jumps in with the hypothetical one.

It’s a whole new kind of great getting to brag about Ford’s genius with people who are familiar with the topic. They even give some suggestions that Ford says he’ll make a note of (even if Stan’s sure he’s just being nice) and it makes him happy. Everything about today fills his chest with a gooey warm feeling that seals over the large hole he’d been living with this morning.

They switch where they’re sitting in the middle of the trip down the coast towards Tillamook head where they’d be fishing. Ford moved over into Dad’s chair to continue the conversation about the boat with Fiddleford and in turn, Filbrick moved to sit with Stan.

Dad was a much quieter companion for the rest of the trip, leaving Stan to look out at the water again without trying to make small talk. They didn’t need to.

Yesterday, after dinner, Dad had mentioned how he hadn’t been out fishing since he was closer to Tate’s age. Brought along by his dad on one of his friend’s boats. The whole trip had been very boring, more drinking and smoking than fishing, but he was still looking forward to it today.

Stan didn’t like to think about what kind of traits he got from Filbrick a lot of the time because that opened up a whole can of worms. But they’d always (apparently) been equally as emotional, sharing a fear of heights, so maybe the love of the sea could be added to the list. It wasn’t a bad thing to have passed down. It would be the best trait, hands down.

Stan had to pace himself from the moment they all stepped on the boat with taking pictures. One of everyone before they left, another with him, Fids, Ford, and one of Fiddleford and Tate. While Ford was busy across the boat Stan pulled it out again to take a picture with Dad, Logan, noticing took it for them, wearing the strap to ensure the camera didn’t get dropped.

Nope, we aren’t going to cry over just a picture. Not now. After tucking the camera away again it was funny to see Filbrick had put his shades back down to hide his eyes. Well, maybe it wasn’t such a big deal to cry a little bit then if Dad might be.

The whole rest of the trip went by in a blur of old memories and new ones. The rest of the hour staring out at the sea drawing up more and more, making his heart swell, and then the rest of it was spent down the coast, constantly fishing.

Two hours went by too fast with just how little time there was between bringing in fish. Someone, between the five of them, seemed to constantly have a fish on the line. Rather than trying to keep up with taking pictures, pulling himself out of the moment, Logan seemed more than happy to hold onto the camera and capture everything.

The longer they were out at sea the more Ford started to understand Stanley more. Yeah, as kids they’d always said they’d sail and travel the world. But back then it had never really clicked just how important and much that meant to his brother. It had seemed childish and impossible in a lot of ways. You can’t make a living on a boat. And that was still kind of true, back then they probably couldn’t have.

But now, seeing just how much this made Stan open up and the immense pure joy it brought him it was hard to imagine a world where his science fair project hadn’t ended up broken. All Stan had wanted was happiness, something their father had never allowed him growing up, and with Ford too. God, if he could go back and smack his younger self a few dozen times and make the idiot wake up to see what he was missing….

Even on the way home Stan was talking with the two employees for the charter company like they didn’t have books at home to teach him endlessly about the life they’d eventually lead. Stan asked questions about weather, fish, different poles, currents, and everything else that came up in the conversation. It’s what Ford imagined he’d looked like in the sporting goods store the day before, quizzing the man behind the counter vigorously.  

Digging for information in the same way, just on different topics. The things Stan was passionate about. Stanley was so smart…

“Ford, you do realize you’ve been staring at Stan for like twenty minutes, don’t you?” Fiddleford asked while nudging him. He was mostly amused but also a little bit concerned by just how intense Ford’s look was. Yeah, the pair had been apart for a very long time, but all this staring seemed excessive, right? He wasn’t completely crazy?

Had he seriously been staring openly for that long? He could have sworn he’d looked away twice at the horizon to offset a question like this. But maybe that had been earlier and not this immediate last twenty minutes. Damn. Play it cool.

Ford sighed, turning his gaze over to Fiddleford with a casual shrug. Tate was down over with Filbrick at the front of the boat looking out at the waves leaving them alone. So, he was as honest as he could be. “I’ve watched Stan suffer and die a lot during the last three months. More than enough for ten lifetimes because of Bill. It’s good to see him smiling, being happy.”

Fids examined Ford carefully and tilted his head a little during the inspection, looking for the lie. But he wasn’t Stan. He was good enough to know it wasn’t a full truth but not which part wasn’t right. They’d work on that. For now, he turned to look at Stan where the captain was explaining the various controls of the boat to Stan while he watched, and then back at Ford.

“I suppose that makes sense,” But he doesn’t sound fully convinced. He isn’t, but there isn’t a sane explanation for all the staring otherwise. For now, he’d let it go. With time Ford would calm down once his mind wrapped around the fact that Stanley wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

“That reminds me,” Ford hadn’t glanced back towards Stan for fear of getting stuck in a trance again, “Yesterday, before we got haircuts, I noticed that he was acting odd. Just slightly outside of his normal realm of behavior. We were talking about this bionic eye he made for himself before forgetting everything. He wanted to skip using insurance to get glasses and jump right to cutting out his eye. But after only one objection he relented and agreed. He has never, ever, backed down the first time like that with me. It was unsettling and makes me think there might still be something important he hasn’t remembered yet.”

Fids tried not to get caught up on the whole bionic eye thing. He must have missed that part at some point. But after a minute of wondering what building something that advanced might look like he focuses again, “I think you're just reading into things Ford. You two used to fight all the time before all this, didn’t you? Maybe you're expecting conflict because it’s the norm. Or it was. Things are different now; you guys are different. For the better.”

He's trying to encourage his friend, not wanting to see the two of them go back to arguing just because Ford feels like it should be that way. That was never normal in the first place. “Besides, what big thing could he still be forgetting? He remembers his close friends and family, a large amount of his childhood memories, and everything that happened with Bill. That doesn’t leave much else, does it?”

Now Ford lets himself look back at Stan where he’s cracking jokes with the captain and grinning like a kid on Christmas, mulling it over. Fiddleford could be right and he’s just looking for trouble. It could just be such a big flip, a full one-eighty, that his mind hasn’t fully computed yet.

What big thing could Stan be forgetting? He remembers Dad, the root of his anger, right?

Maybe it’s a specific memory between them? From when had their joking fights turned into painful words meant to hurt the other in their teens? Ford couldn’t remember the exact time so Stan definitely wouldn’t. Sure, the incest joke was the start of their distance, but Stan had probably forgotten about that interaction before the end of the month.

“I suppose that’s possible. Only time will tell if you're right though. Eventually, if it is a memory, and it comes back…” They’d start fighting again, wouldn’t they? Just like before, bickering and yelling over nonsense. No, it would be better if whatever is causing the ease of their relationship stays buried. They're both better off not knowing.

“Don’t work yourself up over it. The Stan your remembering is from ten years ago Ford.” Fiddleford pats him on the shoulder and then gets up to go sit with Filbrick and Tate near the front.

Except he’s not. The Stan’s he’s remembering is from January when they argued and fought just like always down in the basement. With Fiddleford busy with his son Ford goes back to staring at Stanley again, making sure to occasionally turn his gaze over to the horizon to keep anyone from saying anything again.

The absolute last thing he needed was anyone finding out about the real reason he was a freak and it wasn’t because of his extra fingers.

Notes:

Hey guys, sorry for the long gap between updates. I've changed up my meds recently and that will likely affect my consistent update schedule. (I'm praying it doesn't change my writing style or decrease the quality though) I hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! This Birthday Bash is getting split into more than one part otherwise it would have been like a twenty-thousand-word chapter. It was giving me a headache. XD

Chapter 42: House of Mirrors

Notes:

(I love how I said I'd be slowing down and then inspiration slapped me across the face? My bad guys, here you go. XD )

“Ford, there is no way Mom and Dad came to Oregon and then we take them out to eat Pizza over seafood!” Stan objects from where they’re arguing walking back to the car both of them carrying the cooler of fish back from the dock where they’d just finished loading and filling it with ice. “That’s like going all the way to Italy for pasta and wine and we bring them to McDonalds!”

Ford scowls for the first time all day, tempted to step on the back of Stanley’s foot if only there wasn’t a whole cooler in between them. Later maybe. “We just caught a bunch of fish Stanley, and I assume you plan on cooking some of it for dinner, only you could stand eating seafood twice in one day!” It’s a fight, but there isn’t any real heat over it.

“There are different kinds of seafood Ford! Have you ever had crab? Shrimp? You don’t have to get just fish. Hell, we might even be able to find a place that has pizza on the kid’s menu for you.” Stan stumbled when Ford jerks the cooler a little, almost making him trip forward when it hits the back of his knee.

“Hell is a bad word!” Tate yells from where he’s sitting on top of the heavy cooler between them. Thankfully, they’re most of the way back to the car by now. “Now you have to put five dollars in the swear jar!”

Stan has to physically slap a hand over his mouth to keep from cursing again because he’d forgotten that Tate was here with them while Filbrick was looking for a newspaper and Fiddleford was still back talking with the charter guides about local places for food. “Alright, alright. You got me, Tate. I owe your pops Five bucks. Fair is fair. I shouldn’t have swore.”

Stan ignores the glowing look of pride at winning the fight Ford must be wearing behind him.

When they get to the car, not even a minute later, he’s proven right but the look of satisfaction on Ford’s face is tinted with another emotion he doesn’t recognize. “Hello? Go pop the trunk so we can get this put away.” Although it wasn’t like they were in a huge rush. Mom and Emma weren’t back yet and they’d agreed to meet back up here at quarter after two, giving them five minutes to spare.

Barely ten minutes back on solid land and Ford was having trouble adjusting back to not being able to just stare at Stanley however he wanted. That would not be a good habit to get into. It would result in questions eventually, like when Fiddleford had almost noticed out on the boat. Ford needed to be more careful and stop being so stupid.

Like now, when he’d got a little caught up on how good Stan was with Tate. Out on the boat, Stan had been the one to help Tate reel in his first fish since that was the first one of the day and it hadn’t been hard to imagine Stan as a father.

It was too terrible sides of himself because Stan would be an amazing Dad!

Miles better than Filbrick. But children meant women, Stan getting married, or having a girlfriend. Stan having sex with someone, and that made him irrationally angry to think about.

There was simply no pleasing himself.

Someone upstairs was always going to be mad and he just had to accept that sooner rather than later.

Instead of saying anything, or digging himself into another hole, Ford just went over to the driver’s seat of the car after being tossed the keys and popped the trunk before helping Stan lift the cooler inside. Ford took the backpack, with the pole zipped inside, when it was all but thrown into his arms.

“Here Tate, let’s get you buckled in again huh? Pretty soon we’re going to go get lunch and then you can take a nap on the drive home.” Stan helped Tate back into the car and settled in his booster seat before coming back around to Ford, taking the backpack from where Ford had done nothing with it for almost two minutes.

That makes Stan pause, glancing back towards the marina but not seeing Fids or Pops anywhere near yet. He looks at Ford, really squinting and looking, because Ford has seemed particularly out of it today and there’s been a lot of staring in his direction. More than usual.

“I feel kind of ridiculous for having to ask this, because I’m the one with memory problems, but are you good Stanford? You seem really spacey. What, did you forget a Bunsen burner on at home in the basement?” Stan could use this time to break down the rod and put it away in the trunk, but he’s being serious and is giving Ford his full attention now.

Alright, yeah. Fords screwed up big time today not trying nearly hard enough to keep himself together if Stan is finally saying something. And no good excuses or reasonings come to mind either, his mouth drying up and mind going blank like he’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

What is wrong with him? Okay, he knows what’s wrong with him, but why is it so difficult to deal with now? Did coming back through the portal make him a different flavor of stupid?

Get it together.

He tries, taking in a deep breath and letting it out before standing up a little straighter. “I-“

But Stan’s already talking, filling the silence Ford had left, “Listen, if you really want Pizza, we can do that. It will be a lot faster than a sit-down meal anyway. I’m sure everyone’s tired, especially you. I haven’t seen you this spacey since Mom punished you by taking away all your books for a week when we were thirteen.” Stan snickers at that, still looking at Ford for a long moment before turning his attention back to the rod.

What good will staring at Ford do right now? Something’s up. Maybe not wrong, because Ford would tell him that, but something. And for whatever reason Ford isn’t saying, seemed to almost choke on it trying to make himself talk. Maybe it has something to do with the surprise waiting for them back home? Or maybe Stan just doesn’t want to think about it being something bad after the day they had.

Stan’s smile has faded before Ford’s very eyes and he can’t have that, not when the other is just starting to get faint lines from doing it so much. He makes himself talk, watching Stan take apart the fishing rod and reorganize the trunk around the cooler. “It’s not about the pizza Stan, I don’t care what we eat. I just harbor a lot of guilt over what you went through and it’s a relief seeing you happy. Like when you aren’t its my fault or something, since it was for so long.”

That makes Stan turn back from where he’d been in the middle of putting crap back in his tackle box to look at Ford again. He should have expected them both to come out of this with some very backward and complicated emotions but hearing Ford admit to it so openly throws him for a loop anyway. At least they’re both idiots this time.

“Stanford…” He glances back towards the docks where Fids is coming back walking with Dad who did manage to find a newspaper somewhere around the marina. They don’t have time for this conversation right now. Not when they have two minutes before they aren’t alone anymore. “My intention in all this was not to make you feel guilty. Maybe to make you realize you’re an idiot sometimes, but not guilt. Don’t worry about it, seriously. All the choices I made were my own and I took it all in stride. I appreciate you being here for me now, while I process all the crap I did and put myself through, but it's not on you. I never want you to think that. Because if it's on anyone, it's on me. Me and Bill, got it?”

Ford doesn’t look even kinda convinced and it pulls a tired sigh from Stan before he can stop it. “We’ll continue this conversation later then, you stubborn ass. Now get in the car.”

‘Before Fids comes over here and someone can snitch that I swore in front of Tate’ stays locked inside Stan’s mouth. Thankfully Ford listened, leaving him to finish packing away the stuff in the trunk.

Fiddleford hadn’t thought this would be nearly as fun or as easy as it was. It wasn’t tense or hard in any way which was a much-needed change from the last week they’ve all had. Yeah, he doesn’t leave Filbrick alone with Tate for a second without them being in earshot and eyesight, but otherwise, it's almost like nothing happened this week.

He’s aware, maybe more than Stan and Ford are, the lengths Filbrick is going to to fix things. So, they can be hospitable, friendly even. “You keep a newspaper collection? How on earth do you decide what to keep and what to throw away?” If Filbrick has been keeping headlines for most of his life he can only imagine the historical moments Stan and Ford will uncover someday after he passes. It's also sweet that today is worth collecting a paper to remember it by.

“One a week mostly, whichever headline is the most interesting goes in the collection unless there are specific circumstances.” Filbrick shrugs, dropping the subject as they get within earshot of the car where Stan is standing near the open trunk. It's easier to let a smile just fall onto his face now. He brings up a hand and claps Stan on the shoulder, looking down at the cooler.

“You know, this was the most fun I’ve probably had in decades, Stanley.” The words still feel a little awkward leaving his mouth, but he’s trying. Fiddleford leaves them to talk, going around to get in next to Tate in the back seat and closing the door.

Stan doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Filbrick being nice to him. It’s just so weird having Pops giving real half compliments, saying kind words, and generally not being. Well. Abusive. It’s nice, of course, because it's what he always wanted. But it also makes him feel like somehow, he slipped into some alternate reality where Dad was never bad at all. It makes him a little dizzy sometimes.

“Heh, yeah? Guess you need to make some better friends back in Jersey. You still do Poker at the Jackson’s every week?” Stan’s long since finished putting away the rod and organizing the trunk, but he’s waiting for the girls to get back to show off the cooler full of fish before closing it.

Filbrick sits back against the open trunk with Stanley, watching the road and entryway into the parking lot with him for Ford’s car. “It’s at Charlie’s house now, in his garage. The Jacksons moved a few years back, out east. Little too far of a drive for Poker.”

“After Ford and I get our boat up and running we’ll have to swing by and visit. I bet I could sweep all of you in a game of Poker now.” Stan lets out a quiet laugh but it’s a little sad. He knows he’s played a lot of Poker, just like how he knew he’d been fishing. Just can’t remember the specifics.

“Only because you’ll count cards,” But it’s accompanied by a dry chuckle that dies fast. “Listen, for your birthday. I want you to have this,” He shuffles around, undoing his jacket to pull a simple black box out of his pocket, offering it to Stan.

Okay, maybe he would count cards a little, but it is more skill than just-

The objections die on Stan’s lips seeing Pops offering him a box. Had he kept this on him all day waiting for an opening to give that to him? It shocks him so much that it takes the box being pushed into his chest for him to finally take it. “Ah, you didn’t need to get me anything. That photo album was gift enough.” This feels like too much in the same way the gift from Ford did.

Like he doesn’t deserve it.

The ocean nearby stomps down the guilt and gives him the strength to carefully open the box. It's barely taped closed and lacking the wrapping paper Ford’s gift had. It’s simple, just like what’s inside.

Laying on a little bit of cushion is a pair of binoculars and a simple gold compass. The binoculars come with lens covers and a string that goes around the neck to avoid them being dropped and upon further inspection, there’s a chain underneath the compass too that would secure to a belt.

Stan’s grip on the box tightens, carefully examining both objects as if afraid they’re going to disappear or break. It makes him swallow hard looking at them and his usual way with words dies somewhere, leaving him the one left mute between them. He doesn’t even notice when Ford’s car pulls back into the lot because he’s too busy just staring into the box.

If he looks up at Filbrick he knows he’s going to start crying and he refuses to do that. He’s done more than enough of that this week and it's still an instinct not to allow himself. It’s too much, too kind, and he just-

Rather than expecting Stan to respond Filbrick just pats Stan on the shoulder again before pulling him over into a hug. Picking those two things out in Portland yesterday had been the right call. “Happy Birthday, Stanley.” He pretends not to notice when Stan starts crying into the hug.

A short while later, after Stan has calmed down, and they’ve all gotten back in the two cars, Fiddleford directs Stanley to a restaurant in town the charter captain had insisted they eat at. It’s more of a bar with tables but still a nice place and very busy for a Friday afternoon on the coast.

While they wait the short ten minutes for their table Caryn and Stan both step outside to have a smoke, giving her an excuse to have a moment alone with him.

“You know smoking will kill you, don’t you?” Stan jokes while pulling out the pack he’d brought with him. Before everything with Bill, he’d allowed himself to indulge for the first time in years. It seems only fair to finish the pack before stopping. Otherwise, it would be a waste.

“Oh, if it hasn’t killed me yet I highly doubt it will now. You know people live to be ninety smoking more than I do?” Caryn pulls out a lighter and accepts the smoke offered to her where they stand downwind from the door.

“Good, I want you and Pops to stick around for a long time yet. No getting lung cancer or having heart attacks.” Stan isn’t really worried. At least if one of them died now it would be with them on good terms. He lights the cigarettes and takes a drag from his, letting the subject drop.

“Oh, here. Before I forget.” She holds the smoke with her mouth and shifts to pass Stan back the gun, making him angle this way to block it from view. It goes without saying, as Stan checks that all the bullets are still there, that she didn’t need it. Stan just worries a lot, especially about his family. “You're lucky I didn’t trade it for some jewelry.”

Stan almost chokes on the smoke around the laugh that pulls from him, “You better not, this thing is unmarked. It’s not easy to get one, especially without traceable bullets. I had to make those myself. “

Caryn looks at him, thinks about asking and poking further into why Stan has a gun like that, but then drops it. She doesn’t want to know. Probably has something to do with Stan’s life of crime, that’s more than enough to go off of. To much.

A minute of silence while they smoke goes by before she says anything again. “I have a feeling you’ll do a better job waiting to open the present I got you boys.” She reaches back into her purse and pulls out two small black boxes. One of them has a bunch of random symbols and writing on it in gold with a matching bow on top and the other is done in the same fashion but using silver.

“While we where wandering around I found this wonderful little fortune teller shop and when I explained,” Now Caryn flushes a little. “Some of what you two went through, she gave me these pieces. Put a special spell on them and everything. It’s supposed to protect you both from demons.” She doesn’t say Bill’s name. “But for the spell to work, they can’t be opened until your actual birthday. Sometime in the hour window of the actual birth, to be specific. Can you make sure you two do that?”

Stan accepts the two boxes but continues to hold them, frowning at the different writing on each box. This sounds like witchcraft; the kind of thing Ford would write about in his crazy journals. Sure, their mother is a phone psychic, but she’s a liar just like himself. It’s not real or at least he assumes so…. But this? It looks real. “What happens if we open them at the wrong time? Do we end up cursed or something?”

Caryn taps out her smoke and tosses it in the nearby trash, “No, I don’t think so. It just wouldn’t do anything. Pretty sure.”

That doesn’t sound very convincing.

Stan sighs, “I guess I don’t have much of a choice. We don’t want to end up accidentally cursed. I’ll make sure they get opened at the right time.” He agrees but isn’t exactly excited about more magic crap. Whatever these are, bracelets, necklaces, or rings, they better be nice at least to make the risk of a curse worth it.

*

“Ford, after you help Stan bring in that cooler can you come back out here?” Filbrick called from over near their rental car where he had continued to hover even after Caryn had headed inside with their travel mugs from Ford’s car.

“Yeah, just give me a minute!” Ford called back before continuing into the house after Stanley and through the entryway into the kitchen.

With their father’s disappearance the day before in the rental car Ford hadn’t needed to interact with him very much beyond pictures since Stan remembered. It was purposeful, at least on his part, because Ford wasn’t going to fold so easily just because Filbrick was being nice to Stanley now.

He’d put Stan through physical torture (maybe not comparable to Bill, but still) and Ford would be damned if he let that get swept under the rug by everyone. Sure, Filbrick had fought just as hard as he had to get Stan back. Sure, maybe he’d even gone the extra mile with a birthday present and lots of smiles to make this Stan’s best birthday ever. But-

Even if, hypothetically, he could let all that go. What about the last ten years between them? Filbrick hadn’t come to his college graduation, hadn’t talked with him on the phone more than a handful of times, and in the beginning, those calls had always been about money. Arguing over the grant he’d gotten to study here.

‘What about your family, huh?’

It made him scoff to think about it since those words sounded rich coming from the same father who threw Stan out on the streets alone. Good thing it had been spring, the car hadn’t been empty on gas, and their wonderful father let Stan pack a small bag before tossing him out on his ass.

Ford felt guilt over his part, but Filbrick played the main role. From what he’d seen and heard Stan hadn’t suggested Filbrick had properly apologized over that fact. Did he even regret it?

Sure, Stan liked to rationalize everything. ‘If my life hadn’t been so crap, we wouldn’t be here now.’ But they could have been! Like that other reality. If Stan hadn’t been kicked out then they still would have been close! Maybe….

“Earth to Stanford Pines,” Stanley cupped both hands, making a megaphone and talking to him through it right into his ear causing Ford to wince. “I’ll put this away, you go talk with Pops,” But Stan puts a hand on Ford’s shoulder before letting him go. “And remember, he’s too old for you to kick the shit out of him.” It’s teasing, followed by Stan pushing Ford’s toward the kitchen doorway.

No sense hiding inside over it. It’s best to get this out, before Dad goes home tomorrow.

Ford left the kitchen and went back outside, turning on the porch light as he went since the sun is almost set leaving most of the yard too dark to see. Walking across the yard and over to the rental car he doesn’t know what to expect from this conversation. An apology? Sure, Stan’s gotten one, but that’s because he saved the world.

He deserves one. Ford certainly doesn’t.

In Filbrick’s opinion the only upside to having to do this conversation again, like with Stan in the car, is Ford wasn’t typically a violent kid. Hopefully, he doesn’t know how to throw as much of a punch while they get this all out. He took off his shades, both because it's too dark to see with them on and because it presents an air of honesty. Probably.

The silence drags and it almost makes Filbrick laugh if this wasn’t so tense. It’s just like on that first call with Stanley, Ford waiting for him to start. Fair enough. (Even if Ford did kinda almost destroy the world. But child abuse is probably worse, isn’t it? Especially when it is someone you love compared to an unfathomable amount of people)

“We never got a chance to talk, after everything happened.” After the truth came out, but even before that too. This week was almost entirely focused on Stan, but it’s both their birthdays. “Stan isn’t the only person who deserves an apology or gets a say in having anything to do with me after, well. Your whole lives.” He shifts, standing up from where he’d been leaning against the car with his arms crossed.

Despite Stan’s warning Ford still does want to punch Filbrick. Add to the healing bruises across his face. Explaining that to everyone when they get back to Jersey will be fun, for sure. Ford has his hands tucked in his pockets instead, standing a full six feet away because it helps keep calm. “An apology doesn’t even begin to cover it. I mean, seriously. I can’t believe I ever looked up to you. That I ever cared about earning your damn pride. All the while, that whole time, you were, were-“ He tightens his jaw and stops, taking another step back while he breathes.

Filbrick lets some silence pass, letting his son calm down a little before speaking.

Ford was always the quieter, the less expressive of the two. Talking less his whole life makes it even harder for Filbrick to know what to do next. But he has to try. Nothing gets fixed keeping his mouth shut. Things usually get worse before they get better. Doesn’t make it easier. At all.

“Do you know why I ended up being an only child, Stanford? Why you kids didn’t have any cousins on my side?” He keeps his tone level but allows a tiny bit of the pain this conversation brings him to show on his usually emotionless face.

What on Earth does this have to do with anything? Ford wants to hit him again, harder this time.

It’s almost like he and Stan have switched completely. He’s the one clinging to Stanley’s side, hovering obsessively like in high school, and wanting to punch their father in the face. That thought is the only thing that keeps him from opening his mouth and starting to yell.

He used to be so much more rational before all this before all those walls holding emotions at bay broke. Ford can’t even pinpoint exactly when that happened right now, but it makes thinking analytically impossible. This has to be going somewhere, doesn’t it?

Filbrick is the reason their parents are here. The reason Stan remembered himself. Why Bill didn’t destroy the world. And part of why Stan is having the best birthday ever.

Deep breath.

He lets the anger go, for now and will try to see what Filbrick is getting at. That’s what Stan would do, isn’t it? He can be mad and listen at the same time. Probably. “No, why?”

“Because after my father got a son, my mother would throw herself down the stairs when she found out she was pregnant, and before she’d tell my father.” Time has made this a little easier to bring up, but still not pleasant. “My father was a tyrant who was awful enough to me. I can only imagine what he would have done if my mother had a daughter. Whips, cigarette burns, beatings, and once being thrown down the fire escape around the back of the shop were a common, almost daily occurrence.”

“And that’s not to excuse my behavior, because I’m aware I turned out more like him then-“ He stops, taking a deep breath first. “When he died, I swore I’d be nothing like him. And despite the stress of losing him, taking on ownership of the shop, and finding out Caryn was pregnant all happening within such a short period I did alright. With Schermie, we managed.”

Ford is still reeling from the brutal honesty of this story and the vulnerability that has Filbrick not looking him in the eye as he talks. Pops’ gaze is instead on the gravel at their feet. He shouldn’t feel sympathy, and yet-

‘Dad’s like me, Ford. Secretly very emotional. And I think he really does feel bad about what happened, what he did. His dad sucked even worse than him. Kinda glad we never got to meet the guy’

It’s not Filbrick’s words that sway him, but the echo of Stan’s words just the other day when they’d gotten to talk after the fight in the hallway. Dad is wearing the same unsure expression, albeit muted, that Stan used to when getting scolded. Or when he’s spitting out something hard to say.

Their grandfather does sound worse than Filbrick if their grandmother was willing to put herself in the hospital to avoid putting more children through his wrath. He keeps quiet and lets him continue his story.

“Until we found out about you boys. Suddenly we went from three mouths to feed up to five. It was hard, but that was good too. Right up until it wasn’t.” If he’s going to get punched, this next part is when it’ll happen. “Then, I started seeing myself in Stanley. The worst parts of myself. Or at least I thought that at the time. Emotional, scared, stupid. As he got older that only got worse. He turned into a thief, a disappointment, a failure.” In anticipation Filbrick brings a hand up and catches Ford’s hand before it reaches his face, just holding it but not striking back.

When the first hand gets caught Ford uses the one that’s free to punch Filbrick in the gut, knocking the wind out and leaving him mute. “That’s your fault! He never would have been scared, never would have started slipping and failing if it wasn’t for you! You caused that! Can you imagine who he could have been if you hadn’t failed? Because I can!”

Ford lets Filbrick go and steps back to start pacing while he rants, yelling in the clearing around the shack. “You know what I saw through that portal? What Stan was like in a dimension where he wasn’t raised by you! He turned out great! Running a business, co-owning a company! He finished high school, graduated college, and we-“ Ford cuts himself off but is still shaking with rage.

“You! It was never even about Stan! You just wanted someone to hit, so you beat me instead, being an only child. It didn’t matter, you just-“ It’s mere speculation, but that doesn’t matter. How would Filbrick know?

Across the yard Filbrick can see Stan opening the front door, peering out at them while Ford yells. But Stan doesn’t come out yet, even if Filbrick is slumped back against the car catching his breath knowing that hit is going to bruise.

“You think I don’t know that! That I screwed up! That it’s all my fault, all of it? I was getting to that. I’m the reason, I know. I don’t need to travel to another dimension to know that!” He’s not angry exactly, just yelling so that he can be heard even if it hurts his throat a little.

“You think I don’t regret throwing him out all those years ago? That I didn’t think about calling him on the rare occasion he had a consistent number? My damn pride kept me from doing it right up until I thought he was going to kill himself for God’s sake! Because I knew I could never live with myself if that was my fault too!” He lets out a sigh, bringing a hand up to rub between his eyes.

That makes Ford stop his incessant pacing back and forth, turning back to face Filbrick.

Right. The phone call.

Stan hadn’t said much about it in the tapes or told him what exactly was discussed. But it had been enough for Filbrick to think that was his last chance to make things right. And, rather than screwing that up, like everything else, he’d taken it as a Hail Mary, a last chance to fix it before the game was over.

It was ridiculous that it kept taking such horrible moments, awful things, to get people to apologize to Stanley-

Oh.

Oh.

Just like Him. Huh.

It had taken the world almost ending, being trapped in another reality, for Ford to get over it all and forgive. To let it go and realize that a relationship with Stanley was more important than all that other crap.

It physically makes Ford recoil half a step to see, possibly for the first time, just how similar he is to their father. They both have that same towering pride that no one before has ever been able to get past, until now.

Suddenly this conversation is put in a whole new light with Filbrick looking all pathetic, forcing himself through this impossible conversation, and expressing himself. They’re both terrible at this too. Making themselves feel things and even worse at admitting when their wrong.

“I’m trying, alright. Seriously.” Filbrick spits out after the long silence. “I didn’t even know your mother had that money when I bought the plane tickets. Retirement wouldn’t have meant anything if I’d been right, if Stanley had-“ He won’t repeat it, so he just moves on. “I’m glad he turned out tough, but even I know it was too much. The damn bastard should have never thought to put himself through this for you. Count yourself lucky Stan got your mother's heart or you wouldn’t have made it home.”

The remaining anger Ford has been clinging to with his extra digits and all his will gets let go. Yeah, he’s still upset, who wouldn’t be? But Filbrick did make it right, or will keep trying. That much is clear. They both screwed up and both have a lot to earn forgiveness over.

Neither of them deserves it at all.

Good thing it's not up to them to decide, that’s up to Stanley

“I know, you raised a ridiculous son... Two of them.” Ford sighs out, letting his shoulders slump as the fight runs out of him. “One stupid enough to summon a demon and another tough enough to win.”

Filbrick relaxes a fraction of an inch but keeps the distance between them. “I’m sorry to you too, Stanford. I only ever called you about money and to badger you about when you’d finally do something with your life instead of hiding here in the woods.” It makes him wince just repeating it.

“Can’t regret that too much, at least the part about trying to get you to leave here, knowing what you were really up to all this time…” He ignores the look of shame that pulls on Ford’s face for both their sake. “Still wasn’t very nice. If you want to stay here in this crazy town studying it, that’s your business. You earned that money and even if you ain’t a neurosurgeon or a Nobel Prize winner I’m still proud of you.” He isn’t perfect, it would still be nice if Ford decided to do one of those things, but now isn’t the time to say as much.

Ford looks back up from his shoes which had suddenly become very interesting at the mention of Bill and the last several years here in Gravity Falls. All he can do is blink at Filbrick, looking for a lie that just isn’t there. Dad’s being honest, truthful, and proud of him despite all the stuff he’s completely screwed up.

Ford doesn’t deserve this but he can’t force his mouth to speak much less say as much.

“I love both of you boys, and if you two ever need anything you just call. Nightmares, demons, whatever.” Filbrick shifts and moves to walk around to the back of the car, pulling out the keys to unlock the trunk. “But for right now, come see what I picked up in Oregon for your birthday.” He motions Ford over, waiting.

Walking is easier than saying anything, considering his tongue appears to have tied itself in a knot. In the dark he can’t make out what’s in the back of the car, it just looks like boxes in the distant light of the porch.

This all went a lot better than expected so Filbrick continues and pulls out two folded-up pieces of notebook paper from the interior pocket of his jacket and passes them to Ford. “Fiddleford got me that list you two made down in the basement, for what you’d need to build that boat? That’s what I was doing in Portland all day yesterday. I don’t know how you ever learn anything with how many stores I had to visit just to check all those off-“

Ford recognizes those papers. They should have been in that drawer in his study, but instead, Fids had taken them, given them to Dad, and now-

His feet move closer yet and pull Filbrick over into a hug. It’s awkward and stiff for a second, because it was unexpected, but then Dad turns and returns it with some awkward shoulder pats and a weird chuckle.

For a while they both stay there but Filbrick isn’t too surprised to see Ford’s shed a couple of tears when they eventually part. It’s been weird enough hugging Stanley this week. This is even weirder. Not bad though, just feels kinda of unnatural.

“This is a good start,” Ford finally speaks, looking down at the papers to read what he can in the dark even after he turns towards the porch to see better. “Thank you, a lot of these books would have been difficult to find.” Not to mention expensive.

“You two are going to need something to keep occupied after all this. Also, I picked up a couple for Stanley, from a list Fiddleford made on the back of that second page.” While Ford fusses over the list, trying to read it, he grabs one of the boxes out of the trunk and walks around him back towards the house. “Where do you want these put?”

No matter how mad he should still be at Dad right now, Ford just can’t muster it even if he tried looking back inside the car at the four boxes full of books. Now they don’t have to make the trip into Portland, call a million bookstores, and fight tooth and nail to track down all the new crap he needs to learn for their project. It’s right here, because Dad found it for them.

As someone with a lifelong love of learning it would be impossible not to end up smiling, the cold exterior he’d been fighting to hold onto melting away completely.

“Just inside the entryway, against the far wall. I’ll sort through them later and Stan can help me put them away in the study.” After he’s finished going through that room and marking all the green and blue books. Ford had only gotten through the bottom two levels of the house yesterday.

Ford grabs a box out of the trunk and follows Dad back to the house with his smile only getting wider the closer to the door they get.

Stan, having been standing just inside watching, finally goes out onto the porch seeing them carrying in boxes. He’d waited, letting them work out their problems, just like Ford had let them in the car. Now that there was something heavy to lift? Time for him to step in.

Between the three of them, it only takes two trips to get the boxes inside stacked against the wall. Ford’s grin is infectious while Stan listens to him explain all the books on the list right in the entryway, rambling on and on about his science and plan.

Stan only looks up to watch Dad go into the kitchen, them exchanging a smile and amused look without Ford being any the wiser.

 

Chapter 43: Echos of Us

Stan doesn’t keep track of how long exactly Ford rambles. It’s probably only around half an hour. That’s about how long it takes him to start turning Dad’s cut of the fish into Jerky in the oven so that they can bring it back home to Jersey on their flight tomorrow.

His being distracted while cooking doesn’t slow Ford down from his spot at the table, yapping away with a stupid smile the whole time. It’s rather distracting considering Stan’s supposed to be cooking. It takes longer to get it seasoned and laid out on sheets in the oven since he keeps turning around to look at Ford.

Mom’s the person to finally break the spell of them both being stuck in a feedback loop. Ford talking and smiling and Stan listening and grinning because Ford’s smiling and-

“Stanley, why don’t you go give Ford that present you told me about? I’ll get your father to cook dinner, alright?” Caryn’s almost laughing, whispering over near the sink with Stan where he’d gotten stuck trying to do dishes.

He had forgotten about the present upstairs for Ford until now. “I’ll try, but if he gets talking again Fids might have to come rescue me.” A quiet laugh leaves him before Stan marches across the kitchen to stand in front of Ford. “Alright, alright, you can gab more later after opening your present.” He reached down and grabbed Ford’s wrist to pull him out of the chair and drag him from the kitchen, towards the stairs, and up into his room.

Ford couldn’t exactly object, even if he had been in the middle of a sentence when Stan rudely interrupted him, not when he was being reminded that Stanley had gotten him a birthday present. With all the excitement out on the boat and then the concentration he’d been using to keep his eyes on the road driving home it had completely slipped his mind.

“Okay, cover your eyes and I’ll pull it out, and no peaking! Make use of your extra digit, Sixer.” After closing the door Stan waits until Ford covers his eyes, flipping him off just to test if they’re covered before going into the closet to pull out the box with the swords inside and a small red gift bag before setting both on the bed. Stan guided Ford over to the bed so he was standing right next to it before removing both of Ford’s hands so he could look down at the box and bag. “Happy Birthday Stanford!”

Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so overwhelmingly happy. They had their books, Stan was here, and the guilt that was usually settled in his chest was momentarily gone. It felt like they were kids again on Christmas or something. Freakish feelings aside, Ford seriously had the best brother in all the world. No, all the multiverse. And whatever huge grand scale was above that!

Opening his eyes while Stan moved his hands out of the way he looked over the long box and the red bag set off to the side. It looks like the kind of box a hunting rifle would be stored in. No, that couldn’t be right. Stan knew him better than that. They weren’t hunting people. “Does it matter which one I open first?” It must be a two-part gift that Stan had just wrapped separately unlike how he’d gone about the tackle and rod.

Leaning against the wall watching Stan just shakes his head, “Nope, it doesn’t matter. Your birthday, you get to pick.” It took effort to keep from looking down at the two gifts, not wanting to give away which one he wanted Ford to open first.

Ford just looked back and forth between the box and the bag trying to pick one before letting out a sigh and grabbing the larger box. It wasn’t wrapped in paper, just taped closed, but there weren’t any brand logos on it to give anything away. After cutting the tape and opening the box the only thing he could see was a dark red cloth running the whole length hiding something underneath. Logically, he flipped it out of the way into the top half of the box to see the actual gift.

If deciding which gift to open took a minute then looking down at the two stunning swords lasted over an hour with Ford blinking like the idiot he was in surprise.

Both cutlass swords look brand new freshly polished and recently sharpened. Even the oak wooden handle at the base looks like it had been refinished recently. Eventually, Ford reached into the box and picked one up. He half expects they are display pieces for how nice they look. They look too expensive to be authentic, and too nice for them to own.

Hefting the sword up, without the handle feeling too small despite his larger grip, Ford can tell these are real. They can’t be original, but very good replicas. The blade is sharp, the handle smooth, and looking in the metal his stupid grinning reflection is looking back through the blade.

“You bought us pirate swords, real honest to God pirate swords, Stanley,” His voice breaks on the last word and Ford doesn’t even put the sword down before stepping over to pull his brother into a hug, the sword resting against Stan’s back. “Where did you even get these! You didn’t have them custom-made, did you?” Fondness and joy well up in his chest, suffocating the guilt he should be feeling over this expensive gift.

It’s a huge relief that Ford loves this gift. After buying it he’d worried endlessly that it was too selfish of a gift. Technically it was a gift for both of them, like going fishing today. Which wasn’t in the spirit of this being Ford’s gift. That was why he’d gotten something else. Not as nice of a gift, much cheaper, but Fids had been convinced Ford would love them. Stan trusted his opinion since they were both equally as nerdy, reflected in the other gift.

He returns the hug, only stiffening up a little over the sword being pressed against his back before relaxing again. “Heh, the antique store in the mall has a shitty owner. Wouldn’t know how to fend off a good Conman to save his life. I got them at half price and polished them up for you. The kit I used is down at the bottom of the box too, you just didn’t get that far yet.” He rests his head on Ford’s shoulder, leaning outwards a little to look at Ford even if the angle is awkward.

Ford can’t help laughing, shoulders shaking. Of course, Stan tricked the owner into cutting the price an astronomical amount just for him. God, he loves Stanley. He’s so talented, smart, and damn can he talk. No matter what about, Stan can do anything he sets his mind to. And now he’s setting his mind to loving Ford, loving him just like when they were teens, and it just-

Ford pulls back from the hug a little bit and before he can stop himself starts to lean forward. It’s only after he’s halfway across the distance between them that Ford realizes what he’s doing.

Shit.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Instead of leaning in for a kiss, like his stupid brain was going for in the first place, he aborts the mission and turns it into a kiss on the cheek.

Ford’s face turns bright red the whole time but forces himself to talk and act like it was intentional. “Remind me to have you help me when we go Christmas shopping later this year. Half price for something this expensive looking is a fucking steal!” He pulls back, almost starting to shake waiting for the reaction.

Stan is momentarily frozen in surprise and shock looking at Ford and unable to spit out words. It’s a mix of emotions. Joy, embarrassment, amusement, pride, and a whole lot of confusion to top it all off. This is a weird reaction, isn’t it? Definitely. Very weird. He can’t remember Ford ever doing that before during their youth. Never once. Only Ma has ever done that, so this is extra weird because of that.

Ford regrets it. Maybe he’s just really liked the gift? People get that way, don’t they? What’s that thing called where humans see an animal and want to kill it for being so cute? Cuteness overload? Same thing, just sibling love overload.

Regardless of the cause, it’s not like he can leave Ford suffering forever. It’s not a big deal, just really funny. Or at least he’s laughing like it is, pulling back and doubling over to fill the silence.

Stan doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Oh my god!” Stan stands up and brings up his sleeve to dramatically wipe at the part of his cheek Ford had kissed. “Look what you did,” he barks out more laughter, looking up at Ford’s mortified face. “You’ve gone and given me cooties! Gross Sixer! Hurry up and open the other gift. I’m going to have to fight you for that.” Stan grabs the other sword out of the box, picking up the bag with the end of it to pass it into Ford’s hands.

The next invention Ford makes needs to be a portal maker of some kind that he could shoot at the floor to swallow him whole in moments like this. Stan is thankfully taking that massive slip up in strid, being too nice about it, but this blush isn’t going away anytime soon and he almost drops the bag since he’s still holding the sword. “I-well, you see- the thing is, Stan-“ Now not only is he acting stupid and looking stupid he’s also sounding stupid by stumbling over his words.

This is just like high school all over again. Except instead of popping a boner when Stan gets home from Boxing, all sweaty and losing his shirt coming in the door, Ford has gone and tried to kiss the fucker.

Ford stops trying to say something because no good can come from that right now when Stan has made up some sort of believable lie in his head. If Stan saw that for what it was, he’d have a black eye right about now, and by morning Stan’s car would be packed and gone.

For some reason, he isn’t dead. It’s alright. Somehow.

A couple of deep breaths later and he focuses on the bag instead of what just happened. He’ll be mad at himself over it later when Stan isn’t staring at him, waiting. First, he puts the sword back down in the box and then opens the bag, pulling out the thin layer of tissue paper before pulling out three t-shirts.

The first one is black and says ‘The universe is made of Protons, Neurons, Electrons, and Morons’ and despite Ford’s terrible screw up the joke makes Ford start laughing before he’s even finished looking at the other shirts. He ends up sitting on the edge of the bed, putting that one down on his lap to read the next one. ‘I tell bad jokes because all the good ones’ and then right underneath the words is the elemental symbol for Argon. The last one says, ‘Never trust an atom they make up everything’ and decorating the shirt is a cartoon picture of an atom using the colors white and red in the middle of the circular words.

Now that he’s finished Ford lets himself keel over in laughter, some tears coming out after a while. It's mostly because of the shirts but he’s also a little hysterical over the fact that he did just try to kiss Stanley. How much harder is this going to get with each passing birthday, Christmas, every damn holiday? Every day! God damn it!

Sure, the shirts are supposed to be funny. Fids said they would get a good laugh, but Ford seems to be losing it on the end of the bed. Stan doesn’t know what to make of it. The gift isn’t that funny. Shit. Now Ford’s crying too. Stan puts down the sword back in the box with Ford’s and pushes the box out of the way so he can sit next to his brother.

What are you supposed to say when your brother sounds like he’s going mad? Stan certainly can’t think of anything, so instead he just tentatively puts an arm around Ford’s shoulder for support and sits there unsure.

After a while the laughter about the shirts devolves completely into sobs over his lap and Ford just can’t accept Stan’s attempt at comfort. He doesn’t lean into the hug this time when Stan tries to get him to. That’s only going to make all this worse, him worse.

Tears don’t last forever and eventually they stop, leaving him slumped hiding his face with both hands and looking anywhere but at Stanley. The silence of the room when he stops crying feels heavy and Ford knows that’s his fault. God, why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t the walls just stay up! Stupid other Stan from the stupid other dimension.

It’s his fault. If they’d never kissed in the gym this wouldn’t be happening. These feelings would still be locked up tight and things would be normal. He’d be normal and not a fucking freak-

Stan’s moved, physically turning Ford to face him on the bed once he started muttering to himself. He can’t make out much of what is being said, but catching the word ‘freak’ is enough for him to snap back into action. He grabs Ford’s jaw roughly and forces him to look up.

“No. I don’t know what just happened or why you just had a mental breakdown here over some shirts Stanford, but I will not ever stand for you calling yourself a freak. You are the smartest, most clever person ever with just as big of a capacity for kindness as me. And that’s saying something Sixer. So, you listen. There is nothing wrong with you. Not your hands, not your glasses, not any of your ridiculous nerdy little thoughts, of which you have far too many. Stop this, now.”

Maybe this has something to do with that guilt Ford admitted to back by the docks when they first got back to shore? Not impossible. Likely even.

Oh, that makes his chest twist for the first time since the ocean came into sight. No.

“You are allowed to be happy Ford. I don’t want you to feel any guilt about what happened to me. And I don’t want you feeling bad about your own. I won’t stand for it. Not now, not ever. We’ve both paid our dues and now we get this. We get to be together and we get to be happy as a damn pair of pigs in mud. So please, don’t cry over it. It hurts seeing you like this, Stanford.”

His speech had started angry and firm, trying to make his stubborn brother listen. To force the words in past that thick skull of his now while Ford still looks a little open to suggestion. By the end of it, Stan’s voice had gotten gentle and soothing, the hand on Ford’s jaw moving up to brush the tears away.

Ford hadn’t even been aware he was saying anything out loud so he quickly locked his jaw shut. Can’t control his thoughts, his eyes, his actions, and now his voice? Stan is ruining him and is completely unaware of it.

He’s going to die here in this bedroom, this house, and it's not going to be because of Bill this time.

Still, the intense panic in his chest does calm while Stan talks and forces him to listen. Slowly his panicked breathing evens out and it has everything to do with the rough but firm hand holding his jaw.

When Stan is done Ford pulls back to gather himself, backing out of Stan’s touch and taking the time to clean off his glasses and face. If Stan knew he wouldn’t have so many kind words to say about him. The effect works anyway, calming him down and soothing the pain that had flared in his chest. He’s okay. They’re okay. Nothings broken. Stan didn’t grab a bag to pack and go.

They are allowed to be happy. And apparently, he’s allowed to get away with a lot more than should be possible. Stan’s allowing it. Not encouraging it. Just- Telling him to calm down.

Only now does he lean over against Stan’s shoulder and let himself be pulled into a hug while putting the glasses back on his face. Stan’s words have soothed his damaged ego, self-esteem, and deep-rooted fear that he’s going to fuck this up again. For now.

“Sorry, today has just been a very long day. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy and it's all become very overwhelming.” The words come out in a whisper but with Stan so close it would be impossible for him not to hear in the otherwise silent room.

“Do you want to just get some sleep? I know Mom said you had something planned but I’m pretty sure they’d understand if we just had cake and then called it early. Or, we can just take a minute here? Whatever you need.” They’re in more of a half hug with Ford leaning against his chest with Stan rubbing a hand back and forth across his far shoulder.

Ford takes in a deep breath, breathing in the faint smell of Stanley. Sea salt from their day out on the water. Leather and pine trees from his cologne. Something slightly minty Ford can only assume is deodorant. It relaxes him immensely just sitting here with his eyes closed. Maybe he can’t have Stan, but they can share this. Hugs are allowed. If he can get away with kissing Stan on the cheek then subtly sniffing him a little under the guise of breathing is childsplay in comparison.

And if Stan ever points it out, he could make a joke of it. ‘Are you wearing my deodorant, get your own.’ Or something like that. Later he’ll think about that more to be prepared when he’s eventually called out.

But he doesn’t want to cancel the rest of their evening. Things were going well there for a minute before he panicked. Tonight is their last night altogether until this winter. They’ll make it count and then Stan will have the best birthday ever. They both will.

“No, it’s alright. I just, needed a minute I guess.” He lets out a nervous laugh, sitting up and away from Stan so they can see each other again. “And thank you for the shirts and the sword Stan. They’re wonderful gifts and I love them, a lot.” Looking back down at the shirts on his lap makes him smile again, just as stupid as before the breakdown. “We both smell like sea salt and fish, so I’m going to go change out of the million layers you forced me into this morning and into one of these.”

Stan stays sitting on the bed watching Ford get up and leave the room with his shirts and the red gift bag. It finally gives him a minute to kinda process what the fuck just happened.

Concern over Ford had trumped everything else in his chest and mind above all else. Now sitting alone in the room, it all slammed into him at once. But the most concerning part, above the confusion and mess of emotions he felt, was the dull headache that he hadn’t noticed before now.

Did Ford crying like that over what happened almost trigger another memory? Maybe. But did he want to recall something to do with Ford crying like that? No, Stan thought not. Nothing good could come of that. At least the confusion heavy in his chest made more sense now. It allowed him to relax some, getting up to change out of these layers and into a simple white t-shirt and flannel with one of the new pairs of jeans.

It was possible, though less likely, they’d be going out again for whatever Ford’s surprise was so he wore something that would work for either staying in or otherwise. Stan did miss the faint smell of sea salt that the clothes gave off so instead of putting them in the hamper in the closet he folded them and set them aside for now. The smell would remain for a while and it would be comforting when he woke up from a nightmare next.

While getting dressed the headache fades until it's barely noticeable leaving Stan with just the mix of emotions in his chest. It’s fine. Ford and him are fine. Today’s still a good day, emotions are just still high-stung after everything. Things will level out on their own.

Or that’s what he’ll keep telling himself. Because he’s only been back two days. That isn’t enough time for Ford to process and adjust back after over a decade apart over all their stupid fights. Stan isn’t even sure if its enough for him, considering-

He hadn’t minded the kiss.

It was weird, and out of character, but the show of being disgusted was just that. A show. Confusion and fear were the only negative emotions that had flared in his chest over it. Maybe he missed Ford even more than he thought if something like that wasn’t enough to make him mad.

When there’s a knock on the door Stan gathers up both swords, leaves the box on the bed, and goes to meet Ford in the hallway. “You ever had a sword fight before? I’ll have to gather up some books on fencing so we can practice.” He passes the sword he dubbed as Ford’s to him while continuing to hold his own.

Seeing Ford wearing one of the nerd t-shirts with a pair of jeans brings the smile back full force in the hallway. His brother is so ridiculous and cute-

Wait.

Ford stands around for a second just looking at Stan in his new pair of clothes but after a couple of seconds of delay takes the sword. “Nope, have you?” Not since they were children and they would have sword fights with pieces of driftwood at least.

That’s not right, he is not supposed to think Ford looks cute. It strains the smile he’s wearing a little bit and he looks down at the sword he’s holding instead of at his brother. Silence stretches while Stan tries to find the source of that train of thought or work out what emotion is attached to it, but his mind leaves him with nothing but a blank wall and no answers.

“Stan, you alright? Did you remember something?” Ford asks carefully, having watched Stan looking off at the blade of the sword without saying anything for a minute.

What is wrong with him? Thank God no memory comes back with a thought like ‘my brother is cute’ because that’s wrong. For now, he pushes that dilemma away to be thought about later and looks up at Ford. “Yeah, sorry. I haven’t technically had a sword fight. But I have fought people off with a pool cue before. The principle is mostly the same. Just don’t do any lunges at me, we don’t want to have a trip to the hospital on our hands.”

Ford barely gets a chance to process Stan’s words before his sword is almost knocked out of his grip since he wasn’t ready for Stan to start. A little more warning might have been nice!

But it's fun and exactly like when they were kids, clashing back and forth across the deck of their boat or tumbling over the sand to stay up and avoid getting struck by their sticks. Except here it's pushing each other back down the hallway, almost stumbling down the stairs, and the loud sound of metal against metal echoing throughout the house.

Both of them laugh while being careful not to put the other in any real danger. The closest either of them gets is when they’ve made their way down into the living room and Stan catches the edge of the couch and leaves a scratch half a foot from Ford’s side. But he can’t even complain, because this is fun and the awkwardness and pain from upstairs has vanished.

They’re just kids again, annoying the hell out of their parents and Fiddleford who looks like he’s trying to do some reading at the table in the living room but keeps getting interrupted by their banter back and forth. “Catch me if you can!” Running with swords can’t be safe, but Stan does it anyway, bolting from the living room and into the hallway leaving Ford to follow with loud laughter echoing as they go.

By the time dinner is finished, they’ve both done at least two laps of the whole house and worked up quite a sweat just sword fighting. They’re lying down in Ford’s room on opposite sides of the bed, swords put back in their box, catching their breath and laughing around air.

“Boy! Dinners ready!” Comes through the open bedroom doorway from downstairs yelled by their mother.

Stan sits up first, reaching a hand over to nudge Ford’s shoulder. God he can’t stop smiling like an idiot but Ford clearly can’t either. “Maybe I’m not the only one who’ll get use of our home gym. You can’t keep up with me the same as you used to.” His tone is teasing and there is no malice behind it.

Ford smacks Stan’s shoulder playfully and huffs finally sitting up, “We’re almost thirty Stanley, people that old don’t usually spend an hour running around the house like children.” He straightens out his rumpled shirt from lying on the bed, shaking his head.

“Eww, don’t phrase it like that. We’re only twenty-eight. Not thirty. Don’t age us two extra years already.” He looks away from Ford and down at himself in thought, “But you are right. We aren’t getting any younger. Guess it's time to start taking our health seriously, huh?” During Bill he’d tried, as much as he could, to change. Now he has no excuse to keep smoking, drinking too much other than socially, and eating like crap. He'd lost some weight, but could still stand to lose some more. Maybe put on more muscle, instead of fat.

After getting up Ford moves to stand on the side of the bed closer to the door facing Stan, “Don’t change too fast. Gradual lifestyle changes work out better in the long run.” He extends a hand to pull Stan up off the bed. “Besides, you are perfect just the way you are.” But before he can dwell on how stupid that sounds Ford lets go and turns to leave the room. “Come on, Mom’s not going to be happy if she has to yell again.”

Ford’s words left him standing in the bedroom, blushing, even after his brother left the room ahead of him. What the actual fuck is going on? Sure, the kiss on the cheek was weird. But now he was flushing over a simple compliment and a brief holding of hands?

And the headache is back again, worse than it was in the bedroom earlier.

There is a memory about Ford he’s still missing. First thing after their parents leave tomorrow, he needs to review all the crap he wrote down before forgetting. Tapes, letters, and memory journals. Whatever is causing this headache has to be written down somewhere. Stan forces himself to move, leaving Ford’s bedroom to head downstairs into the kitchen.

*

Filbrick had remained quiet through most of the dinner, mulling over his thoughts while everyone else talked. Later he’d probably regret bringing this up, but he was curious, so-

“When you were in that other dimension, through the portal, you said there was a universe where you were an only child, what happened to Schermie and Stan?”

Caryn almost drops the stack of plates she’d gathered from the table to bring over to the sink when Filbrick spoke, her gaze jumping up from the table over to the side of the table Stan and Ford were sitting on.

Ford turned to look at Stan like he could offer some sort of help getting out of the question, but if anything, Stan was the opposite of helpful since he was quick to answer like it was no big deal. “Guess in that dimension you guys only wanted one kid, put the other two up for adoption, and kept the unique one.” Stan reached down and held up one of Ford’s hands by the wrist like that explained everything.

Ford yanked his hand away and glared at his brother, “Stanley! We don’t know that for sure. I was there and I’m not even sure what the real reason was.”

Caryn had passed the stack of plates over to Fiddleford to carry to the sink and then sat back down next to Filbrick. Both of them were looking a little bit guilty with their mom looking a little angry at Filbrick who has put his shades back down to cover his eyes.

Ford was so busy glaring at his brother that he didn’t notice, but Stan did. “Wait a damn minute, why do you two look like we’ve just caught you lying?” Anger rises in his voice but Stan keeps himself seated. “Did you two almost get rid of us here too?”

Now Ford’s gaze snaps over to their parents while a mix of emotions stirs in his chest. Anger. Joy. Resentment. Disbelief. More joy and anger than anything else. But confusion too.

Both parents speak at the same time.

“Absolutely not!” Caryn insists, lying through her teeth. “Well, actually-“ Comes from Filbrick and earns him another glare from his wife that shuts him up in the middle of speaking.

The light atmosphere of the kitchen becomes tense again, like in the hallway when Dad had been locked inside the bathroom. None of them say anything, not even Fiddleford who turned back from the sink to watch the table.

This is his fault, so Filbrick breaks the tension even if it’ll probably only make things worse. “Listen. When we found out your mother was pregnant with Schermie we weren’t even married yet, both of us were young. World War two was still going on. My Dad had just died. It wasn’t a good time to be having kids. We,” He motions between them both. “Weren’t ready for kids. So, we talked about adoption, because Caryn insisted she couldn’t go through with an abortion. Not to mention how difficult that would have been.” Caryn’s glare only gets louder from her chair.

“So, we flipped a coin over it. I know. It’s not a good way to make a decision. But as impossible as it was, we couldn’t agree otherwise.” Caryn gets up from her chair and goes across into the living room, but Filbrick keeps talking. “It landed on Tails, so we kept Schermie and made it work.” He reaches up and removes his shades, hanging them in his pocket.

“And when we found out we were having twins…... We flipped it again over keeping one of you. Then it came up Tails again and we couldn’t have been happier with how things turned out. You’ve all grown into fine young men regardless of how things otherwise could have gone.”

Stan is seething in his chair, hands clenched into fists underneath the table. All that anger he’s been letting go over forgiveness with their father flares up and it's only Ford’s hand on his shoulder that keeps him from lunging across the table to knock out a few teeth.

“Stanley, calm down. Getting mad about this won’t change it. This is a good thing.” Ford is prepared for that anger to be turned in his direction. “Seriously! This tells us the difference between the two dimensions. It’s just coin flips. Or maybe those two coin flips.” His mind is racing, wondering what the odds would be for Schermie and Stan to end up with the same adopted family seven years apart. It makes him smile, despite the still tense atmosphere in the kitchen.

Caryn has come back from the living room with her purse and pulls out her wallet, looking through it for something for a minute before pulling out a quarter. “This quarter originally belonged to my grandfather and was past down to me as the oldest child. It’s the coin we flipped for Schermie and you two.” She passes it over to Ford who looks the calmer of the two.

Oh, this is brilliant! Ford can’t stop smiling and doesn’t think he could smile any wider-

Then he turns the coin over to reveal both sides are Tails. It’s a trick quarter.

Stan snatches it out of Ford’s hands and turns it over twice, just staring at it. His anger melts away as he looks over at Mom. “You tricked Dad,” It erases the remaining tension and makes him laugh. “You tricked Dad into raising three boys, didn’t you?” He passes the quarter over to Filbrick so he can finally look and lets himself fall into a fit of laughter out of relief.

They were never in any danger of being put up for adoption here. Mom’s a fucking genius and now he sees where they both get it from.

“Caryn!” Filbrick hisses, looking at the quarter and then at his wife. That’s as far as he gets in complaint though before his anger fades and he shakes his head instead. How could he be mad when things turned out like this? If she can forgive him for his faults, Filbrick can at least do the same.

“It was a necessary evil,” She takes the quarter back and returns it to the wallet smiling. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing any of my boys. Even at the expense of deception.” Lying she does all the time for work, but this was the only thing she’d ever fully covered up. Right up until she didn’t have a choice but to reveal it.

“That’s the difference then! In this universe, you have that quarter and in the other one you must not!” Ford can’t help but be excited to have finally worked out what caused the split.

Stanley gets up and goes around the table to pull Mom into a hug, still laughing the whole time. Ford’s being such a nerd while Stan just loves her more over this. “I love you too Mom. Even if you did cost me the chance to grow up in Alaska!”

Ford laughs, slumping back in his chair some and covering his face at Stan’s joke even if it just makes Caryn look a little worried and Filbrick guilty.

“Okay, that’s enough deep existential conversations. Everyone sit back down so we can do cake.” Filbrick had pulled the store-bought cake out of the fridge and set up four candles on it. Twenty-eight duplicated on either far end so they’d both get to blow out a set.

Before pulling away Stan pressed a kiss to Mom’s hair, “Don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He whispered just to her and then moved back around the table to sit next to Ford again. “You better leave me that quarter in your will though!” Stan laughs, shifting his chair over closer to Ford while Fiddleford puts the cake down between them on the table.

Ford desperately wishes he could share this new information with that other dimension. It might only bring pain, but at least they’d know the decision had been down to a coin flip. It hadn’t been out of hatred or pure selfishness. (kinda, but not really)

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it long, watching Stan pull out a Zippo to light each of the four candles on the cake.

The last birthday Ford spent with their parents had been sad and lonely without Stanley and it was the last time he bothered treating it like anything special since. Without having his brother here to blow out candles or share cake with what was the point? It made him emotional sitting shoulder to shoulder, his face flushing red while everyone else started singing. It was still embarrassing but Ford couldn't bring himself to hate it the same way.

Without the memory of the last ten years, Stan couldn’t say for sure what he’d been doing on each birthday since parting ways. Probably spent it drinking and maybe scrounging together the cash to stay in a real bed. A crappy one, no doubt, but better than the backseat of the car. That felt right and depressing all at once.

None of that mattered now. This was how things were supposed to be, sitting with Ford whose face looked as bright as a Christmas bulb.

“Happy birthday, Dear Stanford, Happy Birthday, to you.”

“Happy birthday, Dear Stanley, Happy Birthday, to you.”

Both ends to the song came out in whispers between both twins and it made Ford’s heart swell that Stan remembered. Their parents, rather than having to sing twice, had taken to shortening both their names to Stan specifically for their birthdays. It was always up to them to sing their actual names down under their breaths just for them to hear.

Ford reached over to hold Stan’s hand out of view under the table while everyone clapped and then leaned forward to blow out his set of candles. What could he possibly wish for that he didn’t already have? They were home, Bill was gone, their family was fixed, and Stanley was here. Their relationship had never been better. There was only one thing he didn’t have that he could wish for.

It was just in his head and no one else would ever know…

‘I wish that Stanley loved me too.’ Then Ford blew out both candles and sat back smiling. There was too much bliss for guilt to gain any purchase.

The larger hand enveloping Stan's down between their laps brought his headache back again within seconds. Only his long practice of maintaining appearances kept Stanley from frowning and ruining the picture Fids was taking. He could remember, distantly, them sitting just like this as kids. In their kitchen at the table holding hands just out of sight from their parents before blowing out their candles. It was familiar, so why did it give him a headache?

It took Stan great effort not to let himself think about it too much. Tomorrow, when he got some alone time, he could think all this over. For now, he just leaned into it and squeezed Ford’s hand. It made his body thrum with joy.

Stan’s wish was a lot easier to decide on despite having so much.

‘I wish for this feeling to never go away.’ He blew his candles out a full fifteen seconds after Ford, in reference to the fifteen-minute difference between them.

The happiness and contentment he felt right now, all day, and since being out at sea was what he needed. It snuffed out that aching loneliness he’d woken up with and was what he wanted more than anything else in the world. 

Chapter 44: My Eros

“Alright, so what kind of drinking game are we going to play here now that we got the fire and chairs set up with the cooler?” Stan’s still smiling like an idiot from the bench they’d brought over from the porch.

Ford is sitting next to Stanley on the bench while Filbrick and Fiddleford claimed the two camping chairs they’d dug out of storage yesterday before bed. Next to the bench is the cooler refilled with ice and beer. Filbrick had claimed the remains of the bottle of whiskey out of the liquor cabinet but Stanford had no shame in buying some hard lemonade drinks that didn’t taste like straight fire to drink.

“Just because we’re drinking doesn’t mean we have to play a game Stanley,” Ford insists, scowling a little at the idea.

“Fiddleford, did this guy ever go to a frat party with you or was he totally lame throughout college too?” Stan asks, disregarding the fact that their father is here.

Ford almost chokes on his drink.

“Of course not. I tried, multiple times, to get him out of the dorm. But he just wouldn’t give in. Damn stubborn Pines.” Fids ignores the glare that earns him across the fire and just sips his beer. “Too bad we didn’t think ahead. We could have given him the whole experience with beer pong. Or I guess lemonade pong.”

Stan just laughs, slamming his hand down on his knee while the other holds the can steady. “Ha! He was the same way in high school. Thank God, I got him to go to one, you know even then- “

Ford slaps a hand over Stan’s mouth blushing worse than he was upstairs in the bedroom. “Would you shut up!” His voice is a little high pitch too.

Stan removes the hand, dropping it to the bench. “What, you don’t want me telling them about how I got you to play-“

Stan devolves into laughter when Ford slaps him, shutting him up finally. Fair enough. If he was Ford, he wouldn’t want Dad to hear about how Ford played seven minutes in heaven and then the girl threw up in his mouth either. It's an awful/funny story he’d promised never to repeat.

“Well, now you have to spill!” Fids insists, sitting forward in his chair and looking between them both. “What trouble does drunk Stanford get up to?”

Filbrick is silent through all this, just smiling a little over his drink. He doesn’t need to contribute, they’ll bond all the same. In fact, he needs to stay sober enough to package the jerky when it’s done before bed.

“It’s nothing Fiddleford.” Ford forces out, glaring daggers at Stanley for getting them into this mess.

“No, no. I promised. A Pine doesn’t break a promise. My lips are sealed. I don’t remember the details anyway.” Stan chuckles one more time over the story, takes a drink, and carries on. “You want to hear a funny drunk story; I’ve got plenty of those. Oh, like the time I ran from the cops on a jet ski off a yacht down near the Florida Keys? Now that was a crazy spring break.”

“Now you're just making things up!” Fids insists, putting his drink in the chair cup holder before leaning over to collect the supplies for smores they’d set out on this side of the fire with some sharpened sticks.

“Excuse me? I would never make up a crazy story just for show. That’s something that really happened! This guy I worked with had a cousin who knew the guy who owned the yacht and got me onboard.” He edits it a little bit. They don’t need to know how many people were doing drugs during this party. It’s not like he’d been one of them.

“The place got raided because someone thought it would be a good idea to bring coke on board. I took my opportunity to get out of there when this hot group of chicks came by on jet skis. Talked my way into a ride and got the hell out of there.” It's still a darker story than Ford’s. Maybe he should have tried to think of a different one? Too late, he couldn’t magically control which things he remembers. It’s there or it isn’t.

The other three are quiet for a minute just looking at Stanley.

“Stan-“ Ford starts to say, voice sounding kinda sad.

Nope, this isn’t getting ruined. No. No. Nope.

“Fids, pass me one of those sticks and a marshmallow, will you? And we still need to think up a drinking game. Beer pong is out, what else does that leave?” Stan takes the stick and puts it over the fire to start making a s'more, setting the beer down on the bench between them.

There isn’t exactly anything Ford could think to say about that anyway, nothing good at least. So, he doesn’t try and bring it up again, just letting it go. It sounds like Stan had enjoyed himself in that memory, up until the police got involved. “What about Truth or Dare?” Ford doesn’t know more than the two games he’s ever played. Neither of them went well then, but this group of people is different.

Filbrick feels way too old to be sitting here listening to all this, much less participating. He keeps any snarky comments to himself though because this isn’t about him. It’s the boy’s birthday after all. Maybe he just needs to be a little more drunk for this. Filbrick finishes his glass while they bicker.

“Oh, I know! What about Never have I Ever or Would you Rather?" Fiddleford knows that Truth or Dare never goes well when drinking. It usually results in someone doing something incredibly stupid like climbing a tree or trying to eat an article of clothing. At least in his own limited experience.

Contrary to popular belief it feels like it’s been a long time since Stan has played any sort of drinking game. He has, because he knows it, but no specific memories crop up over these suggestions. Neither of those can go too horribly here, right? Any drinking game comes with risks, but...

“Alright, how about Never have I ever. The rules for that one is simple enough. Someone proposes something they haven't done and the goal is to make it something the others have. For example, never have I ever gone to college. No, you don’t have to drink for that one Ford, I’m just giving examples. Although, damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have used that one.” Stan turns the stick so the marshmallow cooks evenly but picks his beer back up.

“We’ll go in a circle until we get sick of this one or someone’s too drunk to talk,” he nudges Ford with the arm holding his beer, “probably Ford if we’re being honest.”

Ford elbows Stan in the side and scowls. “I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of handling my liquor. Plus, my drinks have a lower percentage than yours, so if anyone’s going to be sick it's Fiddleford.”

“You want to bet on that?” Fids asks, pulling back his stick and opening the other supplies to make up his s'more onto a paper plate. “If you throw up first you have to stop clicking your pen for a whole month in the lab by using pencils.”

Ford’s scowl only gets deeper at that. Pencils break, a lot, which would be extremely annoying. “Fine, you’re on. But if I win you have to help Stan and I clean out the storage rooms again next week.”

“It’s a deal,” Fids gets up and leans over the fire to shake Ford’s hand before sitting back down to eat his treat.

Stan can only shake his head and mutter ‘fucking nerds’ under his breath. “What do you say Pops, you want to go first and then we’ll go to the left?” Pops, Fids, himself, and lastly Ford.

First Filbrick pours himself another glass still finding this whole game to be ridiculous. But the name of the game is a general target to get everyone else drunker than himself. They all know next to nothing about him, giving Filbrick a slight advantage.

He glances around at all three of them once, thinks about it, and then, “Never have I ever tried pot.”

Stan falls into a fit of laughter and almost drops his stick when both Fiddleford and Ford take a drink. Ford tries to hide it a little but Fiddleford knows better and is generally less ashamed.

Dad is good at this.

Stan also takes a drink.

“That’s so unfair, I mean, come on. Those two went to college in the '70s! And I’m me!” Stan objects but just shakes his head in amusement before going back to making his own s'more.

In a lot of ways, Fiddleford feels like he could cheat here. He’s surrounded by Pines men and that means they do stupid things. Yeah, Ford is going to lose big time. “Never have I ever been in a fistfight.” He only feels a little bad when that earns him a chorus of groans while the other three drink.

Maybe this game will be harder than Stan initially thought. What kind of question would get two nerds and Dad? That’s a tall order to fill. Not to mention it has to be something he hasn’t done and that’s a long list! “Never have I ever gotten all A’s on a high school report card.”

Ford and Fids both take a drink, but so does Filbrick sneakily over in his chair, almost hidden by his hat.

Ford’s the only one who spots it and it makes him smile fondly until he realizes that it's his turn to come up with something. The main target here is Fiddleford because of their bet which makes this easier. “Never have I ever ridden a horse.”

“You’re an ass, you know that?” Fids tells Ford before taking a drink.

It takes a little bit of thought but after a short delay, Stanley takes a drink too, finishing the first beer and having Ford pass him another one.

Oh, thank God it’s dark even next to the fire and Ford isn’t too drunk or that knowledge would have a lot more of an effect than it should about his brother. Instead, it comes out as a perfectly reasonable question. “When did you find time to ride a horse in the last ten years?”

Stan does some deep thinking trying to draw up the memory but when it doesn’t happen, he just gives what he does know. “When I was in Texas I worked a few weeks on a ranch. The guy who owned it wouldn’t take no for an answer when I told him I’d never done it.” It doesn’t feel like much of a story compared to ‘escaping on a jet ski from a party busted by cops’ but that’s why he’s already sharing.

The four of them go around and around like that for ages playing the game. Fids takes a much larger lead over everyone else simply because Pines men are generally dangerous. They’ve been in fights, made deals with demons, been possessed, traveled to other dimensions, and all kinds of other impossible things.

Ford dishes each question out as well as Fiddleford does though, making sure to tailor them as much as possible to the country life his friend led before college. More than expected Stan ends up drinking during his turns. Actually, Stan ends up drinking almost every turn regardless of who’s asking the questions.

Over many years Stan has honed his abilities to handle his alcohol more and more. He’s got a liver of steel, or whatever. Still, he doesn’t try to stand up so close to the fire because it’ll probably result in him falling into it right about now.

Filbrick should go inside because he’s pleasantly buzzed at this point but not yet unsteady. He’s mostly getting caught in the crossfire at random by the other three and it's fun to watch in this drunken state.

Fiddleford’s tongue is loose, but he’s not slurring his words yet. His mind is just sluggish enough to come up with a good idea without thinking of the social consequences after he’s spoken it out loud. “Never have I ever killed someone.” The words fall out and only afterward does his train of thought catch up that- Maybe that wasn’t a very fun question to ask and maybe he doesn’t want to know the answer either.

Stan and Filbrick both speak at the same time, both voices slightly rougher in different ways from the liquor.

“You’ll need to be more specific.” Filbrick insists.

“Do you mean in self-defense or?” Stan questions.

Then Father and son end up staring at each other while Ford takes another annoyed drink.

Everyone looks at Ford because of the loud noise he makes finishing his drink.

“What? I’m taking it as a general question.” Ford’s words slur a little near the end and he hiccups too. “Technically I’ve killed lots of Stan’s in other dimensions. By that logic, you have to drink to Stanley.”

“Excuse me?” Filbrick asks, sitting up further and tipping his hat back some on his head.

Okay, so even ten years later Ford still doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up while drunk. Stan is too drunk for this, for these kinds of questions. “Listen, Bill,” Stan swallows and puts down his drink first. “He moved Ford around a bunch from his own body, hurt Ford by hurting other versions of me.” Stan leaves out the worst part because that’s too heavy for this. “And,” He slaps Ford’s shoulder, “For the record. I’ve only killed someone in self-defense, you idiot. It was me or him. I picked me.” Only then after getting out a slightly stumbled explanation does Stan take a drink of his newest beer.

“Wait a minute," Stan’s brain catches up and looks over at Filbrick. “What did you say earlier about being more specific?” The usual control over his facial expressions is gone for how drunk he’s gotten and his jaw drops open while his train of thought sprints off into the dark nearby.

Filbrick finishes his drink, which only had a sip or two left anyway, and then carefully stands up. Nope, this is the kind of thing that should just stay buried. Filbrick isn’t drunk enough to talk about this. “I merely meant the question was too vague. Now, I’m going to go inside and pack away that jerky. Try not to start the house on fire and keep quiet when you come inside. Your mother should be asleep.” He leaves quickly, bringing the bottle of whiskey and his glass back inside leaving the three of them out by the fire.

The only noise in the clearing is the sound of the fire crackling and the crickets chirping out in the woods.

“Not to make assumptions, but Dad cleared that up pretty fast, didn’t he?” Stan turns to look at Ford where he’s almost melting into the bench. “You think Dad murdered someone or something?” It’s not said with concern or fear. If anything, Stan sounds kind of impressed.

Ford falls into a fit of laughter, forcing himself up so he’s kind of sitting again but leaning over against Stan’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Ford looks over at the light on in the kitchen visible through the window. “Maybe Grandpa killed someone and Dad just knows about it.” That rings with a little more possibility than Ford is comfortable with and the silence gets awkward again.

Fids wants to go inside and get away from this conversation too but settles for slouching back in his seat and looking up at the stars instead. It’s a cloudless night and you can see lots of them here in Gravity Falls. It’s beautiful.

“Heh, probably,” Stan says quietly, following Fid's gaze up towards the sky. His eyes get stuck there and his mouth falls open a little. The entire time he’s lived in Gravity Falls it’s always been too cloudy for him to see much of the night sky. Now it's crystal clear and with his bad eye closed it's breathtaking seeing so many stars in all they’re glory. “Oh, wow…”

Ford’s eyes jumped up from the fire and he leans back to see what Stan is talking about. Except it's just the night sky how it’s always looked on clear nights. But he looks so star-struck looking up that it makes Ford smile anyway. “What, you never been stargazing? You’ve lived here almost six months and you’ve never gone out at night and looked up?”

It’s because he’s drunk that the sky looks so spectacular but Stan doesn’t care. “No, I haven’t. I haven’t seen sky’s these clear since-“ He stops himself from finishing the thought, not wanting to ruin the moment. “In a long time…”

“I guess neither of us ended up winning, Ford.” Fids has sat up again and started gathering up various crap from around the fire and moving it into the garbage bag they brought or into the cooler on the other side. “It’s getting pretty late and I need to recover from this hangover before heading home tomorrow. You think you two can remember to put the fire out and bring the cooler inside?”

The idea of being left alone out here with Stanley makes his heart jump into his throat while simultaneously falling into his stomach which almost makes him puke. “Yeah, sure. We’ll be in soon enough.” Ford agrees instead, watching Fids pack up both chairs before walking back around and into the house on unsteady feet.

“Do you know any constellations?” Stan asks after five or so minutes of silence. He also sits back, bringing up an arm to drape over the back of the bench behind Ford. It’s not something he puts any thought into, still too busy looking up while taking another drink. Stan did just open this one, it would be a waste not to finish it.

Ford glances over at Stan and just looks at him for a minute instead of answering. That- This is a move he’s watched his brother pull in real-time before on chicks. The old, arm over behind the shoulders to pull the girl closer trick.

Nope, you’re reading into things again. Stop it.

Before Stan can catch on that he’s having a crisis Ford looks back up to answer. “Well that there is Ursa Major, also known as the great bear, but most people call it the Big Dipper. There are two directly underneath it. The first one is Canes Venatici, which translated to Hunting Dogs from Latin. The two dogs are known as Asterion and Chara. The second one is Coma Berenices and it’s named after the Queen Berenice II of Egypt.”

Ford goes on pointing out different parts of the sky, leaning in against Stan’s side, and naming off different constellations. Sometimes he can even remember what stars make them up, although without a telescope he can't zoom in and show Stan which ones he means. It seems like he’s listening attentively and looking in the general direction Ford points.

Lecturing like this while Stan just watches makes him feel important. Like his brother is hanging onto his every word as if Ford’s the most important thing at this moment. It’s a good thing he knows a lot of constellations and facts because it lets this wonderful moment last.

Stan tries to follow Ford’s hand as he points out different stars and draws the constellations but after a while, it's just easier to tune in on what Ford’s saying and take turns looking up and down at his brother. Ford is lecturing enthusiastically and leaning heavily against Stan’s side. The fire has died down considerably and it won’t take much water being poured on it to extinguish it the rest of the way.

If he wasn’t so drunk he’d take this as an actual lesson since Stan does want to learn how to read the stars for when they set sail. But learning anything drunk is a recipe for disaster and misinformation could end up being taken as facts. It’s more fun to just watch Ford and it makes his smile wider between sips of his beer.

“You can’t see Gemini during the summer but if it was visible, it would be over here. The constellation's two brightest stars are Castor and Pollux, which represent the eyes of the twins in Greek mythology. Castor is actually a group of six stars that appear as one blueish-white star. Pollux is an orange star that's the 17th brightest star in the sky. In Greek mythology, Castor and Pollux were the sons of a mortal mother, Leda, and the immortal son of Zeus, respectively. The peak visibility time for the constellation is February but is visible in the Northern hemisphere from December to March.” Ford continues to ramble, finally looking away and back over at Stanley.

More words die on his tongue seeing he's being stared at so intensely. It doesn’t even appear that his brother was listening given the other hasn’t said anything in who knows how long. He’s been the only one speaking and when Ford stops the clearing around the house is quiet again. The light in the kitchen is off to, meaning Dad’s probably gone to bed.

They’re completely alone and far too close.

It makes Ford swallow, but he stays exactly where he is looking at Stanley. One mistake is forgettable but there’s no good excuse if he leaned in for a kiss here. It would be detrimental. Locking himself in place to avoid doing anything is the best option because he can't force himself to pull away. It’s kind of nice anyway, just looking at Stan’s face despite it only being by the light of the fire.

Stan needs to shave and his jawline is more defined than it had been back in high school. Half of it is cast in shadows while the other is lit up by the yellow flames. A small scar is visible at the top of the still-healing bruise from Stan’s broken nose. What caused it? Ford will likely never know. It’s better that way since whoever caused it would be in for a world of hurt should Ford ever find them.

It takes several minutes for him to realize Ford stopped talking and is just looking at him. He doesn’t look angry, which is good, but just kinda… neutral? There's a small smile and his eyes are alight but in the dark Stan can’t tell with what. They’re barely half a foot apart, if that, and that realization wakes him up.

It’s one thing entirely to not mind a kiss on the cheek, and enjoying a little hand-holding isn’t earth-shattering either. But finding Ford cute? Wanting to lean over and kiss his own twin brother? That’s royally screwed up. Stan knows that in his core just like any normal person would.

So why is that what he wants to do?

Why the fuck does he want to close the short distance, cup Ford’s face again, and pull him over into a tender kiss?

The silence and stillness of the moment is broken when Stan has to pull his arm back from behind Ford to cover his face. The headache came back with a vengeance. “Motherfucker.” Stan mutters, shifting back a little to put more space between them and break whatever the hell kinda spell that just was.

Ford’s a little too busy being concerned about why Stan’s clutching his head to mourn the loss of the arm around his shoulders. “Stanley, are you alright?”

‘No, I’m not alright. I was just thinking about kissing you silly and now my head hurts!’ He thinks those words but doesn’t utter anything out loud. Have they kissed before? Is that why his head hurts? No. Nope. No. They wouldn’t do that. That’s bad, wrong even. This scene must just resemble something very similar.

OH! Maybe this has something to do with what’s going on with the librarian! His shoulders slump in relief because he can feel that’s almost right. Yes. This has nothing to do with his brother, he’s just trying to remember parts of his love life. That’s what it is. Oh, thank God!

He’s just projecting for whatever reason and making this all into something it's not. Stan’s voice comes out easier now that he’s less freaked out, “Yeah, sorry. Just a little headache. I don’t know, maybe something to do with the alcohol? There’s a lot of those memories I don’t have back. I used to drink a lot.” The headache hasn’t eased, but he makes himself look up again anyway.

The air gets tense again (so much for no longer freaking out) when Stan looks up to see Ford is even closer than before, maybe three inches away from his face, eyes flooded with concern.

Stan gets up off the bench, getting a headrush and pretty light-headed, but stays on his feet without stumbling more than a step backward. “Here, let’s put out the fire and bring this stuff inside.” Stan finishes the last half of his beer and then moves to grab the bag of garbage and the bag of smores supplies next to it.

Rather than waiting for Ford to answer he heads over around the house to go toss the bag of garbage into the can along the side of the house. It puts a lot of space between them, even if only for a few minutes, which feels necessary after how close that just was.

Ford doesn’t know how exactly or at what point, but it feels like he just screwed something up. Stan got up off the bench way too fast for how many beers he’s finished. Things had been nice right up until that headache cropped up and ruined the moment.

Did it though? That headache probably saved him from doing something incredibly stupid. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to keep still in all that tension. The one-sided tension. It makes him sigh before trying to stand up. It ends with him lying down in the grass without him recalling the distance in between.

Ford falls into a fit of laughter over that, looking back up at the stars and being much too loud for how late it is. People are sleeping, shut up! But he can’t. It takes Stan coming back to yell at him for the laughter to muffle into quieter giggles.

“Would you be quiet?” The short and unsteady walk Stan took combined with finding Ford on the ground in a heap washed away the tension from the silence on the bench. Whatever that was is over. “Everyone is trying to sleep, you idiot!” He thinks he’s whispering but being drunk it's impossible to tell. “Get up and help me put the cooler in the car trunk to keep it safe from bears and gnomes.”

The odds of them getting the cooler into the house without one of them falling over is slim so the car it is. After ten long minutes of bickering and cleaning up the pair finally stumble back into the house. The car’s locked up with the cooler in the trunk, the fire got put out using the bucket prepared in advance, and now the only big obstacle left is the trek to bed.

“Shhh, Pops will kill you if we fall down the stairs.” Ford actually whispers after quietly closing the door. Leaning on each other they both carefully shuffle through the entryway, still giggling occasionally, and then up the steps to the hallway. “Why did you have to have such a big house?” Stan complains once they’re halfway down the hall and further away from their parents.

“Uh, because I had money to burn? It’s our house now, so you should be happy I splurged.” Stan chokes on a laugh trying to keep it down while Ford drags him through the door and into their currently shared bedroom. “If you had money to burn, why didn’t you get a bigger guest bed, huh? Or maybe some rugs around the place?” Stan is too busy trying to focus his words and forgets they’re supposed to separate now. He starts over towards his bed, dragging Ford along with him.

Ford is far too happy to just stay against Stan’s side, following him along but watching both their feet to keep from tripping. “Because the only guest I ever had over was Fids? Actually, I think he might have made this bedframe himself? I don’t remember.” Ford hiccups and sits down on the edge of the bed while Stan flops down over against the far wall. “He’s very talented, the best possible lab partner I could have asked for. Carpentry, welding, the list goes on forever.”

Stan’s only half listening now that he’s horizontal, pulling the blanket up over himself even though he’s still dressed. He finds the mental capacity to sit up and pull off the flannel he was wearing and then begins undoing his belt, tossing both over in the general direction of the closet.

The sound of Stan’s belt hitting the floor wakes Ford up a little from where he’d been starting to melt, almost lying over Stan’s legs. Right, he needs to move. It's bedtime, back over to the cot. At least tonight will be the last time Ford has to sleep on it.

The attempt to stand up goes about as well as getting up off the bench. One second, he’s standing up and the next he’s waking up on the floor in a fit of laughter with a dull throb to the back of his head that’ll be more painful come morning.

Stan lifts his head up off the pillow and rolls over to look at Ford on the floor. “Okay Mr. ‘I can hold my liquor’ get up here. But you’re sleeping without a blanket for your own stupidity.” He gets up just enough to drag Ford back over to the bed and then moves back over to his side.

Ford lets out a very funny noise when Stan pulls him back up onto the bed that sounds like a mix between a squeak and a shout. “Stanley, this bed isn’t nearly big enough for us!” If he was sober, he’d have half a dozen more complaints. Good thing he isn’t.

To Stan, this isn't worth lifting his head from the pillow he dragged with him over to his spot near the wall. “I’m not getting up again to walk you over to bed. You can either crawl to the cot or sleep on your side without a blanket. Just don’t get handsy or I’ll push you off onto the floor the rest of the night.”

Whatever, the idea of sharing a bed on top of the perfect day does sound just that. Perfect.

With Stanley facing away Ford lets himself smile like the lovesick fool he is while getting comfortable. Maybe there isn’t a blanket but Stan’s flannel barely made it off the bed. So, he grabs it and uses it as the world’s worst blanket. It smells like Stanley and beer which makes his head spin.

Ford rolls over to face the door while his brother faces the wall and lets out a content sigh, loud in the room. “Happy Birthday Stanley, I love you.” He’s too drunk to try and hide the fondness and sappiness in his voice. Later he’ll blame it on his inebriated state should it come up.

Now Stan lifts his head, turning it to look at the back of Ford’s. Those words make his whole body feel warm and a couple of tears escape from his eyes without permission. He sniffles once but covers it up with a cough.

An internal war wages while the silence stretches before Stan finally makes a decision. It’s not weird. We’re brothers. It’s fine. Stan turns around and adjusts the blanket so it covers Ford too. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I guess I love you too. Just don’t go telling all your friends. I’ve got an image to uphold being the cool twin and all.”

Ford sheds a couple of tears on his side of the bed over being given half the blanket. It makes his lip quiver and turning to face away from Stan is easily the best choice he’s ever made in this lifetime. Laughter bubbles up much too loud at Stan’s joke, filling the room and probably audible from across the hall.

Stan hits Ford with his pillow, right across the face. But this only sends both of them into another harder laughing fit, trying to muffle it with their hands to keep from waking Fids up.

Being too drunk, Ford has always been a babbler. His response goes on too long, “You are the cool twin Stanley. You're so smart and kind and thoughtful and especially emotionally intelligent and brave and-“

Stan has probably never blushed so hard in his life and he needs Ford to shut up right now before the heat of it kills him. Instead of using the pillow again, he hits Ford in the side with his arm. “Shut up, would you? I get it, I’m the greatest. You’ll never build something better than Mom and Dad did when they got bored and had sex one night and- “

Ford hits Stan back, mortified. “Shut up! You can’t just casually talk about our parents having sex. That’s disgusting!”

Stan laughs again, turning over to face Ford from the wall. “What? It’s just how we came into existence. Don’t tell me Pops never gave you the talk, did he Sixer?”

Ford turns around to face Stan. At least they’re both flushed bright red. Maybe they’re equally really drunk and Stan’s just better at hiding it. “Shut up!” He shoves Stan’s shoulder from under the blanket. “Of course he did. It was the most mortifying ten minutes of my life. Though you continue to try and top it all the damn time!”

“Shhh, or someone’s going to come to yell at us for being loud,” Stan whispers, brushing some of his hair back out of his face. “That’s my job and how I express my brotherly love.” He giggles some more, covering his face with one arm to muffle it.

Letting himself relax into the bed, which is far more comfortable than the cot, Ford snorts. “Well, you must love me a lot, bastard.” He lets his eyes fall closed but tries to force them open again so he can keep looking at Stanley. Going to sleep makes the day end.

Stan closes his bad eye because it's easier to see Ford in the dark using his good one, even if it looks like he’s permanently winking. “Of course I do, I love you most. More than anything else ever before or ever again.”

Facing Stan Ford can't hide how those kind words make him cry a handful more silent tears while his chest feels like it's going to explode. “Is your eye okay? Or are you just tired?” He finally whispers out, looking at the closed eye. That reminds him-

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just easier to see with my good one like this.” Stan leans over and plucks Ford’s glasses right off his face and then sits up to put them on the bedside table before either of them can forget again. “Now shut up and go to bed. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

They’d been on the go all day either in the car or literally on the boat and running around the house. Stan lets his other eye fall closed, shifting around to get more comfortable in the cramped space.

Ford can’t see anything in the dark without his glasses but he knows Stanley is here. This is perfect. Maybe it would be better if they were closer, but this is still impossibly good. “Alright, I love you, Lee.” Has he always been such a mooshy drunk or is it Stan that brings it out in him?

Every time Stan thinks he’s going to be able to fall asleep Ford proves him wrong. Falling on the floor. Starting to ramble. Tossing and turning. Now using his childhood nickname?

Oh, to hell with it.

Stan shifts again down onto his front with his head facing the wall and one of his arms ends up lying over Ford’s side and stomach under the blanket. “Go to bed and shut up.” He mutters into the pillow. Now it's just like when they were kids. Usually when one of them would have a nightmare this is pretty much how they’d end up.

It’s nice so long as Stanley doesn’t think about it too much.

Ford listens this time, frozen in place by the arm thrown over him. It seems ridiculous that just the other day he thought living with Stan would involve him starving for his brother’s touch. Now they’re sharing a bed and there’s an arm over his stomach.

Out of fear Stan will pull away he keeps perfectly still and falls asleep like that lying on his back facing the ceiling with a dumb smile plastered on his face.

Chapter 45: Weak Points

It’s a blessing in disguise that they never open the windows in this bedroom because if there was even a little bit more natural light in here Stan would have to curl up and die right now. He honestly can’t remember the last time he was this hung over and it makes him rethink just how many beers he had. The last number he remembers counting was eight, but it had to be more—much more.

God, why is the bed so damn hot? Did they turn up the heat last night before stumbling upstairs into bed? Stan tries to roll over, away from the heat, only to quickly realize the situation he’s gotten himself into. It makes his eyes fly open again and it takes everything not to shove Ford off onto the floor.

Stan wasn’t black-out drunk so he remembers most of what happened last night. Enough details to know he was the one to invite Ford to share the bed. But what he doesn’t remember is how they ended up spooning with him behind Ford one arm wrapped loosely over the other. Stan would remember that, definitely. And he should move away, put some much-needed space between them, except the wall is directly behind him and Ford has crushed him into a corner.

It’s a damn miracle, or maybe a sign that he isn’t a total perv, that he’s not woken up with morning wood today. Yeah, today is the day he needs to work out what the fuck is up with his love life. Who the hell made stargazing so romantic, so much so that doing it with Ford almost made them kiss! Whoever that chick (or guy, he’s not above admitting that’s possible and maybe even contributing to his brain's confusion) was they had to be one hell of a bombshell.

Whatever. This moment right now is not the time to be trying to work those important details out. Getting Ford to move is first priority. “Ford, wake up and get the hell off my lap before I push you over onto the floor.” His voice is rough both from sleep and from laughing the night before but his tone is firm. Not angry, just insistent.

The first noise Ford lets out is a groan of pain because his head hurts. Its not just a hangover headache either. Did he hit his head at some point? He can’t remember exactly since everything near the end of the night got really hazy. They’d both stumbled together getting the cooler in the trunk, right after Ford had almost kissed Stan. Then they must have gone inside…. nothing after that.

The time between walking in their bedroom door and now is a complete blank which is pretty concerning. He hasn’t been so drunk he couldn’t remember in a very long time. How drunk was he? It feels like if he moves, he’ll end up throwing up. No, Ford can’t do that on the bed.

Wait a damn minute.

Why is he in bed?

Ford rolls away when he has the sudden realization there is a body pressed up directly behind him and almost goes tumbling to the floor in his rush to move away.

Stan barely catches Ford with the arm that was still wrapped around his brother’s waist. Instead of rolling off onto the floor, Stan pins Ford against the side of the bed, holding him up off the ground with one arm. “Jesus Christ, would you calm down? Don’t tell me you blacked out last night. Did you?” Stan’s eyes are narrow slits to help deal with the light coming in under the windows and his brow is furrowed in pain looking at Ford.

The sudden movement of rolling off and then being slammed back into the mattress makes Ford sick so instead of saying anything productive or answering the question he ends up turning his head to the side and throwing up on the floor.

Yep, this is pretty much what Stan should have expected from ‘drunk Ford’ making an appearance. There is always some form of barf involved either during the night or after. Good thing it's just a wood floor instead of a rug or carpet. Stan waits a minute letting Ford finish, continuing to hold him up out of the vomit, and then tries again. “You done now? Cause I could use some help getting you back up here.”

Looking back at Stan it's only then that his hungover brain can process that he’s being held up with one hand with seemingly little effort. It makes him flush redder than throwing up did. “Oh, uh- right. Sure.” Ford brings up the hand not pressed against the bed for Stan to grab so he can roll back up onto the mattress instead of down into the mess.

Stan sits up on the bed holding his head, “So, what’s the last thing you remember if you were drunk enough to black out?” He fixes his clothes a little with his free hand, pulling his shirt back down from where it had ridden up while deeply regretting sleeping in jeans.

Ford lets his head settle for a minute, covering his eyes, before speaking. “Ugh, I remember us stumbling into the bedroom but that’s it.” Did Stan willingly let him stay here in bed with him? Did they end up cuddling before falling asleep? If only he could remember, it's not like he can ask without possibly blowing his cover. Oh God. What if he already has? Fuck.

“Hmm, so you don’t remember being unable to walk over to your cot? That’s how you ended up here in bed. I’m the nicest brother ever and was willing to share. Then you called me the best thing since sliced bread and told me you loved a gazillion times like a total sap.” Joy and humor drips from each word along with the discomfort stemming from his headache. “I got you to shut up and fall asleep, but not before we woke up the whole house laughing at least twice.” It was a great night, the best day ever.

Relief floods Ford mixed with embarrassment over what happened, but no fear or dread. They’re alright. Whatever lovey-dovey stuff he said and or did must not have been that bad. If today is anything like previous blackouts he’ll remember the details later today or tomorrow. Ford finally uncovers his face and opens his eyes again to look at Stan who’s still smiling like an idiot despite the puke on the floor. “Well, I don’t know about sliced bread. You are pretty great, but-“

Stan grins to himself, “You do realize it's not too late for me to push you off the bed into a puddle of vomit, right?” That makes Ford scowl but it does shut him up. Another thought occurs to Stanley then and his face gets even brighter. “Ford, do you realize what just happened while we were asleep?” But he doesn’t wait for Ford’s brain to catch up and work it out. “Neither of us had a bad nightmare last night, without the use of the dream gun!”

Ford continues to squint at Stan, not following for a second and then frowning. “Okay?” He sits up, regretting it, and then backs up against the headboard after moving his pillow out of the way. “What, you think us being drunk kept the nightmares away? That would make sense given our neurons weren’t firing at even close to full capacity. But we can’t just get drunk every night to avoid dreams, Stan. That would kill us very quickly, especially if we have to get that drunk to achieve the desired results.”

For a minute Stan thinks about pushing Ford off onto the floor anyway, despite the yelling and the mess it would cause. “No, you idiot, we slept in the same bed last night. Doesn’t that seem like the more likely cause to you?” At least that’s what makes sense to him. Waking up alone in bed had resulted in a feeling of almost crippling loneliness and it was pure strength that got him up the day before. That and the hope of a really good day.

The more he thinks about it the more he wonders if this is just an after-effect. It dims his smile some, looking down at the blanket in thought. Maybe yesterday was just so fantastic that it bled into today and kept his heart full of positivity. The alcohol was probably what kept the dreams and memories away which means they’d be back tomorrow or maybe in a few days at the most-

Ford hadn’t even considered that to be a possibility. One night isn’t nearly enough to build a hypothesis off, but he’s anything if not willing to test it. Especially one that allows him to share a bed with Stanley again. And this time he’d remembered. “I suppose that’s an interesting theory. I don’t see what scientific basis we’d have to go off of but if you’d like we could test it again while removing the other inflicting variables. We’d need to be sober, for one, and still not use the dream gun. There are certainly less healthy ways to manage our shared trauma.” Ford keeps his voice even, scientific, like this is another one of his experiments and not something he’s secretly very excited about.

Stan looks up skeptically, despite it being his idea at first, because now he’s seriously doubting it. Even if Ford looks hopeful. No, he can’t decide this right now. First, he needs to figure out what the fuck his brain was on last night out by the fire thinking of making out with his twin. That’s gotta be like the ultimate form of Narcissism or something.

“I’ll think about it, but not right now. Here, let’s get up. You get supplies to clean up the puke and I’ll go put together a hangover cure and some water from the fridge.” Stan shifts back over to the end of the bed so he can stand up and get around the mess on the floor without getting any on his feet. “You’re cleaning this up, by the way, I did my part keeping you from landing in it.”

Damn it!

Ford doesn’t try to sell it again because that’ll only make him look too eager. He just nods and wrinkles his nose before grabbing his glasses to put back on. “Fine, I will. But get me some ice from the kitchen too. I think I hit my head at some point and now I’ve got a goose egg.” A hand run through his hair proves his right and draws a hiss out of his mouth.

Stan laughs again, “Not surprised with how many times you fell over last night. I think it was four or something after getting off the bench and before falling asleep?” He helps Ford up off the bed and around their mutual obstacle but then lets go and heads for the door, keeping his head down on a mission but also trying not to die. Standing up only makes his head throb more. Today is going to be a long day.

*

Fiddleford turns out to be an absolute genius in more ways than one because the guy saved the day by thinking far enough ahead to buy sunglasses for today. It made putting together breakfast, helping their parents pack, and generally cleaning up the mess from the night before ten million times easier.

The time went by too fast and Stan was dragging his feet down the stairs after his shower because he didn’t want to say goodbye to their parents.

It was going to happen regardless of if he went downstairs but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. He was going to miss them! Especially Mom but even Pops. It had been fun hanging out with him this week now that they’d gotten past everything.

Back on the coast, Stan had ignored the chance of their parents developing any health issues despite their age. But… It was a possibility. They were just under sixty and that’s usually the time people start getting sick, isn’t it? Hearing aids, heart attacks, random cancers.

And they’ll be across the country for the next six months. Anything could happen in that time.

Or nothing, that’s also just as likely, but his worry wart of a brain isn’t focusing on that part. Very helpful.

Stan knows this is all irrational because people die all the time. It happens, constantly, and there isn’t a single thing he could do about it. But his childish stubbornness complains that he just got them back and it wouldn’t be fair to get a handful of good memories only for one or both of them to immediately kick the bucket.

He’s never been a particularly health-conscious guy up until now. But there are people worth losing, and stuff on the line. It feels like walking down Death Row the whole way past the stairs and outside. Their bags are packed into the rental to start the drive into Portland to return the car and catch a cab to the airport for their late afternoon flight back to Jersey.

Facing off against a Demon? No problem, almost easy. Saying goodbye to their loving parents again? Damn near impossible.

There is no way he doesn’t end up crying over this, no matter how ridiculous that is. Stan forces himself through the front door, down the steps, and across the driveway to the car where Ford is standing with Mom and Dad talking.

Just one glance over at Stanley from Mom tells him just how hard this goodbye is for his brother. It surprises Ford despite the week they’ve had.

Until he remembers again what happened the last time Stan said goodbye to their parents.

They went ten years without seeing each other and between Stan and Dad, they didn’t even talk that whole time. Their relationship was in shambles and all but destroyed before this week.

Now it's fixed, mostly, but cut short. A lifetime of bad memories only to be separated right after starting to make some good ones. That explains why Stan looks like someone melted his car down into scrap metal. Was Stan crying in the shower before coming downstairs?

“Now remember, Schermie is a little more devout than either of you. You’re welcome to put up lights all over but maybe hide the Christmas tree somewhere down in the basement if you decide to get one for when he gets here in December. I don’t think he’d say anything about it, but he gets a little touchy when it comes to his son. Oh, but we’ll bring the family candelabra so you don’t need to buy much more than some candles.” Caryn is rambling at this point about anything she can think of just to put off saying goodbye a little longer.

She’s already cried once this morning both out of sadness and relief. Yes, she’s going to miss the boys, but now she knows they’re safe. They’ll be right here with a number she can call anytime she thinks of them. That’s a luxury she hasn’t had with Stanley ever before. And maybe Ford will pick up a little more often now that Stan’s around to drag him out of the basement sometimes.

“That’s good to know Mom, we’ll make sure to get some guest bedrooms set up before then. I imagine Stan and Fids will have a fun time childproofing the house too before the end of the year. It’ll be great, we get real snow here in the valley, unlike Jersey or California. Next time we’ll come pick you up from the airport too so you don’t have to waste money on a rental.” Ford insists, taking half a step back when Stan gets a little closer.

Stan is not going to cry again, not before he’s even hugged either of them goodbye. Before all this keeping his emotions in check was so much easier. Now, they just seem to happen like it or not.

“We’ll make sure you guys have an actual bed to sleep in next time instead of that crap pull-out couch. Maybe I could have gotten something a little nicer with more warning.” A sad chuckle comes out after it while he brings up a hand to rub at the back of his neck nervously.

Caryn turns to Stan now, smiling sadly before just stepping over and pulling him down into a hug before he can object, hesitate, or dance around the subject of them leaving anymore then Ford already has. “Oh, it wasn’t too bad. Well worth the pain to see you again. Don’t you two dare be strangers though, I expect someone to answer the same day if I call unless you two are out of town. And make sure to update the answering machine if you are!” She scolds them both a little but can’t be angry when hugging Stan.

Hmm, now that they both live here maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to update the phone system. Should Stan have his own number? Maybe a line upstairs in his room or something?

Oh, and they’ll need to get a pair of walkie-talkies to carry around with them for when they’re on opposite sides of the house. That thought makes Ford smile a little wider.

Stan hugs Caryn like he’s never going to see her again because part of him is terrified that he won’t. It’s a ridiculous worry, but he can’t make it magically go away. “I know Ma, we will. You better call when you get home so we know you made it safe and sound.” His voice breaks there near the end but he keeps from crying through pure willpower.

While Stan and Caryn hug Filbrick clears his throat a little and adjusts his shades looking at Ford. “You two behave now, almost destroying the world once is more than enough.” He’s trying to sound firm but it's not as cold as it would have been a decade ago. Filbrick has had years more practice than Stan not showing how emotional situations affect him and he uses all of that wisdom now to keep composed.

Ford looks back over at Dad and gives a small smile, “Yeah, I know…” It's not nearly enough of a punishment to just be scolded but it causes a flood of shame and guilt anyway.

Until a hand lands on his shoulder, pulling his eyes back up from the ground.

Filbrick leans over to say something quietly to Ford, the sound inaudible with Caryn starting to cry on Stan’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself too. You're older, and all this has to leave you feeling responsible,” they both know Ford kinda is second behind Bill himself but no sense rubbing it in. “So, I expect you to keep an eye on your brother, again. But not at the expense of yourself, alright? Ain’t healthy.”

Ford barely stops himself from correcting Dad’s grammar, swallowing instead to hold back the ‘Isn’t healthy, actually’ that almost tumbles out. He looks back from Stan and Mom over at Dad instead. It doesn’t seem possible that he could ever put his own needs and wants before Stan’s after all the sacrifice the other went through. No matter what nothing is ever going to be enough, why add to the seriously outweighed side of the scale?

Unfortunately, that isn’t something he can admit to out loud without Stan smacking the goose egg on the back of his head.

“Stop that, you’ll give yourself a third headache.” Filbrick gives him a small shake and is surprised when Ford turns around and pulls him into a hug. It catches him off guard but returns it anyway despite being unsure what caused it. “Alright, alright. I love you too, I guess.” This hug is easier than the one they shared behind the car last night at least, less awkward.

Ford ends up laughing against Dad’s shoulder because for a minute he sounds just like Stanley. Calling him out on overthinking, making a joke to brush off his real feelings about all this. It gives him a peak at how similar Stan and Dad are compared to just trusting his twins' word on it last night. “I love you too, now get out of here before Stan starts blubbering on your suit jacket,” Ford says, pulling away and stepping back.

Stan has given up on trying not to cry, just glad to be wearing sunglasses that mostly cover it up. It’s disturbing wearing them since looking in the mirror and at Ford they both look too much like Pops for comfort despite the style being wildly different. Finally, with a tug on his arm from Ford, Stan pulls away from the hug with Mom to take a turn hugging Dad instead.

It goes about as well as hugging Ma did, with him keeping from doing much more than silently shaking. At least he doesn’t start ugly sobbing or getting snot everywhere. He got all that out in the shower. When the four of them part ways again Stan isn’t even ashamed to end up shoulder-to-shoulder at Ford’s side the whole time they watch their parents get in the car and drive off and out of sight.

*

Ford is pretty sure they should have done something a little more productive than hang out in the living room watching TV, reading, and generally trying to be as quiet as possible recovering from their hangovers.

Fiddleford goes home today and won’t be back until Monday, so they probably should finish the second dream gun or maybe take apart some of the portal instead of just leaving a death trap sitting operational in the basement.

But instead, Stan insists that closing the curtains, keeping the television low and on something stupid, is the best way to get over this. Even if they’ve taken pain meds, drank Stan’s nauseating hangover mixed drink, and are still wearing the sunglasses even if the room is already pitch black.

More annoying? It works.

By the time Fids has to leave and drive home to his family the majority of the pain is gone, other than the bump on the back of Ford’s head, and they don’t even need the sunglasses anymore. Stan must have dealt with his fair share of awful hangovers to know the exact right combination to get them over it as quickly as possible. The general but slight brain fog that comes in the days following drinking is still there, that’s unavoidable. Maybe it’ll go away faster this time? Who knows.

“Alright, come on. That’s more than enough sitting around for one day. You get to help me with the first project of our new house.” Stan insists from where they’re standing on the porch having watched Fiddleford drive off in his car leaving them both alone here.

They’re alone. The last time they were truly alone together, before that day in the basement, had been on their swing set back in Jersey the night before the science fair. Things are so different and so much better that the prospects make Ford dizzy.

“What are you talking about?” Ford asks, following Stan back inside off the porch and hovering in the entryway while Stan locks the front door.

Stan hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to talk about this with Ford yet, but he’d just sort of assumed that when Ford said ‘our house’ he meant it kind of literally. Literally enough for what he’s about to suggest to be alright. Still, he tucks both hands in his front pockets. At least he’s not as nervous compared to when asking to share a room.

“Well, you’ve got the whole basement space for your wacky science experiments and crap. I was thinking maybe we could clear out the attic so I could have my sort of space. I don’t know what I’ll do with it, other than maybe put the home gym up there, but.” He sort of shrugs because he hasn’t thought very far ahead.

“I know it’ll involve a lot more organizing, moving crap around, and downsizing a lot of your stuff, but I just thought maybe it would be good for us to have our own space. I mean, not that you wouldn’t be welcome to come bother me up there like I will with you downstairs, but-“

Ford hadn’t given much thought to what exactly their living together would look like beyond the basics. They’d be sharing a room and the house. It seemed completely reasonable for Stan to ask for his own space to get away. There was plenty of room for it. Ford just had to get over letting stuff go and condensing things.

What need did he have for most of the junk up in the attic anyway? They were building a boat next and a lot of the random spare parts he’d held onto were related to the portal. Stuff he worried might be needed during the building process. It would be annoying, but realistically there couldn’t be more than the one big storage room on the first floor worth keeping.

Stanley feeling comfortable enough to ask and bring this up as something he wanted makes Ford smile wide, “That’s what you want to do with the rest of the afternoon? Sort through the crap in the attic and clean it out?” It wasn’t a small space, but it did have the least amount of stuff. They could easily get it emptied today if they worked together. “I think that’s a great idea. Then you can have your own little office up there or something?”

Stan crosses the entryway and pulls Ford over and down into a headlock to mess up his brother’s hair with a laugh, “You’re the best, you know that? Come on, let’s get started. If we work quickly, we might be able to finish before it's time for me to make us dinner.” He lets go of Ford entirely and rushes off towards the stairs leaving his brother to run after Stan.

The attic space is a lot dustier than Ford remembers it being but still just as empty. It has maybe three dozen boxes shoved in the two closets and twenty others spread out across the remaining space. But the dust swirls around with them just walking around and they have to open all the windows to keep from choking on it.

They start in the space near the stairs with Stan letting Ford go through the boxes first before dealing with whatever can be tossed and what can’t. Stuff to be kept goes into one of the boxes Stan must have brought up here in preparation for this. Seems ridiculous Stan expects him to narrow all this down so extensively.

Work goes surprisingly quickly with Stan bringing him new boxes and Ford just having to make some very difficult choices. He rationalizes keeping a lot of the spare parts by insisting Fids and him need to work out specifics on their boat before tossing anything. And the papers? He promises to go through them all later, so all the random notes get paperclipped together in groups and then tossed into a separate box.

Ford pauses when Stan brings him a box he doesn’t recognize. He remembers all the other boxes and generally what’s inside of them, but not this one. It’s older than the others, less dusty, and filled with a seemingly random collection of wires. “Stan, where did you get this box?”

Stan comes back over from the other room where he’d started dusting and cleaning now that most of the boxes were in the area near the stairs. “Oh, that one?” A smile crosses Stan’s face hovering behind Ford. “That’s the box Fids gave me outside the library when we first met. I don’t know, said it had some stuff for you inside it? Looked like a bunch of wires and random books to me though.”

Books. Random wires and books.

Part of his mind remembers, kinda, what this is. It was an attempt at making a universal translator so that you could understand and communicate with anyone despite the language barrier. The technology they wanted didn’t exist yet so it ended up getting shoved in a box in Fid's basement until computer tech got small enough to revisit.

The other part starts pulling out the project, discarding it on the floor to see just which books Fiddleford had put in here with the project. There were only a handful of them and two of them were green. Ford is aware he must look odd, almost dumping the box on the floor in his excitement.

Just like the journal, this box has to be it. It has to be one of these two books because Stan is all about deeper meanings. What could get more sentimental than a book from when those two met? It doesn’t. It can’t.

One of the green books is on the study of Botany (plants) and the other the study of Dendrology (trees) but to him, they just look like boring books. “Stanley, did you read one of these at any point when you were given the box?” Ford asks, finally looking at his brother.

Ford looks like he’s lost it or something, scrambling over the box on the dusty floor but discarding whatever project it was in favor of the boring environment books.

His brother’s weird. Extra weird sometimes.

Stan humors Ford anyway, crouching down to look at which books Ford is talking about and then letting out a loud laugh. “God no, they look too boring.” But his hand comes up and taps the one on trees anyway. “This is the first one I pulled out of the box though. Made me see why you didn’t bother picking up your stuff because of how dull it is.”

Ford would kiss Stan if it was appropriate. But given that it isn’t he just grins like the mad scientist he is and then scrambles to his feet, abandoning the box and the other book in an attempt to run for the stairs. He needs to go flip through it at once and add it to the puzzle! There should be another clue and that’ll lead him to the end! This book puts him over halfway!

Stan grabs Ford by his t-shirt before he can get one foot on the steps. “Hey!” Stan pulls him back, almost dragging Ford, and scowls. “Oh no you don’t. I’m not gonna pretend to understand your weird brain on this one. I can’t imagine what has you running off over a book on trees.” Stan looks at the book Ford is clutching like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“But you need to help me finish sorting here before running off to the basement or whatever. I can’t go through this stuff on my own because it's not mine. If it was up to me, I’d just throw it all out. You don’t want that, do you?” Stan grins and glances towards the remaining boxes in the room.

Much like out on the bench last night Ford wants to throttle Stanley for a moment.

Then it passes and he resists the urge to bolt back down the stairs towards the basement. Stan would throw out anything that didn’t look important so he can’t just leave Stan alone to go through this. They are halfway done anyway…

It’s frustrating having his two highest priorities fight. Working out what Stanley left for him in that puzzle, and Stanley needing him now.

“Ugh…” He groans, looking down at the book and then over at what they have left. “Fine, but after I finish sorting, I’m going down to the basement. You can finish the rest without me, correct?” When Stan lets go Ford moves to gather up everything he just dumped out of the box and puts it all back, setting it aside to bring into the basement when he’s finished.

“Fine, you’ll just give yourself an allergy attack cleaning up all this dust anyway.” Stan agrees, relaxing when Ford doesn’t go for the stairs the second he’s let go. “But I’m going to come get you after I finish cooking dinner. You need to eat, otherwise your brain won’t work, genius.”

Ford makes record time going through the rest of the boxes, no longer letting himself argue mentally over whether something is worth keeping. He has more important things to be doing than sorting through scrap metal, spare wires, and random tools he doesn’t remember. He throws away more in the second half, almost all of it, then before finding the book in his rush to just finish and be done.

Stan doesn’t get a chance to go back to cleaning with how quickly Ford finishes boxes, pulling out a handful of things and papers to keep but leaving everything else in the box to toss. It goes on like that until they’ve finished the remaining twenty boxes. The floor is a mess of papers, tools, and some various parts but nothing compared to the new stack of ‘dispose of’ boxes in the corner of the room.

“I’ll be downstairs!” Ford announces after picking up the box with the book before bolting, like he wanted to earlier, down the stairs and through the halls towards the elevator to take down to the lab.

It leaves Stan laughing for a while up in the attic. If he’d known giving Ford that box would get him moving faster, he would have handed it to Ford first! Whatever, now he can finish moving the boxes downstairs to take to the dump later, put the keep stuff down in the second-floor hallway, and clean the area properly.

He still has no idea what the area will be used for. The gym can probably go out here in the space near the stairs but the bedroom? No idea. Maybe a desk and some bookshelves? Most of his hobbies require something that doesn’t fit the idea of having an office, but he can’t just sit around all the time watching Ford be a genius.

This time is going to be different. He isn’t going to just follow Ford around all the time watching him be brilliant while accomplishing nothing on his own. Stan just doesn’t know what he’ll do instead, yet.

Down in the basement, Ford is almost slamming things around, pulling out the letter and opening the book to start filling pieces in. He has to stop himself for a minute to take some deep breaths so he doesn’t tear the letter with the pen using too much force. It takes longer, because this book is larger than the journal, and there are more words to add.

But still not enough to understand anything!

The relief Ford felt finding the book is overshadowed by frustration at only being able to read broken pieces ‘Stanford Pines’ or maybe ‘Like back in’ and so on. Just little pieces amongst other nonsense. Half of the letter is still missing, the bulk of the remaining words belonging to the third, final, and probably hardest book to find.

He ignores the letter for now and grabs another piece of paper to flip through the book looking for those little underline marks. Eighty pages go by without a single one and Ford’s worried this book isn’t the one until he finally sees one down in the collum along the side.

Why wait till so long into the book to mark a word? There are plenty of the words ‘hello’ before this page. Ford scrunches up his nose in annoyance. “You just wanted me to think this was wrong, didn’t you?” He’s talking to himself and past Stanley but no words bounce back off the page. Ford just keeps filling out the note.

One more flip through the book so he’s sure none of the words got missed and Ford turns to look at his final clue about the final book.

 

Hello again!

 Wow! That took forever, about time you worked this out. I thought the second clue should have something to do with Fiddlefern (Of course this book doesn’t have his name inside) since this wouldn’t have been possible without him. But this book is the end of sentimental decisions for this puzzle. Sort of.

The last book doesn’t hold any significance to me, but the location does. It’s in a very important spot. Instead of giving you a short single sentence clue I’ll give you a whole poem this time! I’m confident this part is impossible for you. (And no cheating asking for help!)

You always sucked at English or reading into subtext in school Ford, guess that’s going to come back to bite you, huh? Try not to take any of it too literally. Or maybe you should! I’m being confusing on purpose, so who’s to say I’m giving you good advice right now? Good luck.

 

Hope grows here more by the day, plants wither and die close to the gate.

Things Burn. Things Boil. Nothing is known.

Dust to dust, shadows to light. This is the start and the end, despite our plight.

Where you seek is the edge of the peak, drifting and aimless while under our feet.

Twelve steps past the flame. Seventeen from the cliff.

Best wishes to you, if the real reason you need.

Try not to kill me, it's not guaranteed.

 

Love, Stan Pines

 

Ford goes over the letter again, reading it four whole times, and then just sits at the desk looking at and excessively reading the poem over and over. English, beyond grammar and spelling, was never his strong suit. Stan excelled in it during the semesters he’d been put near the front of the class, allowing him to see better while forcing him to pay attention.

Seeing deeper meanings and understanding intentions in poems wasn’t something he was good at. He’d gotten a little better at riddles, because that’s basically what this was, during college playing Dungeons Dungeons and More Dungeons with Fids. But was it enough to work this out?

Okay, so maybe the book wasn’t sentimental but this poem was. It had something to do with them, with Stanley. Was it about something important that happened while he was away? And what was that part about the gate? Maybe the book was hidden inside a garden somewhere?

No, it’s a poem. They are rarely that literal, right? Are there even any gardens in Gravity Falls? He doesn't think so...

Ford slams one hand down on the table in frustration and has to turn away from the mess there to look at anything else right now. Why couldn’t this of been a math equation? Maybe a code in another language? But no, Stan had to write a damn poem. A stupid riddle that he would never in a million years figure out!

“I wasn’t here! How am I supposed to know what you mean?! Beginning and end? In the air and underground? They can’t both be the same thing, you idiot!” He’s yelling in the otherwise silent lab but no one is around to hear him. With Stanley up in the attic cleaning it’s almost like the house is empty.

The whole thing barely even rhythms! It doesn’t make any sense. The numbers have to have something to do with footsteps, the distance inside whatever space he’s supposed to find the book in. Is it even inside the house? Stan did say this is supposed to be impossible. Bill probably took Stan all around town, up on lots of high places. The book could be anywhere, not just limited to the house!

He's on the edge of having a panic attack over the stupid puzzle and he has to get up and pace to stop it.

This is beyond his capabilities. He just doesn’t have the right skill set to work this one out. Stan and Fids were here, they know the true full story. Ford doesn’t. So, there isn’t enough context. The poem is perfectly legible to someone who was around, just not him. The only person who’s supposed to read it.

How would Stanley know if he got help?

That makes him stop walking for a moment. What if he came up with a very good lie for Fids and just showed him the poem without any of the other stuff? Fiddleford could probably work this out in no time. Those two are best friends at this point and Fids can even tell when Stan is lying! Not even he can do that and it’s the only remaining string of jealousy about the pair’s relationship.

Ford could just say it’s a fun little scavenger hunt for an invention and then-

Then Fiddleford would want to see the invention. And maybe it is just that, but what if it's just a letter? More personal information just meant for him? The lie would fall apart very fast.

That puts cheating out of the question then, doesn’t it? Ford is left alone with this stupid cursed knowledge. Maybe he could go into town and get a book on poems to practice working out inner meaning to start teaching himself how to read this one correctly?

Sounds like the best ideas he’s come up with so far. Still a stupid and horrible one, but it’s better than nothing. Right?

A glance at the clock shows it is too late to run into town and buy some stupid poetry books. Has he been down here for over two hours? Ford sighs, going back to the desk, gathering everything up to put it back in the locked drawer. The poem is still fresh in his mind, knocking around, and it will stay that way until this mystery is solved.

Rather than rotting away down here, Ford goes back into the elevator to see what progress Stan has made with cleaning or dinner. That puts a smile back on his face despite his distress.

Even if he never works this out it won’t change the fact that Stan is here to stay.

Chapter 46: Twin Switch

Not long after Sunday morning breakfast Ford had run off into town in his car. He’d already finished some of the books from the library (total nerd), which left Stanley home alone for the first time since everything happened with Bill.

After finishing the dishes Stan retreated up to his room to get to the bottom of why past him had deleted all traces of his love life from memory. He couldn’t remember having a first kiss, having sex, or even any dates. It was ridiculous.

He knew facts of course, like that he had done those things. Of course, he has! He’s twenty-eight and a total flirt. It’s just not possible that he hasn’t. Stan can feel it.

So why bother hiding all of that? What about all those things is worth hiding?

It takes several hours going through letters one by one and turning the whole bedroom upside down looking for clues before Stan starts to get frustrated with his past self.

There’s nothing, like past him thought it better to just forget about that whole part of his life.

The only interesting thing is a couple of porn magazines hidden between the mattress and the box spring. Two of them are full of topless women but the third one finally gives him a little bit of helpful information. Kinda.

It’s full of naked men. At least that answers the question about his sexuality which provides some relief about their birthday under the stars. Maybe he’d just been on a hot date under the night sky with a guy in the past.

Flipping through that magazine doesn’t make him feel more confident in that theory.

Sure, there are pages with the stereotypical male porn star. Cowboy with assless chaps. Sailors with the getup but conveniently missing pants.

But two pages of the same guy are much more worn than the others. He’s wearing glasses and a stupid lab coat without anything underneath as made obvious by the other guy in the picture, lifting it to reveal his ass where the nerd is bent over a lab station.

Stan closes the magazine and puts it back with the others while flushing bright red like someone just walked in on him. The house is empty and the door is locked just in case, but a deep-seated feeling of guilt and shame rises in his chest anyway.

No. This isn’t that. There is no way he’s got the hots for Ford. Or had. Nope. This is getting ridiculous!

He gets up and leaves the bedroom, heading out to his car to continue his search for answers.

The box of tapes with some letters about his musical taste is the last hope for any real answers. After grabbing the box out of the trunk he climbed into the front seat, turned on the car, and started reading. Reading and listening.

There has to be some logical explanation for all this and Stan is going to figure out what it is.

Ford’s initial intention was to go out and buy poetry books, but after giving it some more thought it just made more sense to visit the library and spend the afternoon there pouring over books while trying to work this out instead.

It was free, for one, but it was also a good test for maintaining some distance between himself and Stan. He didn’t like it, at all, but Stan had asked for space. Okay, sure, it had been a literal suggestion with Stan wanting to have the attic, but Ford was taking it a step further.

Right now, he had a puzzle to solve that was given to him by Stan. That allowed his mind to focus on something other than the fact that they were home alone right now. Only his self-control (which was terrible) kept him from following Stan around the house or hovering in the same room with him.

The puzzle was a blessing, keeping Ford from doing something stupid. Again.

Stan didn’t make it easy to keep his thoughts, feelings, or facial expressions to himself either. Like last night over dinner when Stan had brought up the idea of a chore chart! It was absurd that something so simple and domestic made Ford blush. Chances were it had nothing to do with Stan’s newfound enjoyment of cleanliness and everything to do with his brother.

Stan could be covered in mud and- Oh, no. That’s not a thought he should be considering right now or at all. No, he does not need to be thinking about Stan coming into the house getting mud everywhere, taking off his shirt-

“That was fast? I didn’t expect to see you back in here so quickly.” Tina, the librarian had stopped by the table where Ford had about two dozen poetry books pulled off the shelf and stacked around. There was also a notebook he was currently using to try and make sense of the poem. It made her pause where she’d been going to put books back using a cart.

Ford jumped in his chair, not expecting someone to talk to him. Usually, he was left alone at the library. Damn it, Stanley. Ford liked it better before people felt comfortable talking to him. “Oh, yes. I had more, uh, research to do...” They’re strangers so it didn’t seem necessary to justify himself to her.

From what little Tina knows about the twins the stack of poetry books seems wildly out of character. Stanford is a scientist; what research could be related? Especially for a boat? Wait a minute-

“Sorry, I know it’s none of my business, but I think it’s cute that you’re trying to put something together for your girlfriend.” Or at least that’s what it seems like Ford is doing based on the few clues available. Maybe he’s doing long distance after coming back from Africa! Oh, that’s adorable.

Controlling his face around Stanley is impossible, but with strangers, it gets a million times easier. So, Ford doesn’t look at her like she’s crazy. Or even like he’s pissed she won’t go away. He’d like to do both, but that wouldn’t be very nice. Stan insisted they get along with the townspeople. What a stupid idea.  

“Oh, that’s not what I’m doing,” What is he doing then? What’s a good excuse for all these books and the poem currently being covered by his arm?

Okay, maybe he isn’t supposed to ask for help. It’s cheating. But he can’t ask Fiddleford without having to eventually show him the reward. A stranger, however…

“Stanley put together a scavenger hunt of sorts for my return home. Thought it would be funny to hide some of my books.” The scowl isn’t even fake when he wears it. “It’s a damn riddle, which I’ve never been particularly good with. I was hoping some poetry books might shed some light and make the next clue clearer.” It does feel good to tell someone about this, especially without any repercussions for doing so.

Tina smiles, leaning against the cart while Ford talks. Okay, so no girlfriend then. Good to know. And Stan’s into poetry? Where the hell have these two been hiding? If they’re smart enough to build a boat and leave each other stupid riddles as pranks then they’re even more attractive than she first thought.

“Oh really? What a welcome home present. You shouldn’t expect anything less from a sibling I guess.” She laughs, moving the cart out of the walkway and into the nearby row before coming back to the table to stand near him. “You think a set of fresh eyes might help? Not like we have much going on around here, I swear you two are the only visitors we’ve had this week.”

That felt too easy, way to easy. Are the people in this town just that nice? Huh. No wonder Stan wants him to be less of a grouch. Tina is standing a little too close, but he doesn’t say as much since it might make her change her mind about helping. This better be worth it.

She is a librarian, they’re experts in books and all things English. Right?

Ford moves his arm to reveal the poem for her to see, reading it over again himself out of hopes something will jump out at him. Nothing does, because it still doesn’t make sense, but he’ll keep trying. “Sure, it certainly can’t hurt. It’s cheating, but Stan isn’t exactly playing fair here either.”

She laughs and leans a little closer to take a look at the riddle with one hand on the table and the other on the back of Ford’s chair. It only takes a couple of read-throughs to realize this is probably a very personalized riddle and not something she could just hand him the answer to.

“I’m going to need a little background here to help you,” She turns to look at Ford, smiling. “You said this wasn’t the first clue? Tell me a little more about the others and where you found them.” Background was important here if she was going to be of any real help.

Relief and hope flood him that she’s willing to help him puzzle this out. She must be pretty bored to be willing to help him with this absolute nonsense. Whatever, he’ll just take it as a win.

“Each book has a color coordinated with it. The first one was red and the second was green. Red represented a journal I’d been keeping of my scientific discoveries while here in the Valley. It was given to me and started this whole stupid scavenger hunt. The second one I found by pure chance cleaning out the attic. This is the first real clue he’s given me. I think there might be more than just the missing book when I find the right location as well, but he’s been painfully vague about it.”

It doesn’t sound like any reasonable scavenger hunt Tina has ever heard of. It sounds very difficult. “Well, at least you know this book has to be somewhere in the house then.”

Ford snaps his gaze up at her instead of the poem he’d been reading over for the hundredth time in the last hour. “What makes you so sure of that?”

It’s met with a shrug, “I guess I can’t be completely sure, but hiding it somewhere in town would make it impossible. Too many variables. Stan seems like the kind of guy to play a game in a set area, your house in this case. No need to make it too complicated, right?”

Ford can’t decide if he should be pissed, jealous, or grateful that Tina seems to be able to understand this poem better than him. Stan hadn’t mentioned anything about sleeping around while living in town but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. January to the end of May left a lot of time.

He barely holds back the glare of jealousy that flares and looks back at the paper instead to make a note up above the poem. Stan did say he’d make this almost impossible but not completely. So, this makes sense. Confined to the house it is, just to keep himself from going insane. “Okay, let’s say it is in the house then, for logic's sake. Where in the house?”

Tina looks over the words again. It feels like she’s back in college again having to dissect a short story or a poem for a grade. It’s kind of fun. “Well, let’s start at the beginning, ‘Hope grows here’ could be taken literally, like a garden. Do you have one of those? However, that contradicts the second half about plants dying. A gate has to mean a doorway if it's inside the house. Do you have any house plants that he failed to water and let die?” She lets out a short chuckle, glancing at Ford. He looks angry, maybe frustrated? The book Stan hid must be pretty important. Why not just talk with him about it? Even cute men are stupid.

Ugh. This is bringing up memories of their English glass dissecting Romeo and Juliet for a week straight junior year. That’s enough to create the start of a headache. Still, Ford tries to answer as best he can. Maybe eventually she’ll say something that clicks. “No, I don’t have any house plants or a garden. The house is surrounded by trees beyond the yard but there aren’t any gates close to the property. Unless you’d count the driveway as an entrance to the clearing my house sits in.” Inside the house, not outside.

Maybe he should just give up now. This riddle is beyond him even if it hurts to admit it. Figuring it out, even with someone who studied English, isn’t going to happen. He’s doomed to never know what Stanley wanted to tell or give him and it makes his chest hurt.

Come on, he should be able to do this God damn it!

Tina moves on to the next part of the poem. It won’t do any good telling the two men to ‘just talk’ because Ford seems stubborn. Why else would he go to such lengths trying to work it out in the first place? “Probably not anything outside then. Maybe the reference to growth has something to do with emotional growth or something sappy.” She chuckles a little at that, “The part about burning could be literal, like a stove or I guess a Bunsen burner if you have one of those? Boiling would go hand in hand with that involving some sort of heat? Maybe the heat in this line is the same one down describing the directions?”

Ford tries to listen, looking at the poem and trying to think about the layout of the house. Which rooms have enough space for twelve footsteps forward and then seventeen in another direction? Living room, three storage rooms, the kitchen, the study, the lab, and the third level of the basement.

His shoulders relax a little and his anger eases having a list of rooms to turn upside down. It can’t be the study because there are too many books there. Stan wasn’t specific enough about the directions. Living room. Storage rooms. Kitchen. Lab. Portal room.

Which one of those things has heat inside that could be attributed to a flame, boiling, or burning? Kitchen. Lab. Portal Room.

Tina continues even though Ford hasn’t said anything. He looks like he’s thinking hard about this, so she keeps going. “I don’t know what ‘nothing is known’ could be about. Maybe a room Stan wasn’t familiar with but spent a lot of time in? Dust to dust usually has something to do with death. Shadows and light could mean a darker part of the house? Do you happen to have a basement?”

Ford’s gaze snaps back to the poem and then over at Tina like she might be reading his mind or something. Lab or Portal room then. That should be easy enough, right? That’s only two rooms he has to tear apart once he gets home. Overall, this has been very insightful but now he feels like being in the rooms will make the poem clearer.

“I do have a basement and all this has given me a much smaller list of places to look. Thank you for your help.” He starts gathering his notebook and then awkwardly stands up despite them both being far too close. It’s a relief when she steps away out of his bubble.

That was fast. “Oh, here, I’ll take care of these books for you.” It's surprising to see they are all still in order like Ford just took a whole shelf over here to the table. “Oh, wait, here. Before you go.” She hesitantly grabs his notebook and pen, writing down her number on the same page as the poem before handing it back with a slight flush. “Let me know if you end up finding it. And, uh, maybe give me a call sometime.” Rather than waiting around for his response she just goes over to get her cart and adds the books from the table down on the bottom before leaving Ford alone again.

Ford was excited and felt closer than ever before to finally working out this stupid riddle. Two rooms were easy to search from top to bottom. No problem. But he was stopped right in the middle of running off and out to the car by Tina. What the hell else could she-

Oh. A phone number.

Now, he might be pretty stupid when it comes to flirting. Stan is the expert between them. But this didn’t seem like flirting? Except now he has her phone number written down and that is definitely with romantic intentions, right?

For a minute he just stands there watching her walk off because this has never happened to him before. It’s happened to Fids several times in college and he’s seen it on TV too. But never him. This is some weird twin thing, isn’t it?

This girl appears to like both of them and maybe she even wants-

Nope, no time for this whole train of thought. He snaps out of the surprise, shock, and disgust turning to leave the library quickly after pocketing the pen and notebook in his coat.

He just needs to get back to the shack and figure out what fire means in either the lab or the portal room. Then he’ll have this solved in no time. Almost there.

Stan quickly realized that all of the tapes are boring. Every. Single. One.

The letters all talked about memories from around the time he’d made the stupid tapes. Stuff he’s already written about or remembered at this point. Still, he forces himself to skim every single one until he gets to the last letter.

Even that one is pointless. More boring than the rest.

Is that it then? Did he just erase all his love life memories and leave nothing? No, he wouldn’t do that, right? Stan doesn’t think so. There has to be something, somewhere.

After gathering up the letters to put away upstairs later and putting the tapes back in their crate Stan opens the glovebox to look there. There’s a recent addition of a countrywide map, the notebook on his car, some napkins, and a few pens.

The map turns up nothing and at first, it seems like the notebook will be the same, right up until he gets to the last page with any writing on it. There is a small sticky note that is blank but after turning it over Stan can read a small sentence written in Spanish on it.

‘Los secretos se esconden debajo del asiento delantero.’

He doesn’t even have to think about what the translation means, his mind just does it automatically. ‘Secrets lie underneath the front seat.’

For a minute Stan stays just sitting there reading it again while his shoulders sag with relief. Oh, thank God. See, he knew that past him wouldn’t leave him with nothing. There would have to be a clue somewhere.

Maybe this isn’t related to what he wants to know, but Stan doesn’t particularly care.

A quick look under the front seat doesn’t provide him with any answers (why would it?) so Stan takes it a step further and gets the tools to take out the stupid bench across the front of the car. It takes a long time, longer than he’d like considering Ford could be back anytime.

After over half an hour he finally gets the seat disconnected and reveals a small zipped closed compartment under the middle seat usually unreachable because of the shifter. Once the zipper is open out falls a very large notebook, another tape, and what appears to be a shaving kit. Or at least the bag is the same size as a shaving kit.

Stan wants to sit down on the ground and dig into this new piece of information right now. But first, he takes the time to put the car back together as fast as possible before retreating into the house with the notebook and weird bag. That way if Ford comes home there will be no evidence of whatever this notebook is.

The Spanish sticky note gets crumpled and tossed in the kitchen garbage on the way through the house.

Upstairs in the bedroom, with the door locked, Stan sits back on his bed and first opens up the bag because he’s curious about what could be inside.

If Ford found this, he’d be a fucking dead man. No question.

The memory of hiding this notebook and this bag doesn’t come back. But Stan isn’t surprised that he decided to hide a bag full of weed inside that compartment where Ford would never find it.

It makes him laugh for a long minute before closing the bag full of blunts and going to hide it in the closet in the same box as Ford’s nerd binders. He’ll find a more secure location later. Hell, maybe Fids would be interested in smoking sometime.

On the first page of the notebook are two envelopes and he excitedly opens the one labeled 'first' with the letter opener to finally start getting some answers.

 

How’s it hanging?

I’m impressed, you must have remembered a lot if you figured out where this compartment is. Or maybe you got pulled over and arrested when a dog alerted to that bag of weed! Ha! My bad. That is supposed to be a sort of reward for surviving all this.

We didn’t used to be a huge drug guy but on the rare occasion we’d dabble. DO NOT go out and get a job that requires a drug test anytime in the immediate six months after the showdown with Bill. You might not remember, but we kinda did some hard stuff right before as one last party before, just in case we died or something.

But if you’re reading this then we didn’t! Yay!

Anyway, back to the notebook. This here is a detailed log of every single sexual or romantic partner we’ve ever had. I didn’t write out all the details but just enough that you get the idea of the scenarios. Names, places, some phone numbers, and times we experimented with specific kinks. ;)

There isn’t much we haven’t tried if I’m being honest. We’ve gotten around a lot since high school. Some people might call us a bit of a whore even. Look. Sometimes you need gas and sex is an easy business. There is always someone looking for some fun, no matter what crappy bar you end up in. Enough said about that.

Lots of them weren’t though! Don’t get it twisted that all our sexual experience was for quick cash. Maybe about half? I don’t know, I just did a quick flip through this old thing and didn’t do the math. Probably better that way.

Anyway! Moving right along. The point is, this should have most of the answers you need for any questions you might have. Basic information. Like that we’re bisexual and we are always safe! Never once have we had sex without a condom. Don’t you go breaking our streak, alright? Just know there isn’t any chance of us having little Stan juniors running around out there. That would be a nightmare right about now after everything we just went through.

Ugh. Writing out what we like feels so awkward like I’m giving you the sex talk as a parent. Whatever, you’ll figure it out the next time you get lucky. Just read the notebook and you’ll get the idea, alright? Save us both the embarrassment of having to explain and read which buttons get our engine revving.  

On to the next letter. Oh boy. This is going to be fun to explain. Buckle up.

That second letter is details about the love of our life. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's corny, I know! But it's true. He changed the whole trajectory of it, in a way. I don’t know if we’d be- a good person? Would you consider us good? Not morally, but I think saving the world buys us some credit, right? We’ll go with that for now. So, good person. It’s his fault, basically.

But every love story has tragedy. Or at least ours does. No big happy ending here. But we’ll never forget him, alright? I thought about deleting him completely and saving us both the pain but I just couldn’t. I had to leave something. He was too important. I just made it harder for you to remember.

I’ll warn you now that it’s better if you don’t do anything with this. Just leave that other letter unopened (maybe burn it or something) and carry on with your life. I can’t stop you, obviously, but I’ve warned you. It’s a can of worms and emotions that you won’t be able to put back. This is your disclaimer and also the end of the letter.

-Stanley Pines

 

Why does this letter and the one still unopened leave him with a dreadful feeling heavy in his chest? The headache is back too, feeling worse rereading the part about the apparent love of his life.

It makes him rethink if this is a good idea. Yeah, these feelings are manifesting in a really weird way, but is that better than whatever pain will come after remembering this dude? Maybe. Sure, this sucks, but Stan is in control of himself. He didn’t make things weird with Ford. They’re okay. Fantastic actually.

So why ruin a good thing? Why mess up the good life he’s got going on right now?

Maybe the guy was a nerd like Ford and that’s what’s causing all these weird feelings and fucked up thoughts. But it isn’t his brother. That would be pretty screwed up. This mystery love probably just died when they were young or something, right?

His chest doesn’t provide any clues about if he’s right. The headache gets worse from thinking about all this and he closes up and puts away this letter before a memory can come back.

A lot of his past was nothing but pain. Maybe he can live with the weird intrusive thought about Ford. Then he doesn’t have to remember. It’s fine as long as he doesn’t act on them. Or that’s what he’ll tell himself.

To distract himself Stan puts the two letters aside and dives into the notebook.

And it worked for a while, keeping him busy, remembering different and sometimes awful aspects of the past.

But no matter how hard he tried the headache wouldn’t go away. The letter further down the bed seemed to be calling him to just read it and get it over with.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” He puts the notebook in the bedside table drawer and then gets up to go check Ford still isn’t home out the window. Nope, still home alone. “Fine, let’s get this over with.” How bad can it be?

He sits down with the letter back on the edge of the bed, opening the envelope to start reading.

 

Last chance to change your mind.

No? Still reading? I tried, but fair enough. We never could do the right thing. I’m sorry.

Growing up in Glass Shard Beach with Stanford was the best and you know that because you’ve watched all the tapes. We had so many crazy adventures together out on that beach. More than I could count or list here and I-

Fuck it. I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. Us. That love of our life? It’s Stanford Pines. I tried to do us a favor and hide those memories, thoughts, and feelings using the memory gun. Because those feelings are so fucked up.

I’m half sure that they are what ruined our relationship back in high school. Loving him…. We weren’t subtly about it. Not at all. I think he knew deep down and that’s why he had to get the fuck away from us. It’s why I can’t be mad at him for letting me get kicked out. I kind of deserved it.

There. That’s the answer you wanted, isn’t it? I hope for both our sake this letter doesn’t bring back any of the memories. You’d be better off forgetting it. Burn this letter, borrow Fiddleford’s memory gun, and toss that tape from in the compartment out off a cliff somewhere.

Please. We just got him back. Don’t screw it up again.

-Stanley Pines

 

The further into the letter Stan reads the tighter his grip on the paper gets. The headache flares too, but it stays at a dull throb that’s only just bearable. No memories come back, and he quickly shoves the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.

Stanley Pines, you are one sick and fucked up son of a bitch. No wonder he’d memory wiped himself before everything with Bill to hide this. And erase all aspects of a love life. All those memories were probably tainted with thoughts of-

“Nope, shut up. Nope. That’s not me. That’s who I was, not am.” He gets up off the bed, pacing back and forth while trying desperately to rationalize this away.

Except those feelings are starting to come back. The other night, every moment he’s with Ford, proves that. It makes him shake when he finally stops in front of the mirror to look at himself.

Years and years of self-hatred flood back into his chest all at once seeing their shared face.

God, I’m sick. Sick and twisted and stupid too. How could I ever think I deserved this nice new life? That I could, have it? Have a normal relationship with my brother after all this? Stan can’t. None of this is something he should be allowed because he’s still a total screwup and a sicko and-

Fuck. Ford is going to come home and he’ll be able to tell something is wrong. They’re sharing a room for Christ’s sake! That’s his fault too. Is that because of these awful thoughts too? He thought it was because of their trauma, for comfort but maybe it was this gross love bleeding through even so soon after coming back.

The feeling of guilt and pain in his chest gets worse looking around the room. It’s too happy. No, he doesn’t deserve happiness or joy. He needs to leave, get up pack a bag and get out of here.

“Stop it!” The yell surprises him and stops him in his tracks halfway toward the closet but doesn’t stop his shoulders from shaking.

“No! We aren’t leaving! I didn’t go through hell and back just to give up so easily.” He’s talking, but also not? Like there’s another voice of sorts somewhere in the back of Stan’s head putting out a script to be read.

Great. He’s sick and crazy. Awesome.

“Listen. All you need to do is take a trip and get out of the house for a minute to erase this again.” Huh. Crazy or not that isn’t a bad idea. It worked the first time, didn’t it? When he first woke up things were okay for a while, a few days. Yeah, just use the memory gun again.

His shoulders stop shaking while he takes several deep breaths to calm down. Okay. This he can do.

Fiddleford had given him the memory gun before going home the day before. It made sense at the time considering Stan was the only person to ever use it responsibly.

Later Stan liked the idea of getting a safe that would take two codes. One for him and one for Ford or Fids. That way if they ever needed it again, they’d have it without either of them being able to use it without the other's permission.

But, for now, it was hidden away in the closet with the bionic eye stuff.

The sound of Ford calling from downstairs, yelling for him, gets Stan moving again. He grabs the same backpack from when they went fishing out of the bottom of the closet and pulls down the blue box to grab the eyes instruction manual, then the memory gun, a single change of clothes, and lastly his blood book.

Ford had given that up without too much fuss the night before after dinner following a long conversation about what the book contained. Yeah, making so many enemies was his screwup and a big one. It put him in danger.

Not to mention Ford because they share the same face.

“God I’m a sick bastard. A sick terrible brother.” He mutters, fumbling around to put on his shoes and the leather jacket from the closet.

For the bionic eye, they’ll need anesthesia or something, right? That’s the perfect excuse to leave the house. It’ll still cause a fight but Stan can’t bring himself to care right now. A fight over him going for a short road trip is a lot better than screwing everything up because of these stupid feelings coming back.

Change of clothes for if he stops at a motel. That depends on how far away he has to travel to meet up with an old contact. The instruction manual should explain the exact dosage of whatever special doctor drug he needs. He’ll read it later and maybe pick it up before erasing his memory on the way back.

That helps him calm down a little. It’s going to be okay. He’ll forget again and things can go back to being good. It’ll take away this painful awful guilt that was just dropped on his shoulders. Then they can be happy without all these wrong incestual feelings. He doesn’t have to know. No problem.

Ford knocks on the door to Stan’s bedroom frowning a little after not getting a response downstairs in the entryway. The house is silent for the most part so Stan should be able to hear him. Especially since the TV in the bedroom isn’t on or he’d hear it faintly under the door. It’s usually up loud. “Stanley, I need help bringing in the bed frame from the car. Monday or Tuesday you’ll need to go into town and pick out a mattress for your new bed, can I come in?”

With the bag packed and thrown over his shoulder Stan stops and closes his eyes to calm down. This doesn’t have to be a fight. Maybe if he lies well enough it’ll just be a disagreement. It’s okay. He’s been training his whole life for moments like this.

Ford tries the door handle when he doesn’t get a response, panic flaring in his chest to find it's locked. Why is the door locked? And why isn’t Stan answering? “Stanley, are you okay? Can you open the door?” He needs to get another key made for this room yesterday or ask Stan for the original back. Stupid that he hasn’t done it already.

Stan goes back to the closet and pulls down the blue box while forcing himself to talk, keeping his voice as normal as possible so Ford doesn’t get too worried. He’s not leaving, just taking a little trip. It’s necessary even if Ford doesn’t know why. “Yeah, I’m good. Just give me a second. I’ve got something I need to talk with you about.” He picks up the box with the other crap about the bionic eye and brings it with him over to the door.

Still, he hesitates. Who wouldn’t? Now he knows the truth. This would have been so much easier if he’d managed to slip out while Ford was gone. Shit.

Stan turns around and grabs the two letters and shoves them in his pocket to burn at some point while on this trip. Is that everything? If this does turn into a fight, he won’t be able to come back in here to grab something.

Car keys. Wallet. Letters. Clothes. Instructions. Blood book. Memory gun.

Yep, that’s everything. Okay. This will be easy. Deep breathes.

Stanley’s words did nothing to calm Ford’s worries. At least his brother wasn’t dead but ‘talking about something’ was never good. What had happened during the several hours he was away in town?

Those feelings only got more confusing when the door opened to reveal Stanley holding the blue box from the tape. He was also dressed like he plans on going somewhere though. And there's a bag over his shoulders.

Stronger panic almost overwhelmed him in that moment drowning out the excitement at finally getting to see all that brilliant information about the invention inside the box. Ford couldn’t even make himself talk and instead just looked at his brother-

Stan looked tense. The carefully constructed appearance wasn’t easy or relaxed and his eyes were hard in a way Ford hadn’t seen since-

Not since Stanley remembered Dad and almost killed him. This is a façade, covering something up, but Ford doesn’t know what. It scares him, making him forget all about the bedframe and the progress of the poem.

For Stanley, this is a million times harder than he thought it would be. The door is open and they’re facing each other which just makes the headache a million times worse.

He can’t keep standing here.

He needs to move before these memories fully come back.

“I changed my mind about the bionic eye. I’m sick of having poor vision.” Stan pushes the box into Ford’s arms and then pushes his way out of the room, looking away from his brother and heading down the hall quickly. Could he outrun Ford to the car? Maybe, but for now, he just walks.

The box almost gets dropped in Ford’s stunned state. Until he sees Stanley heading for the stairs with a full backpack over his shoulder. That gets things moving inside his brain, kinda. “Stan, we talked about this. It’s completely experimental and we aren’t equipped to be doing surgery like that here at home. You could end up with an infection at best and dead at worst!” He stumbles after Stan, putting the box down in the middle of the hallway and then running to catch up with him in the entryway.

Ford tries to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from reaching the front door.

Stan is angry at himself. Pissed and enraged form a better description. Ford is only making all this more difficult, and more dangerous.

Every second he’s here without being able to use the memory gun is a risk. If everything comes back who knows what will happen?

He doesn’t want to remember, not if he’s already overwhelmed with repulsion over the very idea now.

Instead of opening the front door Stan snaps and spins around to face Ford. “No, it isn’t you moron!” He’s yelling but can’t bring himself to lower the volume.

“I tested it, extensively. It’s perfectly safe. It’s designed to be done at home. I just need to go meet up with a connection down in California and pick up a few things.” Stan looks past Ford at the stairs without making eye contact. “I’m going, alone, and I’ll be back later. Probably Monday afternoon or something. It’s a long drive.”

Stanley remembered something while he was gone. That is the only explanation here.

This is the brother he remembers having a screaming match with down in the portal room six months ago. He’s back, fully back, and Ford feels like crying because of it.

No.

Things were perfect for a minute there! No fighting or yelling. Just them living in harmony, communicating, and getting along again.

It makes him angry and he almost yells right back about how reckless Stan is being. How stupid of an idea this is. Stan can’t leave! It’s barely been a full day alone and Stan’s already sick of him?

His hands do get tense at his sides but otherwise, he just looks at Stan, trying to read what changed through pure will. Like that will make it possible to stop it or reverse things back.

“I’ll come with you then, just give me a few minutes to pack a short bag and lock up the house and we can go together. We can take turns driving so it doesn’t strain your eye if it's bothering you so much.” Back in high school, Ford would have started yelling back, antagonizing Stan into seeing things his way.

But things are different now. Stan is the one making a final decision, giving him no say, and arguing about it will only make things worse. It’s like they are each playing a reversed role-

The willingness to agree, instead of getting shouted at, causes Stan to finally meet Ford’s gaze again. It makes his headache worse, throbbing behind the eyes, and he has to quickly look away again.

Otherwise, he’ll give in. He can’t. He needs to fix what’s wrong with him, alone. Without Ford there. Stan is allowed to make this one selfish decision after all this. Potential consequences of the memory gun be damned.

“No. I need to make this trip alone.” The anger has faded a little and now he just feels tired. Self-hatred will do that when a lifetime of it lands on you all at once. “Just- Wait here. Clean up the lab downstairs and get familiar with the eye until I get back. Alright? I’ll be quick.”

Kindness should plight Ford into letting him leave if he’s willing to give on the eye. Please?

What if Stanley doesn’t plan on coming back? This could all be a very good ruse meant to deceive him into letting Stan leave.

What if whatever he remembered changed Stan?

He might have just caught Stan at a bad time in between moving his crap back out into the car with the intention of driving away forever and leaving and now-

Ford starts crying because Stanley won’t look at him. Before the other can object Ford pulls Stan over into a tight hug, letting out a quiet sob into the familiar leather jacket. “Please don’t leave. I just got you back Lee. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it, alright?”

What if Stan knows? Maybe he noticed days ago but was waiting until now to make his great escape from his freak of a twin. That thought just makes him cry harder.

Stan goes completely rigid, becoming completely confused when Ford pulls him into a hug and then starts crying against his shoulder. What the hell did he do now? It’s just a drive and then he’ll come back. No big deal, right?

Except apparently it is a big deal to Ford and-

Oh. Yeah, I guess this does look like he’s running away, doesn’t it?

Bag packed, lame excuse, and a rush out the door. That’s what he’d think if Ford tried to pull this stunt. The reaction would be something close to the same too. Just with a little more romantic heartache. That feeling is familiar now that he can recognize it because of the letters. His chest constricts with it like he’s being crushed.

Stan returns the hug eventually. As long as they don’t pull back and they don’t look at each other it's okay. He can do this. Calming Ford down is second nature, isn’t it?

“Hey, relax Stanford.” His voice is soothing and easy. Still tired, but that’s unavoidable. “I’m coming back, honest. I just need a little space is all. And seriously, I do want that cool new eye. Do you have any idea how many settings I gave it?” Both arms squeeze Ford a little, keeping him close so they can’t see each other’s faces.

“If I was running away, I’d take the eye with and pay someone to do it in some dark shady motel. But I want you to do it for me because I trust you. Plus, I know you aren’t going to steal a kidney while I’m unconscious.” The laugh is only a little forced. Stan almost brings up a hand to run through Ford’s hair but he catches himself before it's too late and redirects it to Ford’s shoulder instead.

The longer the hug goes on and the more Stanley talks it eases Ford’s mind, forcing it to settle down. The fear doesn’t fade completely but Stan doesn’t pull away either, letting him decide when he’s had enough. And, the hug is being returned just as tightly on the other end. It calms his nerves too.

Stan isn’t leaving, not forever. He’ll come back and they’re still okay. Less so, maybe, but still alright. Stan says so and it doesn’t sound like a lie. It better not be.

Very quickly his life has pivoted and become all consumed by Stanley. His absence would do more damage than Ford could recover from. It would feel like dying, all the time.

“What did I do wrong?” The words come out in a whisper and it would be better if Stan just didn’t hear them.

“Absolutely nothing Ford, nothing at all. I was reviewing some memories today and I just really feel the need to get back behind the wheel for a while. Think some stuff over, pick up the drugs we need, and just…” There is no good finish to that sentence but hopefully, Ford won’t press for it. Ten years on the road should make it believable that he could be restless staying put for so long.

It did have to be a huge change to go from driving around for ten years straight to staying still all the time. The fear that Stan won’t come back still won’t fade though, no matter how many kind words Stan says or how long they stand in the entryway hugging.

He’s being silly and childish right now, clinging to a parent’s leg when getting dropped off at daycare.

“How can I be sure you’ll come back?” The crying has stopped but Ford isn’t letting Stan leave without some sort of promise. He needs to be sure.

What would assure Ford that he’ll be back? Technically he is taking everything really important with him other than the eye and Ford himself. Wallet and the car are all he would need to abandon his brother. But of course, he knows that’s never going to happen.

Even if Ford would be better off without him again, Stan isn’t strong enough for that.

“Stanford, I was stupid enough to go toe to toe with a demon for you and now you’ve given me everything I ever wanted in return. A home, my family, joy. I’d be an idiot to drive away and never come back to my dream life.” Not looking at Ford has allowed the headache to lessen a little which makes this easier. “But I don’t have anything physical I can give you, other than yourself, to hold onto until I get back. You just have to trust me on this one. Can you do that?”

Ford attempts to pull back, needing to look at Stan, but gives up quickly when his brother won’t allow it. “You promise you’ll come back tomorrow afternoon? Swear on my life?” The fear is still there, persistent, and he’ll have a hell of a time sleeping tonight without Stan around. But clearly, this is important for whatever reason.

He can either let Stan go willingly or he’ll probably fight his way out to the car over this. That doesn’t leave him much of a choice.

“I promise, no later than tomorrow evening. I’m going to stop a couple of towns south and call around using a pay phone, don’t need anyone having my real number. Then I’ll have a better idea when I can head back. I’ll definitely need to get a motel or something since it’s not safe driving between twelve to sixteen hours straight.” Maybe he can’t make himself feel better, but he can do this for Ford.

The last thing he wants to do is agree. He doesn’t want Stan gone even for a second.

Was this what Stan felt like after being kicked out? That almost makes him start crying again. Ford turns it into a couple of sniffles before nodding instead. “Alright. Fine. But you call me when you get settled for the night and again in the morning before heading back.” Maybe, if he’s really nice, Fids would drive over here and let him use the dream gun for these special circumstances.  

Stan lets out a quiet and tired laugh, “You got it Sixer. I can do that. In a day or so you and Fids get to play Doctor and Nurse swapping out my eye. If he’s willing to help that is. I know this isn’t an easy ask of either of you, especially with our dreams.”

Ford's smile is tiny, “Yeah, alright. But if you end up half blind you aren’t allowed to complain. And I get to say I told you so.” His hold loosens some around Stanley and it’s a relief when Stan finally pulls away.

Right up until Stan turns to face the door almost as soon as they part ways. It wipes away the small smile before it has even been given a chance.

Rather than waiting around for Stanford to ask more questions, he lets go, turns around, and heads out onto the porch over towards his car. Of course, Ford follows, because why wouldn’t he, but at least it doesn’t involve more yelling and arguing. He’s going to get out of here and come back okay again. Better than okay. Fixed.

Why won’t Stanley look at him? They’re okay, right? Unless he’s lying and can’t do it while holding eye contact? Worry bubbles again but Ford can’t make himself object. Instead, he just trails behind him out and to the car, listening to the door slam closed with a feeling of finality.

Stan promised he’d come home, so he will. Pines don’t break a promise. He didn’t tell Dad and Fids about that embarrassing story the other night by the fire, so this one should be just as easy to keep. Right?

"I love you, Stanley." Ford says through the cracked window watching Stan put the car in drive.

Stan still can't look, turning his head the complete other way to back out of the spot. "I love you too Stanford."

He swallows and peels out of the spot and down the driveway, throwing some dirt in his rush to leave.

Ford can only watch Stan go, tears starting to fall again before the beloved red car and the love of his life is even out of sight.

Chapter 47: Tainted Love

Notes:

I've made a playlist of about ninety minutes, which is about what would be on a mix tape, counting both sides. Feel free to get the link, here:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3jV6I64VgNyOF1UEcAKiHc?si=84e2e5517ba84a02&pt=1b951b13681b48ce2def3bd296f33044

You have no idea how hard it is to make a romantic mix tape with songs only released before cannon time mid 1982.

Enjoy this chapter everyone! Slower updates this weekend (at the worst time) because I've got some social obligations! Who knows, maybe I'll still update, this is a pretty intense section. We'll see!

Without Stan here with him, the whole house feels darker and empty. It isn’t, because nothing else is different, but Ford can’t change how he feels. That’s the problem.

It would be so much easier if he could just lock things up again. Forget about all these wrong feelings. It shouldn’t feel like Stan is his other half, like they are two parts of a whole divided by accident before being born.

Whoever runs reality made a mistake and now he’s the one suffering because of it.

Even the glow from the same lightbulbs seems harsher, floors sound louder just walking across the creaking wood into the living room.

His record player is still in here, where Stan put it while he was through the portal, so he goes there first and just lets the current record play. Ford always remembered to put a record away when finished so Stan must have left this one on. It’s Abby Road by the Beatles and the cheery song ‘Here Comes The Sun’ almost mocks him in the otherwise dead soulless house.

It helps a little.

What now? What is he supposed to do for a whole day without Stan here? Before all this, he would have thrown himself into his research and lost two days without a problem. It’s terrifying how much has changed and the irony of this song playing isn’t lost on him. Stanley is his sun and without him, the world is dark, boring, and grey.

Even before all this, when he’d been a hurt teen with a bruised ego over not getting his way for the first time, Stan had been his light. Their separation hurt but Ford had rationalized it as for the best. Ford could only truly lose Stanley by keeping him close because eventually, it seemed inevitable his secret would come out. Distance kept him from losing his brother forever without a way to take it back.

Experience and examples have proven that theory wrong. He could get away with a lot around Stanley and if he knew that back then? Maybe things would have been different. Better. Perfect. And missing all this pain and uncertainty.

Ford was allowed to have Stanley here and to be brothers again. Or at least up until right now.

Half of him thinks it would be better if Stanley ran away and never came back. Hidden down underneath a thick layer of vines in his chest Ford was still convinced the good of now couldn’t last. Something had to give. Maybe this was it?

Stan could lie better than anyone. He wasn’t exempt from that. Stan had lied their whole life about the real nature of his relationship with Filbrick. So, no matter how much Stan reassured him that it would be okay and he’d be back? It might not be true.

Stan would be better off without him anyway. He’s got it all. Money, charm, and enough intelligence to rival his own. Just in different ways. A whole new life without his evil twin should be exactly what Stan wants. It’s what he deserves.

Not some broken attempt at payment, apology, and vindication over all of Ford’s stupid and endless mistakes.

Stop it.

Oh look, he’s started crying again in front of the record player lost in thought.

No. Stan promised he would come home. Gravity Falls is his home, he loves it here, and Stanley loves him. In just a day’s time, the house will be alight again with Stan’s joy and everything will be fine.

They’ll keep working on building their new boat as planned, they’ll keep being painfully domestic with chore charts and grocery lists, and Stan will smile at him again.

No matter how much he tries to convince himself things are okay Ford can’t help but get stuck on that. Stanley wouldn’t look at him on his way out the door or even when driving away. Eye contact was completely avoided from the moment that bedroom door opened.

Nothing was wrong with Stan’s eye, no more than usual, from what Ford could recall. He wouldn’t be driving if he were half-blind or something. Stan would have told him and they would have gone together or found another way.

Stan tells him almost everything. In all his tapes he was completely honest and open without any lies. Ford pulls out his notebook to look at the short list of rooms he’d added above the poem, including some annotated quotes from the librarian while waiting for the workers to take apart the bed frame and get it inside the car.

They’ll deal with that when Stan gets home.

Because he’ll come back. This poem is proof that Stan tells him so much and still trusts him. Who else would Stan tell, however cryptically, something so secretive? No one, just him.

For whatever reason he’s special to Stanley. A quote from the other night, during his blackout, comes back to him now.

‘I love you most. More than anything else ever before or ever again.’

That helps ease the rest of the worry in his chest, making him feel stupid listening to the next song. Oh! Darling. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture them dancing to this song here in the living room, waltzing awkwardly back and forth. He’d lean over against Stan’s chest, wrapped up in his arms.

Alone in the living room, he lets out a disgustingly sweet love-sick sigh like he’s sixteen again sketching Stanley during a boxing match from the back of the bleachers.

At least that’s one upside to being home alone. He can be his completely atrocious self instead of trying to hide it and tone it down to a more reasonable level.

First, he turns up the record player before going across into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Fids doesn’t need to be dragged into this nonsense, the worry, after the last several months he’s had. The guy deserves some time with his family without interruption.

He can go a day without sleep easily and then crash when Stan comes home. It’ll just take some caffeine. While the coffee brews he goes over to the fridge to see what they have for food that won’t go up in smoke. Right on the top shelf wrapped in tin foil is a bowl with a sticky note on top, ‘Stanford.’ It makes his heart swoon.

Even if Stanley had remembered something and needed space to process it, it didn’t make him care any less. When he made lunch, a separate serving got put aside for Ford. It reminds him of Fiddleford, the only reason he ate much of anything during college with how many classes he was taking at any given time.

It still amazes him a lot of the time how lucky he is to have such good people around him even after all the unforgivable mistakes he made.

Underneath the tin foil is a veggie chopped salad and a chicken breast on top. Despite the tense atmosphere he’d worked himself into since Stan’s departure it makes him laugh. Did Stan make them salads for lunch? Who was his brother becoming? Maybe later he’d need to have a more serious conversation about how unnecessary this was. For now, he’ll just appreciate it like everything else Stan’s done for him.  

After eating and preparing a cup of coffee Ford wanders the house with it going from room to room. It’s barely mid-afternoon but staying up here and looking at everything makes the house feel less empty than being down in the basement will.

The sound of the newest song, Carry That Weight, is audible even up in the attic. It’s empty now and recently cleaned. Stan hasn’t had a chance to move the punching bag up here yet but the space is ready. They still need to deal with the junk boxes downstairs and he has to sort through that box full of papers again too.

Stan wouldn’t have cleared out this space for himself if he planned on leaving either. This will become his- Something. What would Stan take up as a hobby now that he’s got a safe place to live, no one to run from, and no money restraints? Will he develop a love of reading once his eye is no longer an issue?

That might be the cause of all this. Stan might have been reading, or trying to, and gotten very frustrated with his bad eye. They had talked about this before getting haircuts but maybe Stan had been scared, just like he was, about a poor reaction.

In the tapes, Stanley had been so scared of being left behind again, would that translate to the argument over using the bionic eye? Perhaps. If so, letting Stanley go and trusting him to come back was the right call.

Ford knows he’s a control freak and has been trying super hard not to suffocate Stan with it. Today he did an amazingly good job of not making that difficult goodbye even harder.

It’s that train of thought, the coffee, and the empty clean attic space that provides enough proof for Ford to finally relax and believe Stan’s word. He’ll come home.

It’s a huge relief to believe and lets him think about other things beyond his brother. Like the eye and the puzzle. Okay, neither of those things are separate from Stanley, but it’s as good as he can manage right now.

Back down through the house Ford scoops up the box off the hallway floor and stops the record in the living room. There is a radio down in the lab that he’s pretty sure still works that he can use to fill the silence while he works. Ford also snags the phone off the kitchen charging dock to bring down with him in case Stanley calls. When he calls.

For hours Ford manages to kind of forget about what happened and ignore the empty house above him by pouring over the notes about the bionic eye and the content of the box itself.

Not only are there half a dozen notebooks dictating the beautiful intricacies of how the eye functions, is powered, and hooks up to the nerve. There is also a set of sterilized surgical tools still in the package ready to be used for the procedure and a collapsable IV stand.

Then there are the eyes themselves. Stan only mentioned one eye inside the box but, there are six of them. Two with Stan’s name on them intended as either a spare in the event of damage or perhaps for if something happens to his other eye too? A matching pair with Ford’s name on them is also included and the color looks identical to his own when put side by side in the mirror.

The last pair is for Fiddleford, although Ford seriously doubts he would ever go for something like this no matter how intricate it seems. It’s so fucking cool though. Pouring over the notes, a quarter of which he can’t even fully understand because of his lack of medical knowledge, makes him smile just as stupidly as when he’s looking at Stan himself.

And down here in the lab, there isn’t anyone around to hide it from.

Once again Ford finds himself wishing that Stan would remember all this beautiful information. The things Stanley could have done if this was just one of the two inventions he’d managed in the time it took to finish the portal after his hospital stay.

Part of him is jealous too. Bill gave Stanley so much more information than even he had been given. It’s a ridiculous thought because this is Bill they’re talking about. But… It’s still there.

Maybe Stanley is just that good of a liar that he was able to mold himself into a version of a human Bill would give up anything for, or Stan’s theory about this being an accident could hold some weight. Even if Bill had only ever made one big mistake, trusting the best con artist ever.

How did Stanley get the eye colors so perfect without being able to see them up close like his own? It had to be guesswork through pictures. That was the only possible explanation because no one knew about this project until after it was finished.

The tools that had been used during the making of the eyes had been ‘scrapped’ in Stan’s words according to his notes. That could mean they’d been disassembled or just tossed in the trash. He had no need for them since they wouldn’t need to replicate the perfect design. Still. He couldn’t help but want more. More information, more- God. Just more of Stanley being brilliant.

The final notebook contained varying pictures from the whole process as well as a summary of the adjustments Stan had made surrounding death to ensure the consciousness wouldn’t end up accidentally trapped inside the eye. Wait-

‘In the event of death, the eye is programmed to draw from the remaining electrical currents firing inside the brain. This will result in the consciousness being uploaded into the eye, postponing death for up to seventy-two hours for the individual depending on how late the transfer occurs. It is unclear what effects this would have on a living individual since there is no ethical way to test this feature.

Ideally, if it works flawlessly, it would be like a saving point in the video game with all memories being held onto with the train of thought at the second of upload. Worst-case scenario it would be like losing all senses and trapped with just your own mind for three days. The eye would go into a power-saving mode, starting a clock to solve the problem on the iris.

Aka, death. Not to say the same body has to be used or even could be used. I imagine a clone or even a brain-dead coma patient would work as a donor for the consciousness. You would just have to reset the nerve upload strip before replacing one of the ‘donors’ eyes. Keep in mind that electrical shocks to the body might fry the eye (It doesn’t happen on rats, but human defibrillators are at a higher voltage then I could test) if you are attempting to revive the corpse. To avoid complete loss, make sure to disconnect the eye before resuscitation.  

The moral dilemmas of this are questionable at best but this seemed like a better solution than being forced to die while still seeing everything for an indeterminable amount of time as showcased in rats. I’m working with what the eye already does and turning it into a point for potential rescue rather than trying to stop it altogether.

One day simply isn’t enough time to rework the whole eye to bypass it. Death is something I’ve faced dozens of times and it doesn’t scare me. Here’s hoping Ford gives a shit and would appreciate such a window. My only request, if I do die and you rescue me using the eye, is that you don’t put me in a robot or something. I don’t want that. It has to be something I can feel alive in or it might not transfer or even work properly.

I also can’t even begin to touch on if a human uploaded into a digital space would be the same. The moral codes, and emotions, might be sucked right out, leaving them a husk and shell. As someone who feels a lot, that would be a fate worse than death. Just let the eye run out of power and let me pass after the three days are up if all other solutions are exhausted.’

Instead of preventing getting trapped inside the eye Stanley had turned it into a fun little morally grey feature?! It makes his mouth fall open going over the last section of notes again. If this wasn’t so dark of an invention that would have given him a hard-on.

Stanley should have mentioned this sooner! This was an absolute necessity for Stan to have! Now he couldn’t even muster up the ability to be mad about him leaving to get what they needed. It doesn’t matter if the eye does its job of eseeing or not. As long as the eye didn’t somehow end up destroyed in the event of Stan’s accidental death this would save him!

Sure, maybe the body would be gone but having Stan around at all was better than his memories, thoughts, and everything that made him Stanley gone forever. If other universe Ford could go to med school and make clone vats who’s to say he couldn’t do the same? It would take a while, a long time, but it wasn’t impossible.

Are all of the eyes fixed with this same update or is it just the one for Stanley? More information must be in the instruction manual Stan mentioned taking with him. Now he has more than just Stan coming home to look forward to.

It has only felt like half an hour since sitting down to pour over the notes but a glance at the clock reveals it has been over six hours. It was just before three o’clock and now it is almost ten at night. Ford blinked and a whole half a day had passed. Not that he could help it, this whole project is undeniably impressive. Especially the research papers, which are so analytical. He’s never heard Stanley talk like that and with proper grammar and everything!

Shouldn’t Stanley of called by now? The phone hadn't rung at all this whole time and that concern pulled him back out of the trance he’s been in for ages. Ford packs everything back into the box and sets it aside on the lab station before taking the phone and going back upstairs.

Maybe the phone just doesn’t get service down here so far away from the station? If so then Stan would have at least left a message on the machine for him. Bringing his empty coffee cup upstairs to the kitchen he’s relieved to see one message on the machine so he hits play while getting himself another cup to reheat in the microwave.

“Didn’t I just get done telling you boys the other day about picking up the phone when I call?”

Ford sighs and visibly deflates when he realizes it's just their mother.

“Anyway, I’m calling to give you both a heads up about some other family photos we’re sending you two now that we’ve made it back home. If you would answer or call me back before tomorrow I’d like to know if there is anything else out of storage in the attic you can remember that might fit inside the box. Old papers, small toys, or something. I could try and find it before going to the post office tomorrow afternoon. Please give me a callback. Have a good night. I love you boys. Bye.”

Their parents had called back in the early hours of the evening during dinner last night to confirm they had made it home. It had cheered Stan up considerably. Was there anything from their room back in Jersey that Stan might want? Ford had already taken everything that mattered. Damn. If only Stan was home to ask.

While heating up a can of soup in the microwave for dinner Ford called her back and asked her to delay sending the package a few days so Stanley could think about it. The excuse of Stan being busy cleaning the attic went over well enough and saved him from having to explain what was really going on. It would be a long conversation to explain the bionic eye, better to just not mention it.

After a quick dinner and another cup of coffee, Ford went back into the basement, this time to work out the poem and get to the bottom of the puzzle. Overall, he felt refreshed. Tired and a little jittery, but that came from the coffee. He’d be fine in about half an hour because of the food.

To start with Ford slowly went through the lab and put everything back exactly where it had been the first time he’d walked in after coming through the portal. It didn’t involve moving much other than the whiteboards. But there weren’t any Bunsen burners out on a lab station and this room didn’t have a range.

That just left the portal room.

Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was that he’d taken some time to sit with all the ideas Tina had thrown out there. Now the answer seemed sort of obvious.

‘Hope grows here more by the day’ must be referencing the third floor of the basement. That was where Stan had spent countless hours working tirelessly to get him back.

The second half of that verse doesn’t make much sense now, but the next line does.

‘Things Burn’ Had to mean Stanley’s shoulder on the counsel near the door!

Ford grabbed the stupid notebook off the lab table and bolted down the stairs into the portal room, turning on all the lights as he went. The symbol Stan had been scarred with was long cold now with the portal inactive but-

Boil. Boiling. Like a fight. Their fight down here in this room!

Ford was way too excited at the moment, feeling the dominos cascade against each other, each part of the poem falling into place like the coffee he’d made was fucking magic.

‘Nothing is known.’ Was likely in reference to Stanley forgetting everything down here. Or maybe about just how little he’d understood what had been going on with Bill here during the fight. Either way, it only improved his working theory and sped up his train of thought.

‘Dust to dust, shadows to light. This is the start and the end, despite our plight.’ Dust could be about anything. It is dirty down here and was the only room Stan hadn’t made perfectly clean. Why bother when the basement in the portal room is unfinished? It tracks dirt everywhere.

This was the room where their new relationship started after Ford was brought back. The same could be said for the old one ending right around the time he was pushed through the portal and-

Ford runs, grabbing a flashlight on the way, into the portal room, and right over in front of the lever outside the safety line.

‘Where you seek is the edge of the peak, drifting and aimless while under our feet.’

Ford felt like jumping for joy and after turning on the flashlight he does for a minute, yanking out the notebook to look at the poem again. ‘The edge of the peak.’ The edge of their end. The end of their argument. ‘Drifting and aimless while under our feet.’

Like when he’d been pushed through the portal, drifting through the air unable to be stopped! The dirt here, right under where Stanley had his feet planted. ‘Under our feet.’

His gaze fell to the ground for a moment, a joyful laugh bubbling past his lips, before running back to the door, standing right next to the console Stan had been burned on. ‘Twelve steps past the flame.’

Ford took those twelve careful steps, one foot in front of the other, until he reached just over the halfway part of the room. What is the cliff? Using the flashlight he glances around the room.

Thus far the edge, and thus the cliff, seems to be the portal but that’s across the other wall. He needs to walk inwards closer to the center-

‘The cliff.’ Ford almost gives himself whiplash turning around to look at the exposed rock on the basement wall. It’s unfinished. Almost exactly like a cliff face would look.

Turning back around Ford can barely keep from shaking as he counts the seventeen steps one over the other back into the center of the room. The spot is almost identical to where he’d been standing just a minute ago before checking with the footsteps.

What now? The rest of the poem is broken and more disjointed than the rest not providing any more clues. It sounds like more of a warning and maybe another admission of guilt about whatever Ford is inches or mere feet from discovering.

‘Best wishes to you, if the real reason you need.’ Is that Stan talking about the real reason he almost got himself killed just to bring Ford back?

‘Try not to kill me, it’s not guaranteed.’ That part is still nonsense even if he’s right about the first part of that section.

Ford groans in frustration, kicking the dirt, and then looks around with the flashlight to try and see better. There is nothing. No box. No book. It can’t be here, because this is the spot! It’s exactly were Stanley said! He followed it to the letter and still nothing is here!

He throws the notebook back open and rereads it once more. Then again. A third time.

“Where is it then? Is it just magically supposed to fall out of the sky!” Ford snaps his mouth shut and points the beam of the flashlight up towards the ceiling way up underneath the first level of the house. There is nothing up there except cobwebs and dust.

If it's not up there then where the hell could it-

The light swings violently in his rush to point the light down at the ground. ‘While under our feet.’ Ford’s eyes widen and he barely has the forethought to mark a big X in the dirt before bolting back out of the room in search of a shovel. ‘Dust to dust, shadows to light.’

That must mean underneath the ground! Stanley buried the book and the last part of this puzzle right in the portal room in the dirt exactly where he’d been standing after pushing Ford through the portal!

Ford slams through the house, running upstairs up to the first floor of the house and not even stopping to turn on the lights in the dark. He runs into the large storage room where the small amount of camping gear he owns is. It takes three boxes before he finds the small collapsable shovel but he leaves the mess to rush back into the basement and down the stairs.

This is it. This is IT! Whatever stupid thing Stanley went through all this effort to hide and show him all at once is so close, just right here! Pride and joy overwhelm him while running back through the room, still carrying the flashlight, and back to the X in the dirt.

He drops down to his knees and starts digging, hoping whatever it is won’t be far. It’s probably no deeper than a foot or two at most and inches at least. Just far enough down that you wouldn’t feel it walking over this part of the floor.

Minutes feel like hours as he digs, tossing the dirt into a pile nearby so it’ll be easy to refill. The whole time he’s waiting for the clang of metal or the thunk of the shovel hitting wood. Stanley is too smart to bury a book just in the dirt. It must be inside something to protect it from the water that might-

Clang!

The noise startles him in the dark and otherwise silent room and makes him freeze.

That’s it. That’s the box. This is it. Oh my God, this is it!

Ford shines the light into the shallow hole, a little over a foot and a half down, to reveal the top of a metal box with a black handle on top. It takes another minute to clear the dirt out of the way to lift the box up but then the hole gets abandoned completely.

He’s got the prize, now Ford just needs to get back upstairs and finish filling out the letter. Because of his rush Ford trips twice on the way back up the stairs back to the lab but doesn’t let the pain of hitting the stairs stop him from rushing up into the bright space and over to the table.

The box, still covered in some dirt, gets slammed down a little too hard on the lab station. Ford rushes to unlock the drawer to pull out the box and the half-finished letter.

Ford’s hands are shaking too much to open his prize, incapable of flipping the simple latch. It’s shocking and amazing that somehow despite how difficult it was, he figured it out. That impossible puzzle is solved!

Yeah, the librarian gets credit. She helped a lot and he never would have been able to do this without her insight. But still! He’s the one who put the clues together and worked out the location! Once he was in the basement looking around, focusing on that shared memory-

It seemed silly now that Stan would have written a poem or riddle about anything else. It was the only one they were together for. Both of them. Two times, coming and going downstairs.

Parting ways as angry and hateful people. Children almost.

Then reuniting. Damaged but together, changed and aged by what felt like centuries.

A real reunion, no matter how tainted by Bill it was. Both of them changed and matured, having learned enough harsh lessons from a demon trying to drive them apart. In the end, it only drove them together and that was Bill's downfall.

What will be inside? The book, no doubt, but will there be anything else? This is the end, right?

“Stanley Caryn Pines, I swear to God if there is a whole other section or something I’ll kill you!”

Ford takes a minute to calm down first. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Over and over while counting as far into the digits of pie as he can, until his hands are steady again.

Okay, let’s open the box and see what Stan left him. Nice and easy, he’s calm and ready.

Flipping open the metal latch causes a loud creak of metal interrupting the radio. Ford takes a moment to turn it off to avoid any distractions before slowly lifting the lid to reveal what’s inside.

The content takes his breath away without even touching anything or knowing the truth.

A simple letter is sitting loosely closed but not sealed to hide whatever is written inside. ‘Read me first’ is written in Stanley’s familiar and slightly messy handwriting on the front facing the ceiling.

After picking up the letter the rest of the content becomes clear. The bottom of the box is filled perfectly with his dark blue dictionary with only a tiny gap along the side to remove to book. It’s almost a perfect fit inside the metal box. But more striking is a much nicer-looking and larger wax-sealed envelope on top of the book.

It’s not an invention then, whatever this is. It’s pure information or knowledge, isn’t it? His excitement thrums alive just barely contained under the skin at the prospects. What if this code has led to the sealed envelope filled with some insane math equation or the meaning of life? Or maybe just a list of inventions and information?

The possibilities are limitless and it takes a lot of effort to steady his hands enough to open the first letter to begin reading.

 

Dear Stanford Pines,

I am so unbelievably proud of you for working this out. Math or science you would have figured out in the one afternoon, but it must have taken real dedication to get this far. You must really really want to know what I have to say. That makes me unbelievably happy to think my word matters so much to you. All this has changed both of us for what I hope is the better.

Assuming you didn’t cheat, especially this last part, this whole puzzle must have taken a lot of studying and introspection to get. This puzzle wasn’t about thoughts or logic but rather emotions. You needed to feel, deeply, and understand me a lot on an intimate level to get it. Or at least I think so. Maybe you're smarter than I remember and better at this kind of thing than last we spoke.

Either way, this letter here is going to be your final warning before there is no turning back. Once you learn this it’s not something you can take back. It’ll fundamentally change our relationship. That terrifies me. I just got you back after all this fighting.

I refuse to lose you again. Not a third time. Or fourth, depending on how you look at it.

God. Even writing this I can’t split it out. I’m such a coward. I don’t know how everyone thinks I’m so brave all the time. Guess fighting stuff and being clever comes a lot easier than being vulnerable. This, right here, is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Okay. No more beating around the bush. I’m just going to say it and get it out on the paper.

Stanford Filbrick Pines? I’m in love with you, romantically.

I can’t believe I just wrote that down and said it out loud for the first time since I realized it initially. Jesus Christ. Feels kind of therapeutic but it also floods me with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for cursing you with this knowledge.

Listen, I’ve got some safeguards in place to protect our new relationship. Don’t panic, I know that this is wrong. I’ve always known because I’m not seriously an idiot. We’re brothers. Twins! Which is why I deleted my entire romantic history, or I will have, the morning of the face-off with Bill. Among other things that I deem unnecessary for this new life.

You don’t need to put yourself through any more than this. I wrote a whole love letter in more detail inside that wax-sealed envelope, but you can burn it and pretend this whole witch hunt never happened.

I completely understand and it won’t hurt me, because I don’t remember these feelings anymore.

That code gives you a copy of the love letter, just in case you burn my handwritten one but change your mind later…... Although if you burn that letter, I imagine you’ll get rid of both tapes too. And I get that. This letter and confession aren’t really for you anyway.

Okay, it is. But I know you won’t want to hear it. The part for me is getting to write it all out, beginning to end, about how fucked up I am and how this all changed me and my whole life from the moment these sick feelings started.

This is my last goodbye to you and us. The end of that horrible life and relationship we had before. Now we’ll be brothers, without my sick incestuous feelings getting in the way. Okay? I’ve got it covered; they’ll be gone for good. I swear.

A Pine never breaks a promise, right?

Thanks for reading and finding this even if you don’t care. It makes me feel special and not just in a sick way. I mean- I was never important to you. Not after we started getting older, or it didn’t feel like it. This moment, the idea of you putting in all this effort? Makes saving you worth everything even if I’m a knight in shining armor who never gets the girl. Ha! That makes you the princess, dork.

On the off chance you do want to put yourself through reading the other letter, which I’ve adequately warned you about now, put in that other tape I made for you. The one with those random numbers on the front highlighted in blue with the note on the back telling you not to listen to it until I say?

(123;14) - (65;4) - (8;71)

Now’s the time. Ideally while reading my stupid gooey love confession in a minute. I’ll save you the trouble of translating it. The title says ‘Healing Split Souls’ which I’m perfectly aware is a corny name. Ugh. Just burn or read the other letter. I can’t make myself keep talking about this here. Bye.

-Lee

 

Of all the things Ford thought this could be he didn’t dare consider this as a real possibility. Sure, maybe in some distant wild dream if he was even still capable of those after all these nightmares with Bill, but never here in reality. Not this dimension.

It was a good thing Ford was already sitting down otherwise he might have fainted, passed out, and killed himself all at once after hitting his head on the table. Instead, he just ended up slumped over the letter from his stool, everything else pushed aside, forcing his eyes to keep moving along the page one word and sentence at a time.

Stanley loved him the same way. Or had loved him.

That thought was like a twisted knife to his heart. God. All these years, or at least for a good portion of them, he wasn’t alone. Maybe he never had been. Just like everything else, they’d been in this sick boat together too, sitting on opposite sides without ever knowing the other was there.

He has to put the letter aside and cover his face, trying to stop the tears. Except he can’t. Nothing could stop them now that they’ve started.

They are full of pain, years of anguish, and loneliness pouring out of him. None of this had to happen. They could have been happy, that other dimension could have been them in some weird twisted way if one or both of them had just spit this out a decade ago.

The shaking gets uncontrollable and Ford has to slide down off the stool to sit on the floor of the lab. The excitement of before left him thrumming with electricity. This feels more like he’s a xylophone being hit over and over on the same key with a mallet recreating the same vibrations with these thoughts echoing around his mind over and over.

“Stanley loved me.” It's like a broken record with his mind stuck on that one phrase. Ford is pretty sure he’s muttering it over and over, like a mantra. The belief of it doesn’t set in immediately, rendering him mute except those three words for ages.

Dots start connecting just as soon as his mind is capable of more advanced thought.

High school, with Stanley hovering at his side, always putting him first no matter how mean or dismissive Ford was. Endless patience from a man who usually had an incredibly short temper with the world. Love. So damn much of it that Ford had refused, terrified of what it meant and how real and total it felt.

A mirror of his own.

Even now, ten years after their falling out, Stanley’s love hadn’t wavered in the slightest.

His sobs change direction going from pain to joy and disbelief all at once. Stanley had come here after not speaking for ten years, and ran back to him, despite all his mistakes. Not only that, but he’d been willing to destroy the world to fix things. To get him back. Because Stanley loves him!

Perhaps even on the same subatomic level as Ford feels in every cell. That very same sick and twisted love for their other half. This whole time, maybe for the same amount of time, it's always been them.

Fresh and painful despair rises in his throat, choking him like bile, over the next train of thought.

Loved. Past tense.

Those ‘safeguards’ Stanley made would have erased and hidden away any memory of this deep-rooted love. Ford isn’t just sobbing now; he wails like a dying animal. It certainly feels like he’s mortally wounded. How could he? Why would Stanley do this?

They are both idiots, complete morons. How is it possible for them to both be so completely smitten and blind at the same time? It’s statistically as ridiculous as it is improbable. Them not feeling it. Not seeing each other and this big huge aspect of who they both are sitting right in between them for who knows how long.

If Stan hadn’t erased all this, they could be together! Social stigma be damned. Family be damned. They’ve earned this, God damn it!

At least that’s how he feels. It’s a good thing Stanley is a hundred miles away by now. The sounds filling the room, the sounds he must be making, would be loud enough to be heard upstairs. He’s sure of it. Being home alone right now is a blessing in disguise.

“No! No! NO!” Ford slams both hands down against his knees hard enough to bruise. The shaking has lessened but only enough to curl up against the cabinets under the lab table to try and make himself smaller.

Perfect, brilliant, smart, handsome, charming, sexy, and dependable Stanley Pines had loved him back. For years.

And he’d been too stupid, too self-absorbed, too stubborn, and prideful to see it. To even think for a second that maybe this could be okay. It could have been perfect! If only they had just-

Now not only was Bill his fault. The world almost ending was his fault. But now Ford had missed his one chance at having the very person and life he’d always secretly wanted more than air itself. That hurts worse than anything Bill ever did to him. It stings and feels like his heart has been cut out. Being skinned alive would have been kinder.

The yelling and screaming muffles down into quiet sobs over both legs, mixed in with muttered complaints of ‘no, no, no’ and ‘why can’t it’ or ‘I love you too, please…’ Like that will wipe away all the mistakes and randomly bring Stan’s feelings back to they can be together now, after it’s too late.

Ford finally gets ahold of himself, forcing deep breaths while starting to rattle off digits of pie again under his breath. Fast at first and then gradually slowing down as his breathing pace declines. His chest still aches, his throat feels raw, and a semi-truck might as well have run him over for how weak and destroyed he feels.

One small, tiny, little thought gives him the strength to get up off the floor and back onto the stool.

If Stan could remember everything else, all of his life. Ford could force him to remember this.

No. Not could.

Ford will make Stanley remember, no matter how difficult it is or how long it takes.

It doesn’t matter that this might be impossible. A double-wrapped memory with the memory gun might truly be lost forever to the void. But Ford will try. He has to because Stanley would do the same for him. If Ford was the one who erased these feelings and Stan found out he’d fight tooth and nail for that love to get it back.

To finally, after so long, have it. This. Them.

Stanley being an idiot will get in the way of this now.

More strength comes back into him, allowing him to carefully pack up the first letter and organize the desk a little more. It takes a couple of tries with still shaking fingers to put in the second tape, the mix tape Stan had made for him out of love, but eventually, he gets it clicked in properly to start.

Headphones on Ford ends up back on the floor, lying down, with the wax-sealed letter in hand terrified to open it.

That first note almost killed him, what would a full-blown love letter do? It might send him into a fit or maybe psychosis? Can such extreme emotions do that? Probably.

No. This is good. Ford has already decided with a feeling of finality that this isn’t the end. This letter isn’t a goodbye because Stan will remember, no matter what it takes to make that happen. He’s not above doing more in-depth research into the properties of the memory gun, postponing their boat, to work this out and fix Stan’s mind.

After another round of deep breathing exercises, Ford hits play on the tape but decided to listen through the whole thing first before touching the letter. This was all so overwhelmingly emotional.

How fitting.

Stan has always loved things and people so completely with all his being. It was something Ford had always been envious of while wanting it to be directed at him. His oversized ego craved Stan’s love and attention.

Now that he has it (because he refused to think again about it in the past tense) Ford is going to accept every last drop of it. Breathe it in completely and never let it go again.

Stanley Pines is his. No one, even Stan himself, is going to stop Stanford from having him.

Chapter 48: Bittersweet Memories

The whole hour and a half Ford spent listening to the tape resulted in a whole lot more crying and a lot of stupid smiling. Each song from the tape only making the love in his chest grow more and more. Stan isn’t even here but it feels like he could drown in the two feet of affection flooding the lab floor and submerging Ford and his heart.

Did Stanley hand pick each of these songs out over the years since they were last together? Keeping a small mental list of which songs reminded him of Ford? Or did every stupid love song bring him to the forefront of Stanley’s mind?

Time felt like it stood still while simultaneously speeding up with the change of songs and flipping of the tape to continue the second half. It gave him hope and only solidified his determination to make Stan remember. It couldn’t be possible for feelings this strong to stay buried.

What would it take? Would a passionate kiss be enough? That thought makes his heart do a flip in his chest where the love letter is still being clutched unopened.

In truth Ford doesn’t have any idea what good amazing thing he might have done to deserve this. He doesn’t. Plain and simple. He doesn’t deserve Stanley. At all. But now he’s going to get him. Be allowed to finally touch him and kiss him and-

Jesus Christ.

Eventually they’ll have sex. That thought makes him flush all over while listening to the current song, You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC. It makes his mouth dry and leave him speechless, tear tracks drying on either side of his face across both cheeks.

Stop.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Stanley still needs to remember first. Ford may be a freakish possessive bastard but he isn’t a monster. Maybe handcuffing Stanley in place during attempts to make his brother remember is reasonable enough, but rape isn’t something he could ever rationalize no matter how strong his own desires are.

It’s almost like another level of the damn that makes up his feelings for Stan has broken. Before it was unwavering and painfully sweet affection. Needing to hold Stanley however possible and fill the other up with whatever love was permitted.

Hugging Stanley tightly, feeling his strong shoulders, buff arms, slight gut cushioning the strong core Stan must have. The broad chest. Since coming back Ford hasn’t seen Stan without a shirt but his chest hair must have grown considerably since high school. Has he taken to shaving it or is it too wild to try?

Holding hands with Stanley, enveloping the others with his larger grasp. Most people seemed put off by the extra digit at best and disgusted at worst. Stanley had never made him feel bad about it. When they where young Stan had always insisted it was just him. Nothing different, just part of who Ford was.

How had he missed it? God he was really, truly, the dumbest man on the planet. Missing this was even stupider than his mistake with Bill!

Stan had always paid extra attention to the spare finger, contorting his own hand at awkward angles sometimes to stroke the extra skin so no part went unloved across Ford’s hand. That had been ages ago, before Ford had pushed Stanley away around thirteen. Before he had decided they where to old to go around holding hands anymore. He was a stupid fool.

If before Ford wanted to slap and shake his younger self for his idiocy then now, he needed to be beaten bloody and have some sense and grace knocked back into him. It would have been better if Stanley hadn’t always been so gentle with him. A good slam against their bedroom door, home alone, and a hard kiss would have made him melt and all that resolve evaporate.

At least he liked to think so. To dream.

No, this wasn’t some movie. Back then, even if they could have realized their feelings, they where still so different. They hadn’t been brought together. Ford was still up on his pedestal and if anything, something like that might have ruined the shot they had now. It was just the right time, as sad and maddening as that was.

Lastly the only other part of Stanley he’d allowed himself to be affectionate about was Stanley’s eyes. Always so alive with emotions. Love always present. Joy, sadness, anger. Frustration, fear, worry, passion. If the eyes where the doorway to the soul then Stan’s constantly stood right there watching and taking in the world so intimately.

Being twins they where ‘supposed to’ look identical. But that just isn’t true. Stanley’s eyes are different with a slightly lighter shade of brown and more amber flecks in the right one up along the upper left rim. In the right amount of sunlight, they almost look like honey. Sweet and alive, emotions dancing. It was a damn miracle that no one else had stolen Stanley away in the last decade apart.  

Other aspects are different between them too that might as well make them completely different people. Stan has broader shoulders, a wider chest, and slightly longer arms. He’s shorter too but only a fraction of an inch. If Ford slouches some or isn’t wearing shoes you wouldn’t notice the difference.

Stan’s feet are slightly larger but not enough to warrant a larger shoe size. Instead growing up Ford would wear their shoes in first so they would fit just perfectly for Stan.

Little acts of love between them even when things got too hard and complicated. To bad to work out without something big to blow all the walls apart and away. Like Bill.

In a way the demon was a blessing. Not all the hell they went through. It’s not forgiveness he feels for the dead god. No, instead its very short and brief appreciation. Bill almost ruined the world but, in his wake, a new garden will grow. A new and beautiful life for them.

The picture is perfect. The two of them sailing the high seas together completely alone and finally able to express everything. Eating together, bathing together, sleeping in the same bed cuddled up. They can be as loud as they want out on the ocean. No one will be around to hear any embarrassing or hot noises they make.

Ford has to sit up when the tape finally finishes with Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Queen and stop his rambling train of thought. He’s jumping too far ahead again.

The first and immediate problem still remains. Stan needs to remember their love. Yes, handcuffing him and trying to force it is an option. He’ll do it, but maybe he needs more information before jumping straight to restraining Stan.

Could Stanley already remember?

That thought makes Ford drop the Walkman the short distance onto the floor with the letter while his brain malfunctions for a solid minute.

When Stanley was leaving, he wouldn’t make eye contact. Wouldn’t let them face each other.

Stan looked guilty. Ashamed. Afraid.

That’s the emotion Stan had been wearing when the door first opened in the few seconds before shoving his way out into the hallway and towards the front door.

What memory could cause more shame and guilt then incestual love for your own twin? Nothing. It had always been Ford’s number one regret and hidden secret and nothing had yet to top that chart even if Bill came second.

It had to be the same for Stanley. The thing he’d driven away in such a rush over, what had such a brave man running for the hills terrified, was their love.

A laugh without any sort of real emotion tore its way out of his throat without Ford’s permission. It was absurd! They mirrored each other so spectacularly without even realizing and it made the laugh fill with real joy. He fell into hysterics over it.

When Ford was able to calm down again, side hurting with laughter, he thought some more. Reflecting.

That tension between them out by the fire wasn’t so one sided after all, was it? Stanley had felt it to. Maybe if he’d just leaned over and kissed him there or upstairs in the bedroom the memories and love would have come flooding back?

If it would be that easy. Ford desperately hopes so.

Stan not remembering but still feeling things, like he did before coming most of the way back, explains everything about how Ford has gotten away with so much. Holding hands, kissing his cheek, and being so close cuddling out on the bench stargazing. Sharing a bed.

Stan must have felt the pull-

Even after just waking up, during their reunion inside Stan’s bedroom, his brother had wanted to be closer. Maybe it wasn’t romantic then, but the underlying feelings had to be there on some level for Stan to ask to share a room. His heart might as well of been in the stratosphere at this point for how light and airy it was.

They could do this. He would do this. They would get to be together and be happy. So sickly sweet that it would hurt.

The details of how to hide this from Fiddleford and their family could be worked out later after their reunion. It couldn’t be that hard. Mom and Dad lived on the other side of the country and would only be around once a year. Mom hadn’t blinked twice about them sharing a room again when he’d mentioned picking up another bed frame to put in his room.

Their intense trauma was the perfect guise for staying inappropriately close. At least for a while. Eventually they might have to get more creative. Whatever. Stan is an expert liar and they are both genius’ which should be enough to work it out.

Fids will be more difficult since they’ll be seeing each other on an almost daily basis. They’ll need to keep their hands to themselves. How long after Stan remembers will it take to be capable of that? Maybe weeks. Months. Never.

His thoughts are running a marathon jumping from one train of thought to the next and parkouring over holes, against and up walls like his own mind is running away with him.

Ford manages to get up to sit back at the table with the tape, headphones, and letter. He grabs a pen and stabs himself in the arm with it. The pain of it and the bright red mark from almost breaking skin halts and stops him from running straight off a cliff.

Usually, Stanley is around to snap him out of his own mind. Now he’s alone and needs to do it himself. It works and he is able to kind of focus again, fighting against the tide to focus. All these thoughts and he hasn’t even read the actual letter yet.

The energy in his body shifts again, melting and relaxing him like he’s been turned to goo hunched over the table just holding the letter in both hands. What would Stan have possibly written about in such a fancy looking letter.

It looks straight out of a stupid romance novel or snatched out of history. The paper is clean and simple and the white wax stamp is too with a small flower pressed in, visible. A forget-me-not in blue is visible just barely. It looks too beautiful to open.

Ford gets up to finds a box cutter to carefully cut along the top like a letter opener revealing the gift inside. The paper is folded neatly and has an anatomically correct heart drawn on the piece facing him after sliding it out.

It makes him laugh and feel like crying again seeing it. The drawing is crude and not very well done, but it’s the thought that counts. “Stanley,” It comes out in a broken whisper just looking at it.

This is all way too much. It’s like Stan somehow packed all of the love they should have been sharing these last ten years into this one day. The cute letter, wax seal with a flower, and now a carefully done drawing. How many times did Stanley redraw this until he got it perfect enough? There don’t appear to be any eraser marks like the heart was done right the first try.

Ford needs to keep this moving and read the letter before he falls into another sobbing fit over what could have been. He puts the headphones back on and restarts the tape on the first side and hits play before finally unfolding the paper to reveal Stan’s real love confession.

 

Hey sweetie pie!

Ha! I bet you thought this was going to be written like some Victorian Englishman, didn’t you? The appearance of the envelope certainly comes across that way. I thought it was a little more to your taste then a sickly pink envelope from the drug store with an ‘incorrect’ heart sticker sealing it closed. I, uh, hope you like it.

I just can’t write this like some stupid poet with limericks. That wouldn’t be very me and if you’ve decided to read this- Well. I don’t know why you’d be reading this. Maybe to understand my reasoning? I’ll try and explain. But you’ll probably want to throw up a couple times before I’m done.

Just like the tapes I made I’m going to play pretend with you. This is going to be written like your being your usual scientific self. Trying to reason this out with me instead. That’s easier to pretend then the idea of you loving me back. HA! That’s rich, funny even. I just don’t see how you could ever love me. Not back at least. Not like this in the same way. Not romantically. I mean, look at me? I’m the dumb and ugly version of you. You stole all the good-looking genes in the womb! Probably the only time you stole something without me having to convince you. Now, let’s go back to the beginning.

Do you remember June 8^th, 1967? It was a hot Thursday a week before our birthday. We’d spent all day running around on the beach, getting covered in splinters. Beautiful day. Perfect really. Later that night we got to talking about our upcoming party.

Anyway… I’m sure you remember how we got to talking about that romance book of Moms we found a couple days before. We had way too much free time with school out. One thing led to another, curiosity got the best of us, and we ended up testing out kissing.

We were kids. It was innocent and I still believe that. There wasn’t anything particularly romantic about knocking teeth and you getting spit on my chin. It was actually pretty gross. But it was both of ours first kiss, like it or not.

And. Well. I guess it made me look at you different afterwards. Not in a weird way, not at that age, but more like it made my love for you sharper. Looking back, it was a slow morph into romantic infatuation. The brotherly love never went away of course. It wasn’t like it changed straight to a sick and twisted replacement.

Instead, it’s like a seed of something new was planted and began to grow from that point forward alongside the first kind of love. Just being around was the sunlight it needed. Your laughter, happiness, and occasional physical affection the water.

I don’t think I was casual about it either. For a while I guess you chalked it up to me just being a touchy and sweet guy. Which is fair, because I am. Even without these wrong feelings I don’t think much would have changed in how we interacted. But I guess you picked up on it somehow anyway.

I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid. You started pulling away. I get you were focused on studies and generally inhaling as much stuff as possible into that big head of yours. At some point I must have said something or acted too romantic. I don’t remember when or what it was that flipped the switch. That’s just what I’m guessing. I don’t blame you, I get it, but it still hurt like hell.

Both types of love suddenly went without water. It felt like I was starving, fighting to pull you back all the time. It consumed my thoughts constantly trying to focus on the right feelings and bring you back to me. I knew I could never have you as a partner, but I at least wanted you as a brother.

Nothing worked.

The love didn’t die like I thought it would after we separated more and more. It was like a damn cactus or something able to go seemingly forever without any food or water. I’m sorry for not just letting you go. For not being strong enough to erase these feelings and be the twin you deserved. You should have just eaten me back in the womb and saved both of us all this trouble.

After I got kicked out it hurt. Worse than anything ever before. It was like a part of me was missing no matter where I went. I tried, many times, to settle somewhere and just accept a nice quiet life. But I was searching for something that would make me feel as complete as I did when I was with you. No matter who I took to bed at night or what part of the country or continent I was on I still felt broken.

There where so many times I thought about just giving up. I wondered if you would miss me. If you would come to my funeral. If anyone would even care.

I know those answers now. Or at least I think I do. Mom and Dad are freaking out thinking I’m going to do something stupider then usual. In a sick way that feels good. Makes me feel loved by them both in a way I can’t remember happening since we were ten or something.

Staying here in your house and going through all your stuff I think you would have missed me. Not as much as I miss you, fuck do I miss you, but still, enough for me to be content with. You’d go to my funeral and maybe even cry a little. It would make you feel guilty, like Ma and Pops.

After being alone for so long it makes me ridiculously happy even if the scenario is incredibly dark.

When you went through the portal it was like my whole world ended all over again. And it was my fault, again. I had to get you back both as my brother and my stupid soulmate. I don’t know which love drove my decision to summon Bill more but they both contributed.

In a way they gave me the strength, together, to get through this and keep pushing. My self esteem wasn’t in good shape when I got to your place but having something to fight against. A common enemy and a reward to make the work worth it helped me feel better.

I’ve been complaining about how awful this all was, but in a way I’m glad this happened. I know, sounds dumb, just listen.

If you hadn’t called me here, if you hadn’t gone away, and if I hadn’t had a purpose again? I would have killed myself. I would have lost myself somewhere in a shady motel, a back ally dumpster, or ended up homeless eventually just wandering around tell the elements got me.

Gravity Falls and this game of chess with Bill gave me a home and a job. A place that was safe. Even if I didn’t do a lot of thinking about a future since I expected to die. To forget.

Is it good? Am I happy now? Do I remember anything? Do we get along and have a normal relationship like we should? Was almost killing myself enough for you to forgive me for being unapologetically and not so shamelessly in love with you?

I hope so, I hope you can love me again. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I could be the poorest and sickest man on Earth or in all the fabric of reality and it wouldn’t matter if I had you. It’s always been you and it always will be you.

You give me a reason to get up each day, for my heart to beat again, and to keep pushing. No matter how hard things might be. I fight for you and because of you. You light up the sky for me, being the sun and the gazillion beautiful dancing stars on the clearest nights.

I would do anything for you, just name it. Sure, my brotherly instincts and generally combative personality might refuse to do dishes. But kill somebody for you? No problem. When it comes down to what you need, I’ll make it happen.

I just want you to be happy whatever that means. House paid off? You got it. Student loans? Gone. Money to live off the rest of your life? Done.

And, hypothetically, if you want me? You can have all of that too. Every hair, skin cell, drop of blood, bead of sweat, lost tooth, anything and everything. It’s yours, just ask and name the part. Even if its just for a dumb science experiment.

You consume my every waking thought and desire, because I love you Stanford Filbrick Pines. I can’t change that no matter what way I fight it or try and stomp it down. It’s my greatest strength, allowing me to get through literal hell, but it also is my greatest flaw.

It’s this love that keeps us apart in the first place. Fuck that hurts. To get what I want I need to erase such an important aspect of myself. Something I’ve been living with over half our lives.

But just like everything else, I’m going to try. I mentioned before how I had ‘safeguards’ in place? Yeah. I’m going to using the memory gun and delete every romantic thought I’ve ever had. My sex life. Dates I’ve been on. Everything. All the millions of nights I sat lying awake at night thinking about you.

The memory gun works kind of like a genie in the same way Bill did. I just have to be specific, so I don’t delete anything important. If it works right, you’ll have the brother you deserve. One who isn’t a pervert.

If you’ve made it this far, I guess you want to hear it all which is good because I’ll tell you it. Not like I have anything to lose here. You can’t punch me or kick me out. This guy, past me, doesn’t exist anymore.

Sometimes when we where home alone I’d hover outside the bathroom door and listen to you jerking off, mirroring what I could hear out in the hallway listening to your breathy muffled moans barely audible under the sound of the shower.

If I wanted to torture myself after a particularly bad week I’d wait until you’d fallen asleep up on the top bunk and edge myself picturing, you down on your knees, imagining myself finishing all over your glasses. You’d complain, ‘Stanley, do you have any idea how difficult getting semen off these will be’ or something. Just picturing your lips red and mouth fucked raw, voice horse, was enough to get me right there every single time.

It was only made worse because you were right above me sleeping none the wiser. I got really fucking good at being silent to cope. Pretty sure I could have a prostate orgasm and still not make a sound if I absolutely needed to.

I couldn’t count the number of times my stupid hormonal brain would bring up something about you that was drastically inappropriate. At a certain point I stopped trying to fight it when I was alone. Better to just deal with it and move on.

You are my wildest dreams. My most fucked up and perverse fantasy.

Sometimes, during our time apart, I’d even play pretend. I wasn’t exactly subtle about picking guys who looked like you or at least gave off a similar air to the one you used to carry. Or the one I imagine you had during and after college.

Fuck. I can’t wait to find out what you’re like now. Has ten years and a demon turned you into someone else? Will I still know how to annoy the shit out of you? What foods you like? What you enjoy? How to make you happy?

It’s going to be nice for new me getting to figure you out all over again. This time without all the fuzzy incest tinting it.

Try and appreciate it a little. I know this is all a lot, but keep in mind I’m going to be different this time. We’ll be normal, I promise. Thanks though, for humoring me spilling this secret. I can’t tell anyone else. It’s ironic that you’re the only person I could trust enough to share this with.

It feels good and relieving to know its out there and I don’t have to sit with the overwhelmingness of it all anymore. The guilt and shame won’t go away, not until I erase the cause. The poison I was drugged with.

Okay. Alright. This was good. I’m glad I wrote this. Maybe I’ll regret it later but right now it helps. Every little bit before facing Bill helps. Thank you, Stanford. I love you.

Heh. Those words don’t do it justice compared to this letter. Feel free to keep it if you want. Just don’t let anyone else read it. Especially me! I don’t know exactly what erasing the same thing twice will do but I hope it’ll be enough for these feelings to never come back.

I have theories, but nothing concrete and well…

Damn. You are still reading? I thought for sure the parts about me getting off on your face would get you to put this down. No? Seriously?

Huh.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m not the only fucked up Pines twin.

God, wouldn’t that be a sight? If you felt the same that would make us the most tragic love story ever, wouldn’t it? I save you from a God, get you back, and then I forget everything.

If you do happen to feel the same way that would probably give me another brain aneurysm on the spot. Try and be gentle about telling me? I don’t know how new me will react or if it’ll even be possible to remember once I erase these feelings.

To be honest, I don’t know if they can be erased either. They’ve been with me so long and taken over my mind in such a complete way that it might be here no matter what I do. Guess that helps you, if you do want to get them back? Maybe?

Nah, I’m being ridiculous. I know. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Worse case scenario I remember and just delete it again. Unless the memory gun gets damaged down in the basement that is. Or we all end up destroying it or something.

I’m not going to think about that. There are a lot of things I just can’t know and are impossible to predict even with my heightened instincts and mental faculties. I’m still human what with turning down Bill’s offered to be a God.

I did that for you too, you know. You are more tempting than immortality, endless power, infinite adventure, and anything else. Fuck I’m a sap. Alright. That’s too much and more then enough. I’ll wrap this up and call it here.

Take care of me, this stuff should be gone, and I hope you enjoyed the perverted show. Seriously though. I love you Ford. As a brother not just a lover. Remember that when you see me next, okay? Maybe only break one of my legs or something? I kept myself mostly under control.

Enjoy our new beautiful life.

-Lee

 

Another pain filled wail forces its way out of Ford’s mouth, and he has to put the letter down because he’s started shaking again.

Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years.

They’d both been right there from the beginning feeling the same things but locking them up in their own ways. Him better then Stanley, but even that makes sense. Stan had always struggled with impulse control. Yet, he’d managed it to the extend that Ford hadn’t had a single idea up until now.

This isn’t the kind of information he should have to sit with alone. He needs to yell, scream, and sob again. This time out of joy, despair, anger and a million other feelings. Despite Ford’s best efforts to be a scientist detached from his own heart Stanley has always been the exception. Forcing him to follow the thread, feel alive, and it hurts. This hurts.

It’s okay. Ford only needs survive another twelve or so hours until Stanley comes home and then-

Ford feels like he’s had a bucket of ice dropped on him where he’s sitting, and his body moves to collect the phone off the table before he’s finished processing the thought.

Where is the memory gun?

After it was damaged in the basement initially Fids had cleaned the mess up and taken the gun. By all accounts it should be broken and thrown away. But he needs to be sure because-

What if Stanley plans on using it to forget again?

That would throw a rather big wrench in Ford’s plan to kiss Stanley stupid when he walks in the door.

Ford takes the stairs up to the main floor of the house again. The lights in the living room and kitchen are still on from when he made dinner over two hours ago. It’s past midnight now and-

“FUCK!” Ford yells at that realization, putting the phone back on the charging dock with more force then necessary. Fiddleford is asleep with the dream gun which means getting him to answer will be impossible. Even if he did, talking would be pointless.

Ford dials the number regardless, hoping that for some reason Fiddleford is awake at such a late hour. Please just answer. Please. Please. Otherwise, I’m going to need to start something on fire or maybe break something. Please Fiddleford, please.

When the line picks up after just two rings a very loud yawn coming across followed by Fids very sleepy voice, “Yeah? What’s up Ford?” He’s still half out of it, but he recognized the number anyway.

He kind of expected a phone call at some point from the twins. A fight or something stupid worth bothering his family in the middle of the night. Which was why Fids had set up the phone in their bedroom so Emma could shake him awake to answer. Still, he probably won’t remember this conversation come morning.

It doesn’t even matter why Fids picked up; it just matters that he did. “Fids!” He almost yells and then adjusts his volume quickly. “Sorry, I know its late, but I need you to tell me what you did with the memory gun.”

A groan comes across the line along with a hiss and Fiddleford considers just hanging up because that was loud enough to make Emma turn over and look at the phone with a scowl. No, because then Ford will call back again.

“The memory gun?” His mind is slow right now and he winces again seeing Emma turn over and listening in now. “Uh, I gave it to Stan. You know I replaced the bulb, but it still needs to undergo a new round of testing before its safe for use again. He's supposed to hold onto it until we can buy a safe to keep it in for emergencies in the lab.”

 Ford almost drops the phone, and a deep sense of dread settling over him. Stanley took the gun with him after remembering. And now he’s who knows where in California with the intention of deleting their shared love, again. This will be the third use of the memory gun that Ford is aware of. But it could be more then that.

Fids almost falls asleep in the silence after he’s spoken but the lack of reaction on the other end of the line is concerning. “Ford, why aren’t you saying anything? What’s going on?” He forces himself to get up out of bed to walk out of the room to have this conversation away from his wife.

Ford can’t think of anything reasonable to say now. He’s too busy circling the drain about what this could mean. The gun isn’t even fixed properly, who knows what it will do if Stan uses it. He might intend on deleting something specific and end up forgetting everything again!

A pained squeak leaves him instead of words and he crumbles to the kitchen floor still gripping the phone. Ford needs to hang up, let Fids sleep, but his hands and the rest of his body aren’t working properly right now.

Ford’s noise and the continued silence from a man who loves to talk is only scaring Fiddleford more. Standing in the bathroom he tries to think despite the cloudiness of his thoughts. Memory gun. Stanley. Where is it. Upset-

“Stanford, is Stanley there with you? Where is he?” Some panic is creeping into his own voice. No, Stan wouldn’t use the memory gun. What would he even-

Okay, dumb question. Stanley has a lot of terrible memories worth forgetting. But Stan has always been the responsible one with that thing! He never used it personally to Fids knowledge-

Idiot! Stanley lies for a living, hello?!

Well, that’s not good. Really not good.

Ford starts crying again. No tears fall because he’s probably dehydrated at this point, but loud sobs fill the kitchen and wrack his shoulders. Stupid! Idiot! You let him just walk out that door to kill himself again! Stanley promised he’d come home but how can he keep it if the memory goes up in smoke?

In an effort for Stanley to make another selfless choice, picking their brotherly bond above his own desires, he could forget everything. No. They can’t do this again. He can’t. Stanley’s going to die and there is nothing he can do about it. He’s never coming home; they’re never getting that kiss. Oh god. No.

The sound of ruined sobs from Ford’s end of the line isn’t helping and doesn’t provide any sort of answers either. Not directly at least. For some reason Stanley has the gun and isn’t with Ford right now. Where would he go then? This is giving him a headache. One weekend, was that too much to ask? Apparently.

“Calm down Ford. I’ll come over, alright? We’ll work this out and find him. Okay? Did he say where he was going? It can’t be that hard to go break into the police station and find his license plate somewhere before he does something stupid.” Only after he’s finished talking does he leave the bathroom to go get dressed in the bedroom to leave the house. It’s probably not safe to drive in this state, but its not like he has much of a choice.

Ford listens but only because what Fiddleford just said sounds insane. The sob he’s in the middle of turns into a broken laugh followed by a loud cough. “What?!” He hisses into the phone. The ridiculousness of the idea shocks him back to reality and reason. “Fids! We can’t break into a police department! He’s across state lines by now anyway, that’s too far!”

Finally, Ford’s coherent enough to say something. About time. “We’ll put out a state bulletin or something. First, we have to break in there. Do me a favor and get Stan’s lockpicking kit out of his bottom dresser drawer under his pants. I can meet you at the police station, unless you can come pick me up? I probably shouldn’t drive.”

Ford pulls the phone away and just looks at it. Sometime between Stan leaving and now he must have slipped through an interdimensional rift into a reality where everything is backwards. Stanley is obsessed with him here and Fiddleford is cool with going to jail breaking into a police station!

But. A cop finding Stanley and arresting him would prevent the use of the memory gun. It might work.

He squares his jaw and forces himself up off the floor. “Okay. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll come pick you up. Thank you, Fids. You’re the fucking best.” He hangs up quickly and heads upstairs to Stan’s room to find the kit exactly where it should be.

He collects the lock picking kit and then goes down to clean up the lab. This is going to require a lot of lying to Fiddleford not to mention some extremely questionable criminal activity.

Whatever. If it’ll stop Stanley, it’s worth it.

 

Chapter 49: Whole Picture

Stan has been standing inside the phone booth for over an hour now, wasting time, trying to make himself call Ford. But despite his promise to keep Ford updated Stan can’t bring himself to put on a voice, again, like in the entryway. It’ll be obvious something is wrong which will only make Ford panic. Perhaps more than never getting a call in the first place will.

In the end, he rationalizes that maybe Ford won’t even pick up. He’s probably down in the lab or upstairs in bed, given the late hour. It is well past midnight…. Whatever. Stan can’t do it and that’s for the best.

He steps out of the phone box, closes the door, and walks away holding the two quarters in hand to avoid the annoying sound of change jingling in his pocket.

The little rest area he’d found off the highway is desolate and the El Diablo is the only car in the lot. The nearby campground is empty too and the building with the restrooms and the phone booth has only one light on above the door. The distant sound of cars driving past on the highway close by fills the otherwise silent area.

Maybe it should scare him. The silent woods. The long shadows thrown by the single porch light. Or the feeling of being overwhelmingly alone. Like the rest of the world is gone, straight out of an apocalypse.

But it doesn’t. If anything, the whole scene has a weird sense of familiarity and brings him some comfort. Isn’t that sad? Without people around, there isn’t anything to worry about. No one around to watch his back because of. No one to force a smile for.

No one to hide his newly discovered incestual feelings towards his twin brother from.

The whole drive down from Gravity Falls had felt like a weird fever dream. Memories overlaid the road in the same way winter had overtaken summer on their drive out to the coast. Except this time, it was the whole drive and seemingly insignificant things triggered the memories.

The passing of a familiar car landed him briefly back in a mechanic shop, the spotting of a tree he’d seen before brought him to a park late at night, and when he got into the state seeing sand made him need to pull over because it made him start choking.

Any kind of sleep tonight will only bring the dozens of memories back full force in the form of nasty nightmares. Stan doesn’t want to remember why seeing California sand caused such a violent reaction. Nothing good could come of it.

Being eight hours away from Ford there will be no defense from them either. No one to calm him down if he wakes up fighting and no one to comfort him if he sobs instead

The headache still hadn’t gone away either despite Stan’s best efforts to treat it. He’d bought pain meds when getting gas, kept the radio off to avoid any songs making it worse, and had been avoiding looking at the two letters he’d written for himself too. They stayed shoved in the backpack with the Propofol, Morphine, and the memory gun.

Sitting back down in the car the exhaustion of the day rests heavily on his shoulders.

Why did he have to poke the bear? If he’d just left well enough alone and not gone looking for clues none of this would be happening. He could still be living in blissful and slightly confused ignorance back home with Ford. They’d be asleep by now with both bedroom doors open into the hall in preparation for a nightmare.

The guilt and shame only get worse thinking about home.

Stanford had been so endlessly kind and patient with him, dragging back all the important memories and making his house their home. The first home he’s had in over a decade so full of love and life. He had his own space and could own things! They were going to live their dream for fucks sake! Things are perfect thanks to Ford.

And what does he do in return? Remember the one thing he’s supposed to forget. “God damn it!” He slams his hand down on the horn once before remembering he’s probably not supposed to draw attention to himself with drugs in the car.

The fight runs out of him and he slumps back in the seat instead.

If he can’t sleep, which he definitely can’t, he should at least get this all over with so he can drive home, right?

Stan turns on the overhead light and pulls over the backpack to pull both letters out of the bag. Just looking at them makes his headache throb again. No memories come back, not even when he opens them both and rereads the cursed texts. He’s been sitting with this information long enough to feel like throwing up at this point.

Or part of him does anyway. The part that’s still rational and still separate from these sick feelings. His mind feels more scrambled and less whole than it has since waking up almost a week ago. It feels almost like before when he was weirdly two people and also not. Strings of thoughts kind of come out of the woodwork without him coming up with them.

The same crazy thoughts that drove him out of the house in the first place are what make him hesitate now. He probably isn’t thinking straight. Because yes, these feelings are wrong, but they aren’t actually here now, are they? What would trying to delete something that isn’t here do to his already fuzzy head?

He’s being the biggest hypocrite on the planet right now whisking himself away with the memory gun to effectively pull a Fiddleford. Minus the cult anyway.

Maybe this is what’s causing all the scrambled thoughts in the first place.

The letters imply he used the gun at least once for these feelings. And then there’s the series of uses to delete all that god-forsaken math Bill gave him. That brings the use up to at least seven. Eight if he deleted these feelings twice before Pops even took him out in the basement. That’s nine total. (That he can work out or remember.) Could it be more?

That’s enough to be experiencing some bad side effects, isn’t it?

Using the light from the roof Stan reads through both letters again hoping that it’ll ease the headache or maybe trigger something. If he could remember then he’d have to use the memory gun. Ford almost did it just being in the same room. So, he needs to somehow trigger it before going back. Now, preferably.

The letters do nothing more than make it harder to see out in the dark because he doesn’t have the glasses Ford has been letting him use. “Fine, keep your fucking secrets. I’m not leaving myself hints this time.” Stan’s arguing with himself in the front seat, turns off the overhead light, and climbs back out of the car.

Using a lighter from his jacket pocket Stan carefully burns each letter and envelope, letting them go up in flames and turn to ash right outside the car with the door still open. The remnants of his cursed feelings go up in smoke and it makes him feel a little better and a little worse all at once.

The sound of another car driving past on the nearby freeway and the trees moving in the wind fill the noise void once the fire fizzles out leaving behind just the edges that get dropped on the ground.

He should have done that weeks ago before forgetting so there would be no trail of breadcrumbs to remember this with. It dies here at this rest stop. Kind of fitting that a whole half of himself, if the letter is to be believed, will die here on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere without anyone around to save him. Not that he wants to be saved.

Next, he pulls out the memory gun and just sets it on the middle seat. The backpack gets tucked down into the footwell of the passenger seat, almost under it, but the top handle is just visible.

How many times is he going to have to do this?

If he does this here and now won’t these feelings just evolve again once back at Ford’s side? Is he even capable of a normal sibling relationship?

Sure, for a few days, but look how that turned out in barely a week.

He’s screwed no matter what direction he takes this.

Stan knows, better than most, that this isn’t a real solution. It’s wrong. It’ll probably kill him, eventually.

You could equate the use of the memory gun to a drug addiction. ‘Just once and then I’m done’ Which then turns into a daily thing to drown the pain. Or in this case shame and guilt. He’s been down that road before, however brief, and doesn’t want Ford to see him walk it again.

That thought makes the shame worse.

He’s being ridiculous. A moron. An idiot. Stupid.

The stupid Pine twin.

Ford would handle this better. He’d find a scientific way to deal with it or maybe develop some sort of ‘anti-feelings ray’ to get rid of this stuff once and for all.

What’s the alternative here, if not the memory gun?

This guilt and shame consume him and makes it impossible to do much of anything, much less be around Ford. Going home in this weird half-state will result in Ford bothering him until the guts get spilled. Then he’ll get thrown out and end up pretty much right back here.

Or he could leave. That’s another idea.

Not one he could follow through on, but still. The very thought makes his chest ache almost as much as when he’d forced himself out the door and floored it down the driveway. He hadn’t stopped speeding until he was four towns south and had half an hour of distance between them.

If he was going to leave, he might as well just kill himself at that rate.

More emotions protest to that and he throws both hands up in the air, pushing his seat back to lie down still sitting in the driver’s seat. “What the fuck do you want then?” Maybe he’s crazy, but at least he’s still rational enough to know that. Talking to yourself in such an inconsistent and broken manner isn’t normal.

At least if it was some sort of voice or hallucination there would be an excuse, more data-

“Who are you? My brother?” A short laugh leaves him in the bitter and hot air of the car.

Maybe he should call Ford. Talking to someone about all this might make him feel a little better even if it results in him getting tossed out on his ass. It’s just hard.

He has disappointed Stanford in so many ways in just twenty-eight years and it feels like being stabbed to consider doing it again. No. He won’t. Maybe he’s weak, but not that weak.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

Is he strong enough to kill himself for Ford’s happiness again or is he weak? This should be easy. But nothing ever is when it comes to them. They have to be cursed or something.

He sits up, fixes the seat, and reaches over to open the glove box. Inside sits his handgun wrapped up in a pair of winter gloves for concealment.

Right now, if he died, at least there would be someone to miss.

Pops, Ma, and Stanford would miss him. Fids would miss him.

If he doesn’t erase this the truth will come out eventually. Someone will see through his lies. Fids is experienced enough it wouldn’t take much. Or maybe over Christmas? What if he made a stupid mistletoe joke in poor taste and it makes things awkward? They’d know.

No one would go to his funeral then. Especially Ford.

Out here is kind of how he always expected to die. It’s hot out, dark, and the nearest person is in a car traveling at seventy miles an hour too far away and too distracted to hear the gunshot. He could even write up a list of his crap and leave it in the glove compartment for-

Stan slams the open compartment closed and locks it with the car key for good measure.

Their life is good. His new life is good and happy and this isn’t-

No. Just- No.

If he wouldn’t do it before bringing Ford back then he certainly isn’t going to do it now. Not after how upset his brother looked at the prospect of him leaving. It looked and sounded like Ford didn’t expect to ever see Stan again. It was heartbreaking and almost kept him from going in the first place.

He’ll do a lot of crappy shit to Ford, but not that. On some level, Stan knows that would break him. So, he won’t, even if only for that reason in this moment.

His thoughts aren’t exactly rational right now. It has to be this new memory coming close to the surface, just below the water line, but not cresting into sight.

Not for the first time another option occurs to him and it’s the one that has the least immediate damage. Stan could erase this again now, kill himself, run away, or… He could do what he’s always done with awful terrible things and face it.

He can’t drive home. No, he can’t remember this while being around Ford. There needs to be time to process things without the floundering and the ‘what did you remember, are you okay?’ that will come with it. When did Ford turn into such a worry wart?

“I don’t know, maybe around the time you almost killed yourself to save reality?”

Stan looks around like he expects someone else to have said that. But no. It’s just himself talking again. The headache can’t only be from the almost-here memory. Some of it has to be from whatever the hell is talking to him now. Can the memory gun give you a split personality disorder?

That almost makes him laugh.

Duh. Of course, it can. It can drive you crazy if you use it too much.

Okay, not so funny.

How could he remember then? A glance out the window shows the wind has blown away the two letters he impulsively burned. No, that was intentional. Oh, shut up. We both know-

In a fit of frustration, Stan throws the two quarters down into the footwell near the backpack and can hear the sound of them bouncing around before settling on the floor mat.

‘Drive you crazy’ Yeah, it's safe to say he’s already there.

“If you two ever need anything you just call. Nightmares, demons, whatever.”

Filbrick’s words during his conversation with Ford out on their lawn echo through his head briefly and he looks over back towards the small building containing the phone. Those words apply to both of them and it sounded like they were genuine.

No. If he can’t even tell Ford then he sure as hell can’t tell Dad of all people.

Some part of him turns the light back on anyway and fumbles around to find the two coins. One of them is right out on the mat and the other is rolled partway under the seat next to-

The tape.

Just like the two letters seeing this mix tape, the one that fell out of the zipped pocket, makes his head throb. But this is worse. Bad enough to make him hunch over the middle seat and rest his forehead against the leather.

Maybe this would make him remember.

Locking his jaw Stan grabs the other quarter and the tape and sits back up in the driver’s seat to look at it in the light. The old label looks blank like it never had a name or the title was rubbed off from excessive handling. This mix tape was played a lot over the years. Will it even still work?

Only one way to find out.

Once again, he feels he’s on the edge of a breakthrough, something he’s tired of, and he pauses holding the tape. Maybe this will be enough to bring all these feelings and memories back. Which means he’ll have to live with them, again.

Or use the memory gun, but he knows he shouldn’t.

No, we aren’t doing that. That’s bad and wrong and-

Some part of him pulls out the lighter without him even consciously being aware of it until it’s underneath the tape ready to burn this piece of evidence too.

Minutes tick by on his watch while mentally he can’t decide what to do. There are too many terrible options and each half of himself seems to have different ideas of what to do. One half wants to burn the tape, use the gun, and go home. The other half wants to call someone or listen to the tape and remember. He needs help but there isn’t anyone around to decide for him.

No one to stop him from doing anything stupid or reckless.

He puts the lighter and tape down next to the memory gun and turns the light back off leaving himself in the dark. Why is this so hard? This decision should be easy. Past him set this up for emergencies, so why are they fighting? If that’s who he’s fighting. Hard to tell which half is him and which half is the other him. Or which thoughts and desires belong to who.

In a brief moment of strength, Stan starts the car, flips on the radio for the first time all day, and pushes the tape into the player. Moments are all he can manage right now but it's enough to allow the first song to start playing. He can’t remember the name but something by the Beach Boys comes through the speakers.

The tense atmosphere inside the car and his chest melt away. All the internal wars he’s had today in his bedroom, in the car, and every second since stops and freezes as the song plays. His shoulders loosen and his gaze remains transfixed on the radio. The volume is low and he finds the strength to raise a hand to turn it up a little.

A small almost unconscious smile graces his lips briefly before he gets pulled into a memory. It makes him panic, even if this is what he wants. Or part of him does.

*

Their bedroom is hot with Ford pushing open the window over above his desk to let out the stuffy heat that had collected inside while they were out. “I told you to open these windows before we left! Now it’ll be sweltering all night because you forgot!” Ford heads back over to Stan’s bed on the bottom bunk and snatches the comic book out of Stan’s hands.

“Hey! I was reading that!” Stanley complains, trying to snatch it back. It results in both of them tumbling down onto the ground next to the bed and a yell coming from through their cracked bedroom door. “You two better not be breaking anything!” It’s just their mother but neither of them calls back because Stan has taken advantage of Ford getting distracted and has started tickling him.

“Stanley! Stop it!” Ford ends up lying almost half under the bed trying to get away and finally gets Stan off by kicking him in the stomach. The comic book is discarded on the floor half under the bedside table and when Ford looks for it, he spots a different book underneath the bed. One he doesn’t recognize. He grabs it without thinking while sitting up.

Seeing Ford has found the romance book he’d hidden in the mess under the bed makes him panic. Usually, Ford doesn’t dare venture under there in the same way Stan stays out of the closet. It’s just their space. The little they have in this room. “S-Stop! That’s-“ He cuts himself off both because he’s still catching his breath and so he doesn’t openly admit that the book is his.

It doesn’t take a genius to piece together what this book plus their room plus Stanley trying to grab it means. “Oh my god!” His voice is a whisper yell so their mom doesn’t shout again. “You’ve been reading this, haven’t you?” Laughter erupts from his lips and earns him a slap to the back of the head. “You won’t read your math homework but you’ll read this stupid crap?”

Stan would be madder, and he is, but Ford just swore for what might be the first time. “I’ll have you know it’s a very good book! Besides, I was only reading it for research purposes. Isn’t that what you’ve been saying, to learn stuff I’m interested in?” He finally grabs the book and moves to hide in the far corner of his bunk using a blanket to cover the book and hide his flushed face.

Ford is still giggling but follows Stanley up onto the bed and under the blanket making a sort of tent over them both. It’s even hotter underneath the blanket and too dark to see much. He feels a little bad now driving his twin to hide in the corner. Ford has only seen Stan do that on nights he has bad dreams. The crying from down below loud enough to wake him up.

“Research purposes? What kind of information could you hope to gain from a romance novel Stan?” He reaches over to hold one of Stan’s hands and keeps judgment out of his voice. Even if it's hard.

Ugh. Ford is nice enough to try and comfort him but not enough to just leave it alone and drop the subject. He squeezes the others hand to show he’s upset about being asked. At least he can’t see Ford under the blanket in the dark. Only a little light from the bedside lamp comes through the thin fabric.

“Well…You remember that talk Dad gave us?” Stan opens up the book in his lap to the page that’s bookmarked. “They write about those things in these. I don’t know. I just think it's neat.” He shrugs and then offers the book over to Ford so he can see.

Ford’s about to ask ‘What talk’ but then his brain catches up. Romance books and sex education would mean. “Eww!” He pushes the book away back over to Stan and gets out from under the blanket. Now he’s blushing too and moves to sit over on the edge of the bed.

Stan follows, discarding the blanket and bringing the book with him. “It is not!” He insists with a hiss. “Look, just read this scene. It’s tame compared to the other sections and definitely won’t scar you for life. I promise.” He’s got the page numbers memorized by now so he flips back to page eighty and presents it to Ford again, insisting.

Ford continues to look away but eventually gives up and just takes the book. “Fine, but if it’s gross, I’m going to get a bucket of sand and pour it all over your bed.”

Stan just grins, “No you won’t, because you’ll have to clean it up. Plus it’ll get on all your stuff too, so actually-“

Ford stops listening, ignoring him, in favor of reading the section Stanley had pointed out. ‘Angeline could hardly believe this was happening. Scottie is leaning closer and closer, pressing their lips together. It feels like magic with lighting thrumming between them in a charge of passion. Their lips part and exchange a swapping of spit by tongue before pulling away. This is wrong-‘

Now Ford’s blush is even worse when he shoves the book back over to Stanley. “I can’t believe you’d read that! You’re going to be terrible with women when we’re older. Kissing is gross anyway. Do you have any idea how many germs are inside a human’s mouth at any given time? Imagine that times two!” He pretends to throw up but won’t look at Stanley.

Stanley is curious now having watched Ford’s face get brighter and brighter with each word he read. It’s firetruck red now and Stan puts the book aside back under the bed. Later he’ll find a better hiding spot for it. Right now, he’s the one with questions and Ford’s gonna answer them. Maybe Ford’s just more embarrassed about this kind of thing, like most things.

“Excuse me, but I’m going to be getting all the babes and you’ll be asking me to share! Just you watch Sixer.” He nudges Ford’s side and turns it into a half hug in the silence when Ford doesn’t respond. “What if you kissed someone who just brushed their teeth? Would that get rid of the germs? Might make it less gross for you. I mean, you don’t want to be a million years old like Pops the first time you kiss someone.”

Now Ford turns to look at Stanley with a wrinkled nose. “First off, eww. I don’t want to think about Pops kissing anyone, even Mom. Second, who’s to say I have to kiss anyone ever? You aren’t going to tell people I haven’t, right?” He doesn’t get the importance of ‘kissing’ beyond it leading to other even more disgusting things. Like procreating.

Stan acts like he’s thinking about it but grins before Ford can yell at him. “No, no, of course I won’t tell. I promise. But you still should, even if just to prove you don’t like it.” This is how things always go. Ford says it’ll be terrible and he’ll hate it so Stanley talks him into it. Nine times out of ten Ford ends up enjoying himself and Stan gets to gloat. Why wouldn’t that apply here?

Looking at Stan he seems to be telling the truth about keeping the secret. He’s a good brother and would never tell people something that is apparently embarrassing. Socially anyway. Ford doesn’t care that much. It's not like he needs another thing to get bullied over. “Is that a dare I hear? Are you daring me to kiss someone?” Yeah, that’ll go over well. The girls in their grade still haven’t gotten over the wrong finger paintings he made in preschool.

Stan shrugs, “I mean, I guess? Still a few years out before we’re old enough though. I’ll just have to hook you up with one of my millions of exes later, huh?” He nudges Ford’s side playfully and laughs.

Ford shoves back, “Oh shut up. I’m not kissing anyone you kiss. That would be super gross. Your mouth is gross. I’m pretty sure you haven’t brushed your teeth in like a week!” When Stan blows air on him Ford gages again but the grin gives away how he’s joking.

“Hey! I have too. I just brushed them this morning! And the only weird thing I’ve put in my mouth all day was that sandwich we shared for lunch. It can’t be any grosser than your mouth. We’re twins, we basically have the same one.” He insists some laughter of his own bubbling up.

The room is full of it for a minute before their father walks past the bedroom to peak in which shuts them both up until they hear the TV turn on downstairs playing some song. Stan clams up more so than usual, slinking back into the corner of his bunk minus the blanket.

Just to be safe Ford gets up and closes their bedroom door so they don’t accidentally bother Pops while he watches the news or whatever. Turning back to see Stanley hiding back in the corner makes him frown and sigh. He’d only been joking, did Stan take it so seriously that his mouth was too gross to kiss? Maybe he was being too mean.

Sometimes, and it's hard to tell when, Stan feels things deeply. It’s impossible to tell which things are okay to joke about and which things will secretly upset him. Hiding seems a clear enough answer.

Ford goes back to the bed and moves to sit with Stan back in the corner, pushing pillows out of the way. “I’m sorry I said your mouth was gross.” He apologizes, taking Stan’s hand again. “You’ll do great when we get older. Maybe don’t take advice from Mom’s romance novels though. Those moves only work on old ladies. You don’t want to kiss someone like mom.”

Stan leans over against Ford’s shoulder and squeezes his hand but otherwise keeps his gaze on the door across the room. “Heh, yeah. I guess not. I should return the book to the shelf downstairs anyway before Mom notices it's missing.”

Why does this happen sometimes? They had a good day playing out on the beach and now Ford’s done something to make Stanley get all moody. Why is that? Nothing changed in the last ten minutes since getting back other than the environment. Stanley deserves to be happy, it's almost their birthday! How can he fix this?

Holding hands usually does the trick but it seems to have only kept Stan from getting worse without fixing the problem. If only he knew what it was. “It’s going to be a few years before you get to kiss anyone, right? Shouldn’t you get some practice, before then so you don’t scare your beloved away?” Stan would follow something like this up with a laugh but coming out of Ford’s mouth it feels awkward and serious. Oops.

Stanley turns from the door now to look at Ford with a little bit of confusion on his face. The silence drags while he tries to work out what Ford means by that. The others words are rarely exactly as they seem, what could he- “Wait, are you suggesting we practice? Like, you and me?”

“You and I, Stanley. But yes. If it’ll make you feel better.” The room feels more tense than earlier when Dad peered in. Is that his fault? Is what he’s suggesting stupid? Probably. Kissing in general is stupid.

More silence falls while Stan just looks at Ford. Well. It would guarantee Ford kisses someone in this life. God knows a woman isn’t going to do it anytime soon. Plus, it would be another first they could share. It’s one of the best parts of being twins, getting to do things first together. Why should this be any different?

It pulls a smile onto his face while he turns to face Ford still holding the one hand. “I should refuse just because you’re correcting my grammar again. But how could I turn down what might be the best idea you’ve had all week?” Now that they’re facing each other Stan’s nerves flare again, glancing back towards the door.

Okay, maybe the thought is stupid but it cheered Stanley up which was the whole point anyway. Or it did, for a moment, why is Stan looking at the door? Now he looks sad again or maybe scared. No. Stan was happy just a second ago. Emotions are stupid.

Rather than trying to discuss details or letting Stan become upset again Ford just goes for it instead. He’s already got consent, which pops had explained was very important, so why wait and let Stan spiral more?

The only problem? Winging it is not Ford’s strong suit.

Attempting to kiss Stanley goes about as well as expected. Their front teeth knock together and spit gets everywhere because Ford attempts to replicate the one page about kissing Stan had shown him. Stanley bites his tongue out of surprise, resulting in some blood getting added to the mix while they both pull away blushing furiously and not looking at each other.

The whole thing throws Stanley into a fit of laughter while bringing up a hand to wipe away the spit Ford just got all over his face and lips. There is a little bit of blood there and it makes him look over at Ford. “Are you okay? I don’t think that’s how kissing is supposed to go, let me see.”

Ford has never been more embarrassed in his whole life. Kissing is stupid. Idiotic and he’s never doing anything like that ever again! Stupid! He’s stupid for even trying and-

Stan hits Ford upside the head forcing the other to look at him even if it's with a glare. “Stop being dumb. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, if anything you’ll have learned for next time what not to do. That’s good for data or whatever, right?” Stan takes Ford’s hand again and uses his other to wipe away the spit on Ford’s face and some of the blood from the corner of his mouth.

His mind stops spiraling and his gaze softens when the misstep isn’t met with teasing or mocking. Why would it? This is Stanley. He would never. Having his face cleaned up makes Ford's chest swell and eases the flush he’s sporting still. “Yeah, I guess so.” Talking makes him wince a little. “Ugh, I’m gonna go brush my teeth. All I can taste is blood.”

A stupid grin graces Stan’s face while moving to get up, “Sorry about that Toots, won’t happen again. Come on, let’s go before Ma calls us for dinner.” He grabs Ford’s hand and pulls him along out of their bedroom across the hall into the bathroom to clean up.

Stan’s chest feels lighter even if the mint toothpaste Ford picked out burns his mouth. It doesn’t matter because-

*

Coming out of the memory gives Stan whiplash to go from their brightly lit bathroom to the pitch-black rest area the car is still situated in. His breathing comes in shaky gasps trying to process the memory.

So that’s how it all started, just when they were kids? Jesus Christ. The headache is worse now and he considers unlocking the glove compartment just to put himself out of the misery. This is much worse than the other memories they got back. Usually, a whole row comes and the pain eases like air being let out of a balloon. Not this time.

One hand reaches down for the memory gun, fumbling to input something, but before he can get it right the next song starts playing. Oh! Darling by the Beatles. Which part of his mind is providing this information? The song isn’t familiar-

Except just like the first song his body seems to relax hearing it, calming the panic of the last memory and making him drop the gun on the seat. Where does he know this from? What memory with Ford is attached to this one?

This is hell, isn’t it? Forcing himself to remember when he could just stop instead and put this behind-

*

Stan closes the door on Ford’s side of the car and keeps his shoulders squared walking back around to the driver’s side of their car. It's not necessary and just makes Ford glare at him more, but Stan does it anyway. After climbing into his side of the car Stan tosses their ruined suit coats over into the backseat to be dealt with later. The album Abbey Road picks up again in the tape player after the key in the ignition is turned, the engine roaring to life and filling the tense silence in the front seat.

Ford won’t turn to look at Stan because he’s mortified. It's ridiculous. Stanley is being nothing but nice. He even ruined his suit either out of comradery or so they could give Dad a good excuse about someone turning over a table and causing the mess. It only makes him angrier, irrationally so, but he still makes sure Stan is buckled up when the car starts moving. He can be angry and still care at the same time.

It's unexpected that this whole situation is affecting Ford so much. The guy who couldn’t care less about other people’s opinions much less dating is sulking over a pickup line going poorly. That’s something Stan never thought he’d see. Good thing he knows how to cheer Ford up.

Nowadays lots of things about Ford escape him. They’ve grown apart, but hopefully not completely? Maybe? Stan doesn’t head for home and instead brings them through a drive-through of Ford’s favorite Mexican place. There isn’t a better way to get over being rejected than a little bit of food, right?

Ford pesters Stanley, almost yelling, the whole time the car heads in the wrong direction from home. What the hell could Stanley want to do now? Drag him to an after-party? Ford just isn’t in the mood for these kinds of surprises. He just wants to go home, change, shower, and go to bed and sulk up on his bunk for the rest of the weekend before school and having to face-

Words die on his lips in the middle of his current curse towards Stanley when their destination comes into view.

He’s a terrible brother and it makes Ford sink back into his seat against the window covering his face while Stan orders, pays, and pulls around to park in the far corner of the empty lot. Damn it. He didn’t want to cry here. Not around Stan. Fuck.

“Hey,” Stan has the bag of food set between them near the shifter. Sure, he’s mad at Ford’s lack of trust right now, but that’s not important. They’ve got all kinds of conflict going on between them. None of that changes his putting Ford’s happiness first. “You know, I’ve never seen anyone get rejected so spectacularly, but she doesn’t know who she’s missing out on. I mean, come on, you can do better than her anyway. Just wait till you get out of this crap town; you’ll be fighting off women with a pirate sword.” He pushes the bag over towards Ford but doesn’t dare reach across the space.

It's not the food or even Stan’s words that make him look up but instead, the tone and care radiating from his brother’s voice. Stan looks like he’s apologizing for spilling punch all over both of them. It’s not his fault and that makes Ford feel worse. Looking down at the food is easier. “Yeah, I guess…”

A positive reaction? Stan hasn’t seen one of those in a few days. Don’t screw it up. “Hey, she’s going to be telling a very different story about tonight someday when you win a Nobel Prize, right? She’ll claim to have danced with you or something trying to get a piece of the pie on the documentary about your life!” Stan laughs but it's only half-strength and full of nerves about how Ford will react.

A short laugh forces its way past Ford’s lips while he looks up and across at Stanley. God, he’s trying so hard to salvage the night despite how awful it was. It’s prom and Stan was the one excited to go anyway. Secretly it had excited Ford too. Even the pictures of them in matching suits were nice right up until the actual party started.

“You know what, I think you’ve hit it on the head Stanley. It’s not like I cared about her anyway. Women and dating are a huge waste of time.” He waves a hand generally like he’s talking to an audience. Ford is the one to open the bag, accepting the olive branch, and pull out the taco Stan got him before pushing the bag in his brother’s direction.

Stan feels just as shocked as when Ford agreed to go to prom with him. This isn’t exactly the romantic evening prom is supposed to be, but Ford is smiling at him and looks in higher spirits. That’s enough for Stan without all the stupid lace and petals. “Damn right, we have more important things to be doing.” He does not say ‘working on their boat’ because that is a sore subject. Ford can interpret the words how he wants.

They eat without talking for a while with the radio playing through the tape and their shirts getting uncomfortably sticky because of the dried punch.

“Would you come?” Ford asks, breaking the silence. “I mean, if I won a Nobel Prize in Stockholm Sweden would you come to the ceremony?” He puts the empty taco rapper back in the bag and shifts uncomfortably.

What kind of question is that? “Of course, I’d come. Even if I had to sell a kidney to afford the ticket. When you do something that huge, not if, I’m gonna be there cheering you on. I-“ Stan looks down at his empty wrapper, tossing it in the backseat to deal with later like their suit coats. “I love you, Stanford, as long as you won’t be mad, I’m there. I’d be a fool not to go.”

Stan’s answer makes Ford’s heart swell up and his face becomes a little red. His brother isn’t usually so honest with his words. “Of course, I won’t be mad, you idiot.” He closes the gap, crushing the bag on the seat, to pull Stanley into the first hug they’ve shared in a long time. “And I love you too.”

It doesn’t make sense how all this evening’s events and that specific question slash answer results in a hug, but Stan’s not about to talk Ford out of it. He just returns the hug like it’s the last one they’ll ever share. They’re both laughing and it's good.

*

A full-blown sob forces its way out of Stan’s mouth when he comes to in the driver’s seat. His hands are shaking and he really wishes he wasn’t sitting alone here right now. Anyone being here would be better than reliving this alone.

The pressure is finally starting to ease but the shame and guilt are only getting worse. Stan can’t even be sure why exactly. Why does all this hurt so much? Remembering memories is good and is supposed to lessen the pain not make it worse.

Stan moves the memory gun off onto the floor and lays down on the front seat in the dark. More songs play on the tape, marking the passage of time, and slowly but surely the pain does fade. His headache recedes and at some point, he must fall asleep.

Waking up some faint light is coming in through all sides of the car to indicate its morning. Early morning with the sun only just peaking up over the horizon. The sky is grey like it might rain and the ground is still wet with dew.

Other than the sound of the tape still playing the world and his head is quiet. There aren’t any more conflicting and arguing thoughts. He doesn’t even feel particularly drawn to the memory gun down on the floor anymore. Most importantly? Stan remembers.

Every late night up on the road, every man he brought to bed thinking of Ford, and all those painful years standing by Ford’s side but hiding the whole time. Living off short glances, yelled words, and anger. Maybe that’s what made him fall for his own brother, that dismissive and angry version of love Pops had raised him on.

That’s a sad thought to think about but no negative emotion rises in his chest. No. This isn’t Dad’s fault. Not really. He did this, somehow. Ford might make an argument later about how their childhood influenced this, ‘nature vs. nurture’ or something equally stupid, nerdy, and just like his brother-

You aren’t, we, aren’t thinking about telling him, are we?

What would Ford think about these feelings now? It’s been a decade, maybe he’s changed his tune a little?

“Please don’t leave. I just got you back Lee. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it, alright?”

Stan sits up a little straighter, swinging back over into the driver’s seat while waking up a little more. Ford had begged him not to leave with crocodile tears and everything like it was the end of Ford’s world. That makes his chest ache along with a frown.

Now that he’s thinking about it from an outside perspective this all is a little weird, isn’t it?

The constant hovering, the excessive gifts, the endless quality time, and just- Ford is acting like he cares or something. About him. Not just cares, but like maybe. Just maybe…

No, he’s being ridiculous, isn’t he?

Or maybe he isn’t.

Ford, upon being given a very sweet and thoughtful birthday present had leaned over and-

Almost kissed him. That’s what that was, wasn’t it?

And then out on the bench, under the stars, when they’d been so close. It wouldn’t have taken more than a little lean across to brush their lips together then either. When he’d pulled back Ford had followed him, like he was trying to salvage the moment or-

Chasing a kiss.

No, Ford is just being extra nice since coming back. Right? They can’t both be the same level of screwed up, that would be ridiculous!

Stanley Pines is pretty lucky. But he’s not that lucky.

The longer he sits there, listening to music, and letting his thoughts bounce around, the worse this idea gets. Short of a love confession Ford has been doing a lot of sweet stuff. Really, sickly, sweet stuff. And best of all, Ford’s giving him their dream.

At some point during this whole epiphany, Stan had started crying. Are these out of joy or just relief that his mind feels more whole again? Things aren’t scrambled like before and his train of thought is singular too. Like it should be.

Now he feels whole. With all the terrible and blessed memories that makeup Stanley Pines cobbled back together. It’s like this love is the glue or something.  

It doesn’t matter if these feelings are a curse because, without them, he’s not right. No matter what he does things are just going to be broken. Stan will just have to make the best of it which should be easier than it was back in high school. Ford has changed and maybe it’ll make all this a little easier. Faking it easier.

He’s still exhausted, beyond tired, but Stan can’t afford to sleep right now. It’s time to head home because now Stan feels whole enough to handle the lies needing to be spun. The happiness and honesty won’t even need to be too fake because Ford does make him happy, it’s just gotta be the right kind of love.

The two different kinds feel more separated now still. Like the swirling chocolate and vanilla have their own machines instead of being together from the start. Just keep them that way. No problem.

Stan pulls the backpack back up onto the seat and covers the memory gun with it before getting out of the car to head back into the building to finally make that phone call he’s been meaning to make. The dust has settled and at this early hour, hopefully, Ford will be asleep. A voicemail is easy.

“Hello, you have reached Stanford and Stanley Pines! We’re a little too busy on an adventure somewhere or with our noses stuck in a book to answer your call right now. Please leave a message after the beep!”

Just listening to their answering machine makes Stanley smile like an idiot. It had taken a lot of convincing on his part to get Ford to say all that with them each speaking every other word using the script he’d written out. God, maybe Ford did love him if he was willing to put such a stupid message on their answering machine.

“Hey Sixer, sorry I didn’t call last night. I had a hell of a time getting what we needed on such short notice. I’m gonna head home now though and should arrive mid-afternoon sometime. You better not have stayed up all night waiting for me, or else. I’ll ground you or something.” A short laugh leaves him and this doesn’t even feel so bad. Why was he so scared of this last night? “Not much else I can say over the phone but I love you, dork. And you better go out and buy us some lunch because I am not going to feel like cooking after all this driving. See you soon, bye.”

Stan barely gets to the door of the building after hanging up before the phone on the line starts ringing. It makes him swallow and hover in the door half inside and half outside. A voicemail is one thing, but talking to Ford so soon? He’s not sure if that’s a good idea.

If Ford was so close to the phone, why didn’t he answer the first time? Nah, it’s probably just spam or something. But….

Unlike when he’d left Dad calling a phone booth over and over, leaving him panicked and worried, Stan moves back over to the phone and grabs it off the hook before the call drops to spare Ford the same fate. “Hello?” His voice is hesitant and on edge.

The other end of the phone is loud for some reason and Stan can’t hear any real words coming through the phone. It’s not like he can check the number that called since this is a phone booth and he’d need to dial an operator to trace it.

Just when he’s sure this can’t be Ford, because the other end almost sounds like static or a wall of sound, a few words break through to be made out. “Lee, I need you to come home. Yesterday.” It’s still choppy like there are supposed to be other words mixed in. Whatever, the message is close enough to whatever Ford is trying to say. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing. So long as I don’t get stopped by any cops I’ll be home shortly after lunch. I’ll see you soon.”

Unsurprisingly Ford is the one to hang up on the other end. He must be frustrated with the stupid phone line. The phone doesn’t ring again so Stan heads back to his car, puts it in drive, and heads out of the rest stop with the tape still playing and the world feeling easier to stomach than it did just twelve hours ago.

Chapter 50: Twin Flame. Soulmate. Karmic.

Notes:

Happy Halloween!!! I've got an extra special chapter for you all today in celebration. So, grab a drink, a box of tissues, and get ready to cry. I sure did writing this. Enjoy!

Also; Sorry to anyone who got that first email when I accidentally published this before it was ready. My last round of editing happens on here and I hit the wrong button. Oops!

Stan only gets about two hours into the eight-hour drive before he gets stopped by a cop. It’s shortly after he’d made a pit stop for more gas, coffee, and a crappy breakfast sandwich that made him miss home.

He thinks about just flooring it.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s made a run from the cops and gotten away in this car. There’s a full tank of gas to run on which should get him a good distance. What could they even be stopping him for?

Taillights are fine, headlights are off now that the sun is up, and he’s only doing a couple over the speed limit because of the drugs on the seat next to him. Just to be safe he should have put them in the stupid zipper pocket before leaving that rest stop. These drugs are sealed and a dog wouldn’t alert to them. Probably.

But if an officer finds them? That’s some heavy jail time. He isn’t doing that. Not gonna happen.

Instead of running, which will only complicate this stop, he slows down and pulls off the exit and onto a mostly empty road. It’s busier out on the highway now and if things go south, he doesn’t need more witnesses. The road is quiet, leading off into the country and no other cars are around. It’s just him and the cop.

In preparation, Stan grabs the memory gun and pockets it inside his jacket. Shooting a cop is out of the question regardless of what the stop is for. That’s murder and getting home isn’t worth the complications that’ll bring. It would be counterproductive.

Making this guy forget however…

The moment between parking the car and waiting for the cop to come over to the window feels like it takes forever even if it makes sense. The guy has to run the plate, will see his record, and will get caught up on how long it is. Yeah, yeah. You just pulled over one of the most wanted men in America. Can we get this moving? I’ve got places to be!

It takes a whole song from the tape before someone finally knocks on the window which Stan rolls down an inch. Hopefully, this guy is just going to be a dick and gives him a ticket for going three over. Some cops are like that, especially if they don’t like you.

“Excuse me sir, but I’m going to need you to step out of the car for me.” The guy is standing back a little further into the road and away from the car, keeping some distance between them even with the door closed.

That’s a first.

Sure, he’s been stopped for plenty of speeding tickets. One time even because of some blood on the roof he’d forgotten to clean up. But they’ve never jumped straight to arresting him. Not without probable cause.

Paranoia flares, briefly, about the bag on the passenger seat. No. That’s not what this is about. Not unless this guy is a mind reader.

“With all due respect sir, why? I wasn’t speeding, I’m not intoxicated. I’m just heading home after visiting my brother down in San Antonio. I’d be happy to do a sobriety test for you if necessary. Taking me into the station seems a little overkill, doesn’t it?” He laughs a little and puts real humor in it. Nervous laughter will only make the cop more suspicious.

The guy pauses, looking Stan over and then scanning the car like he’s looking for something.

Next Stan pulls out his wallet and offers him the license and registration through the crack of the window. “I really don’t want any trouble. If it’s a speeding ticket then fine, I’ll just pay it. Go write me up or something.” Based on the loose mental tally Stan’s kept in his head this one ticket isn’t going to make or break his license. Not in California anyway.

The officer, Dan as his name tag says, accepts the license and piece of paper and then makes an odd request. “Give me a few minutes, but I’m going to need to ask for your keys, sir.”

What the fuck is this?

Okay, maybe if the guy has seen the wrap sheet he knows about past instances where he’s run. Legally can the guy even do that? Stan doesn’t think so but he also just wants to get this over with. Heh. Maybe if he goes along with it, he can sue later. Now that’s a fun idea.

Stan turns off the car and passes the car keys through the crack and stays sitting while Dan goes back to his squad car. He misses the familiar comfort of the tape already.

The whole time he’s got an awful feeling about all this. Yeah, he wants to get home to Ford, but is he being stupid here? The answer is yes. It only takes a minute to realize he’s essentially made himself into a sitting duck. That is never a good thing. There always needs to be a way out and right now there isn’t.

For all he knows the guy could be calling for backup before arresting him for whatever the stupid officer won’t even tell him. This doesn’t feel like a routine traffic stop. This feels like a setup.

Looking in the rearview mirror the lights on the car turn off where the squad car is parked on the side with him. Is this guy even a real cop? The outfit looks real and so does the badge but how would Stan know? Maybe parking out on an unmarked road without anyone in sight is going to get him in more trouble than out on the highway would have.

While waiting Stan pulls out the only reasonable weapon he has, the memory gun. It’s still got ‘Stanley Pines’ punches in from where he’d been trying to put in ‘Stanley Pines love life’ last night but hadn’t been able to finish between memories. He powers it on and tucks it back in the pocket.

It’s almost a full ten minutes before Dan comes back around to the window with Stan’s paperwork. He passes it back through the crack and leans a little closer looking at Stan, “Mr. Pines, I’m once again going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle. You are not under arrest, but I do need to take you into the station.”

This whole thing smells of a scam or something. It’s not right. What on earth could this guy need to bring him into the station for if not an arrest? Some anger must show on his face because the guy moves a hand to the taser on his waistband.

Screw this crap.

Stan’s got a quicker draw and pulls out the memory gun, aims it through the window, and shoots the officer with it all in quick succession. The whole motion only takes five seconds and then the guy is collapsing in the middle of the road hand still on his belt. “Sorry buddy, but I don’t have time for whoever the hell is paying you to kill me. Tell your boss they’ll need to try harder next time.”

Getting out the first thing Stan does is move the officer back into his squad car’s driver’s seat and close the drivers side door. The memory gun isn’t exactly supposed to knock someone out, especially for a minor memory, but he doesn’t have time to think about the logistics of that right now.

He grabs his car keys out of Dan’s pocket and then-

This isn’t some well-made dupe. This is an actual cop car. And he just erased the memory of a real cop. That should raise all kinds of moral objections. Too bad Stan doesn’t like cops that much even if this guy kept things respectful enough. Other than the car keys.

Using the little crappy computer and the police scanner he spends five minutes working out what even caused the stop in the first place.

If this guy isn’t associated with a gang that wants Stan dead, then what the hell does the California government have on him to warrant such an extreme jump from ‘license and registration’ to ‘I’m taking you into the station’ without explanation or so much as a reading of the Maranda Rights.

The results on the computer are not what Stan expected.

Someone had sent an email to the California police station located in Reedings including his description, license plate, and the reason for this traffic stop.

‘Individual is believed to be suffering a psychotic break and is considered a danger to himself and possibly others. If seen please approach with caution and minimal contact until backup can arrive'.

The email, as shown on the screen, comes right from one of the officers in Gravity Falls Oregon, six hours away.

Stan sits, for way too long, looking at the screen unsure what to think of that.

This email is time-stamped in the middle of the night and in such a small town they rarely have someone on patrol. It’s usually a state trooper hanging around at most, not an actual officer in the building. Who the hell could have drafted up this email at such an odd hour? Besides, he left Gravity Falls of his own volition which means Ford would have had to wait at least a few days to make a police report of any kind, especially-

Oh. This is rich.

Stanley starts laughing in the passenger seat of the cop car, disregarding the concern of the noise waking the guy up. Stanford, in a moment of extreme worry and fear, must of-

He laughs louder, doubling over in the seat while his chest wells up with love.

Stanford Pines, Mr. Perfect, had broken into the police station to put out a bulletin on his car. Ford was so worried, even after everything in the entryway, that he took Stan’s safety into his own hand. Maybe he’d even worked out the missing memory gun, if he talked to Fids, which would explain such drastic measures.

Ford really does love him.

That thought, along with all the others, is almost enough to make him start crying.

No, we have work to do first. Cry later.

Stan quickly drafts up a believable email and then mimics this officer's voice to clear things up on the police scanner. Getting pulled over and having to do this again isn’t happening. Now more than ever he needs to get back to Gravity Falls. ‘Yesterday’ preferably.

Dan still hasn’t woken up by the time he’s done but Stan doesn’t wait around to make sure he’s okay. Best to get out of here while he’s still ahead. Getting back into his own car Stan starts the engine and does a fast U-turn on the empty road, leaving the cop behind to wake up whenever he’s ready.

The feeling of adrenaline while driving away is familiar and a thrill he hasn’t felt since living back in New Mexico before all this happened. He’d forgotten how fun it was to get away with illegal crap. No wonder he’d been running around the country doing this kind of shit for the last ten years.

He missed this.

Music blasting mixes with the air coming in through the still open window, adrenaline from a near brush with the law, prison, or death pumping through his veins, and the familiar smooth ride and purring engine underneath his hands across the leather wheel.

Pressing down on the gas Stan speeds now.

With the information still being processed in the system the odds of getting stopped again are high. Very high. But they can’t check your plate if they can’t read it. There isn’t a police car in the country that could keep up with this car.

No long-term consequences of running from the cops should arise so long as he doesn’t get caught. That little email makes Ford’s heartfelt act go up in smoke, legally.  

Tears fall now in the safety of the car, speeding down the road, thinking about him. It’s still just unbelievable that Ford could feel the same way. He’s a genius with good looks, quick wit, and- Just. Fucking everything.

Ford is everything so why would he give a single shit about him?

The point of Stan being nothing more than a delinquent is being driven home more and more by the second, running and hiding from the cops. He’s not smart. Sometimes he’s kind of funny. Sure, charming is a word people have used to describe him before but-

Lovable? No. That’s not a word anyone has ever used when describing him.

He’s done a lot of horrible things. His body has been through actual hell twice over. He’s ruined Ford’s life on several occasions, even if it all got fixed in the end. What about all that could appeal to anyone?

The loud car and the open road hold no answers.

Only Stanford and Gravity Falls have them. Pushing his foot down a little further on the gas he wonders how fast he’d need to speed to shave off an hour or two from the remaining six.

*

Stan doesn’t slow down until he reaches the familiar territory of Oregon. Driving around winding roads going too fast is how you end up in a wreck so he finally slows down to a normal speed. Being engulfed in the evergreens on both sides of the road calms the adrenaline from outrunning two different cop cars during the trip and brings a more somber feeling over the car. He’s almost home, almost back with Ford.

The fear of facing his brother is still here.

It feels just like picking up the mail in that ratty motel down in New Mexico seeing Ford’s familiar handwriting begging him to make the drive. That one postcard had contained a million different cries for help, they both just hadn’t known it then.

Will they just continue as things were before? Does Ford know about his feelings? Has he always known as suspected? Back in high school, thinking about it now, Ford picking up on this seemed the most likely explanation for the sudden and immediate distance.

If Ford knows, which he might, why is he still being so nice about it?

Ford doesn’t. Well, he can’t possible-

They aren’t both screwed, are they?

Part of his heart wants to hope against all odds that they are which only makes the guilt crop back up. Because Ford is perfect in every way and he’s just Stanley Pines, the spare disappointment.

One nice week isn’t enough to convince himself of anything otherwise.

Sure, Ma and Pops love him. Ma always has, of course. And Pops is working on it and being better. But that doesn’t erase the decades of being told he’s not enough, not worth anything, and that he’ll never accomplish anything worthwhile.

That last one isn’t completely true, not anymore. He saved Ford and beat Bill. That’s something worthwhile even if he never does anything that big ever again. The idea of trying to one up that win sounds exhausting.

Not even his self-hatred can stomp out the pride he feels over that victory and the rewards every time Stan thinks about it. He worked hard and deserved that one.

Still. Ford loving him (like anything good) doesn’t feel right. This week has been nice like something out of a dream or straight out of a fantasy.

Did he survive? Is this the same reality he was in before the showdown with Bill? Maybe Bill gave him back the wrong Ford in the first place.

Bill is the only other being or person who knew about Stan’s less than normal feelings about Ford. It didn’t come out until around the time they’d teamed up which was probably the only reason their nightmares together didn’t take a much darker and sicker twist.

Stan would have never been able to forgive himself for something that bad.

So. What is this? If Ford knows, which it seems like he does, what else could this be?

He’s barely a mile away at this point, well within the city limits, and the driveway to the shack will be coming into view before this song is over.

What if, upon Stan saving the world, Ford got things twisted.

His brother went through unimaginable torture in those final weeks under Bill’s hand directly.

What if Ford, somehow, convinced himself that this was the best way to pay Stanley back?

That thought settles like a bowling ball in his stomach with the crappy coffee he’d gotten at the last gas station. Yeah. That seems like something that could happen. Ford, in an attempt to repay his debt, plans on torturing himself to fulfill Stan’s sick desires.  

His brother never liked being in debt.

Parking the car next to Ford’s Stan can’t stop just looking at the house. The curtains are drawn closed, the lights off, and the place didn’t burn down or disappear in his absence.

This isn’t what Stan used to dream of. Fuck, he isn’t even sure what a real relationship with returned romantic love would look like. It’s not something he’s ever dared to consider because of how selfish it is.

He doesn’t want this out of pity. He didn’t save Ford and the world for this. It’s gotta be real or it ain’t right. Even if it was real, Stan isn’t sure he’d be able to grasp such a concept.

One of the curtains in the living room moves like someone is peering out but the movement is so brief Stan would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking right then.

Okay. He can do this.

This conversation is going to be hard and it's very likely he ends up back in this car sometime in the next hour. It’ll involve a lot of yelling, crying, and digging up old crap. Stuff that’s better left ignored.

But if Ford plans on trying to do something this stupid then Stan’s gonna stop him. No problem. He’ll work this out and somehow things will be okay. They’ve gotta be. Stan won’t accept anything less.

It hadn’t been more than five minutes of sitting in the car when Stan finally gathers up his backpack and gets out. The sound of the car door slamming feels louder than it should be. No sense dragging his feet here. Stan walks keeping his shoulders squared walking across the yard and onto the porch.

His hands are shaking so much he almost drops the keys unlocking the front door.

It ends up being a moot point because the door is already open. The sound of a record playing in the living room can be heard but nothing else. No footsteps. No running water or clanging dishes in the kitchen. No Ford.

Where is he?

After closing the front door, he moves further into the entryway to check the living room. Nothing there has changed. Everything is exactly as it was before he left. That does nothing to calm the slowly growing anxiety. If Ford missed him so much, why isn’t he here?

This feels like one of their nightmares. Stan comes back to the house and Ford tries to kill him. One of them dies.

No. That’s not what this is. This is reality. There is no more Bill. Ford’s just- Somewhere. Probably asleep or maybe down in his lab preparing for the surgery?

Next, he moves across into the kitchen. It’s a relief to see some changes here. The dishes were washed from lunch yesterday with new ones drying. Coffee cups, two bowls, and several pieces of silverware. There is a pizza box sitting on the counter next to the fridge. Three books and three boxes sit on the dining table now.

Stan gravitates over towards the table, curiosity getting the better of him.

A shoe box. A metal container. And a wooden chest.

Red. Green. Blue.

A deep breath gets sucked in past his teeth as he remembers, gaze flicking over the books and the two familiar containers. Fuck.

He’d completely forgotten about that little treasure hunt with the nasty prize at the end he’d put together for Ford. The last day before Bill in general is hazy. He was finalizing this surprise, fixing the eye, and erasing everything as he went. In total, he only got maybe five hours of sleep the night before? It was easily the craziest day of his life.

If Ford didn’t know before, he definitely does now. No chance of lying or blowing this off then. Damn. Just to be sure, Stan carefully opens up the metal box to reveal the opened letters inside. Yep. Ford read them and now the truth is out.

Okay, so he knows. The car is still here so his brother didn’t run away at least. He’s still around. And maybe not planning on killing him if he wasn’t waiting with an axe at the door.

Half of Stan needs to turn the whole house upside down and find him now. What if he’s gotten himself hurt or did so on purpose? But the other part knows he’s being ridiculous. It’s the lingering paranoia. Ford isn’t going anywhere. The guy seems determined to keep him around, being dead won’t accomplish that.

Calm down. Ford put this here, and set this up, for some reason. Just be patient.

Instead of running off to look, he turns his attention to the wooden chest on Ford’s side of the table. It’s got a lock on it but the key is already inside making it easy to open. Shoving the other two boxes and the books out of the way he brings the chest over to the edge to start pulling things out from inside.

The first thing right on top is a handful of pictures from high school. Prom night, pre-punch incident. A string of photos from a booth at that New York concert they attended together. A picture down at the boardwalk.

The rest of the pictures aren’t of them though. Just him without Ford.

One from after a boxing match where he looks particularly gross. Sure, he’s smiling, but everything else about the picture is terrible. He’s covered in sweat, his hair is a mess, and his shirt is a little torn.

Next is him lying back on the deck of their ship. It’s mid-day and he must have fallen asleep right out in the sun for Ford to have managed to get this picture. His mouth is open and everything on top of a slowly developing sunburn!

Why did Ford keep these pictures? Where did he even get them?

They didn’t own a camera back then. They were too expensive which is the whole reason so few snapshots from that time exist. Did Ford steal a camera or something? Heh. Figures Ford would be a better thief.

All of the pictures in the rest of the stack follow the same pattern. Him, somewhere, doing something. Not noticing he’s being photographed. They kind of look like paparazzi pictures for a celebrity. Except Ford took these of him to keep this whole time. For over a decade.

Stan sets the pile of pictures aside on the table to avoid wrinkling or crushing them.

There is a large sketchbook that he remembers being a birthday present underneath the pictures. His hands are still shaking so he finally decides to sit down in a chair while pulling out the book. It’s old and well worn and after finding the photos he’s kinda worried about what’ll be inside.

Before opening it, he sits back and tries to think rationally for a second looking at the kitchen. At this whole damn mess.

Since waking up Ford has been trying to fix things. He carries guilt about what happened. But beyond that, he loves him too. They're being brothers again which is more than Stan ever expected to have. More than he could have dreamed of. Just thinking about that almost makes him choke up.

But Ford has also been a little too nice. The kiss on the cheek. The star gazing out by the fire that almost ended with them kissing. That tension wasn’t so one-sided after all. His memories just hadn’t been put together enough to understand or seize the opportunity.

Then there was the fear and begging in the entryway when he’d half-remembered. In the brief eye contact, Stan can remember seeing how afraid Ford looked. Like Stan was going to war or something equally stupid and dangerous.

He knew that look, that fear. Because he’d worn it full-time for a while after Ford went through the portal. It was the look, a combination of fear, longing, and love, of the love of your life disappearing. Going up in smoke never to be seen again.

Jumping back to now Ford has set up the kitchen almost like a walk through. The letters and evidence from the puzzle here to explain Stan’s feelings again, in case he forgot. Yeah. Yeah. He wasn’t as slick as he thought the day before running off. And Fids must have told Ford he was the one hanging onto the memory gun. Where is he?

The two nerds are supposed to be working on tearing apart the portal today but Ford isn’t stupid enough to lay all this out in the kitchen if they aren’t home alone. He knows better.

Now the box. This wooden chest. It’s full of pictures. And the ones of him have to span about a school semester, maybe Junior year?

Wasn’t that around the time Ford was complaining about taking a photography class?

Thus far Stan has kept his cool other than the shaking his hands are still doing, fidgeting with his watch while looking over the table. A bright red flush decorates his face when that piece clicks together.

Ford hated that class and claimed it was the only open elective that hour leaving him no other choice. But maybe it wasn’t that awful since Ford used it to take pictures of him, of all things, and then kept them all this time. Maybe he didn’t even take the class against his will either.

It’s kind of stalker-level behavior but it doesn’t put Stan off like it should. It’s just so unexpected. It's wildly out of character from the Ford he knew and the relationship they had at the time. They hated each other! Or Ford hated him, but these old pictures suggest something completely different. Technology isn’t good enough yet for Ford to fake these even if he wanted to.

That just leaves Stanley with the facts. Ford is a total stalker and a bit of a freak. Just like him.

If anyone else were to refer to Ford that way, especially himself, Stan wouldn’t stand for it. But this is incest they’re talking about, this is-

Exactly how things are supposed to be, isn’t it? Maybe they’re both fucked, but at least they’re in it together, right? Just like always.

Big deep breaths are necessary to keep himself from falling into a fit of sobs. He needs to finish going through whatever else Ford kept in this chest, locked away. Stan’s already starting to get an idea, but he wants to see it and know. Be sure.

When his hands and breathing are steady enough, Stan opens the sketchbook to look inside.

The back of the cover has Ford’s big loopy and stupid cursive signature on one side with the date for their seventeenth birthday below it. Looking over at the first page is a simple drawing done in handwriting painfully familiar from the endless hours spent pouring over the second journal.

The drawing looks too real to be a sketch. Damn Ford and his seemingly endless list of talents. It’s the two of them sitting at the kitchen table behind the two small cakes their mother had made with the candles lit. Ford had sketched the scene from their last birthday together as the first thing inside the notebook. Perhaps he’d even worked on this the same day after they’d headed to bed.

Stan gives up trying to stop the tears but he is still careful not to let them stain the old paper, not wanting to mark the perfect picture.

Turning the page Stan can make out a very loopy letter on the back of the picture with a date from almost three years after their birthday. Ford would have written this when he was twenty then, years after they parted. Stupid girly handwriting. Stan will regret trying without glasses but he tugs the book closer, squinting, and forces himself to make it out.

 

For a very long time, I thought about what good use this sketchbook could be. It’s just been sitting in my desk, following me around, since I was given it. Perhaps this could be a good test of skill and an outlet at the same time. If I plan on doing field research I’ll need to practice drawing specimens. There is no person I know better than Stanley.

And no matter how mad I am at him, being reminded every day here, that doesn’t make love magically go away. If only it did. If one great emotion could cancel out the other. That would make my whole life so much easier. But it doesn’t. I miss him. Today especially.

It’s our birthday for God’s sake! Why did I have to be reminded, to remember? This is stupid. I shouldn’t be drawing him, us. It’s ridiculous. Just like keeping all those pictures, I suppose… I should burn this stuff, snuff it out.

Except I can’t. I’ve been trying for as long as I can remember and nothing helps. Maybe getting some of it out here will finally rid the love from my system? It’s not like it could make it worse. In the end, it would be nice to see him again at least. Safely, from the confines of a page of paper. Happy Birthday, Stanley.

 

A normal headache, right behind his bad eye, crops up. Not a memory headache, just a regular one. It’s a relief to feel some kind of normal and mundane pain without having to worry it has a supernatural source.

The concern out in the car about Ford doing this as penance for Stan rescuing him has completely unraveled. These pictures are too old. These pages to worn for Ford to draft up in the day he’s been gone. How could he argue with this? Proof, pure and solid, that they’ve both been in love for over a decade and fighting it just as long?

Briefly, he skims through the rest of the book but doesn’t read anything in as much detail as the first letter to avoid worsening the headache. He’s content enough looking at the very realistic and detailed drawings.

Some of them are pretty saucy, something Stan didn’t believe Ford was capable of.

He doesn’t remember Ford ever finding him asleep on the bottom bunk with his dick out. Maybe that picture is a combination of walking in on him in the bathroom and him sleeping without a blanket in just boxers. Unless Ford is even more of a perv then Stan already knows. At this point he isn't ruling it out.

The one that really gets him though is on the very last page and leaves him flushed from head to toe. The Ford in this drawing is older compared to the younger sketches of himself on previous pages. Otherwise, the whole picture could be real if not for the grey-scale color palette.

“Motherfucker…” It’s just a sketch of Ford’s face, glasses still on, with his hair an awful mess. His lips are a little shiny with spit, his mouth slightly open, and there is what Stan can only assume is cum carefully sketched across the frames, jaw, and forehead.

Flipping over to the back of the page is another letter, this time in neat print so it’s easier to read.

 

I can’t believe we’ve both been keeping the same stupid secret for fifteen years. Half our lives! You wouldn’t believe the unending joy I experienced when I tracked down that letter downstairs. Fuck, you are so damn clever and smart. I never could have imagined in a million years this-

You did a good job hiding it. I had no clue. Guess we were both too busy hiding our secret to notice how weird the other was being, right? The reason I pulled away back in high school had nothing to do with you Stanley and everything to do with me. I wanted you all to myself, even if it meant hiding you away on a boat to do it. Especially in that case. Miles away from anyone, where no one else could hear us…

I knew that wasn’t right. I was being too controlling, thought I was manipulating you into it. Having some distance hurt, every inch of it, but it allowed me to convince myself that being apart would be best.

I just didn’t expect it to blow up so spectacularly. My bad. I just thought I’d go to school and that would be that, since you had no interest in higher education.

If I could go back and beat some sense into a younger version of me I would. You deserved so much better, both as a brother and otherwise. I’m sorry. I figure, if you remember, you’ll have already forgiven me. That’s who you are. You are too nice. Endlessly charming. Shamelessly compassionate. To die for funny. The list just goes on and on. It would be more words than this house has paper.

Your you and that’s why I love you. It shouldn’t have taken some grand gesture, almost losing you, to put you first the right way. Distance was never the right thing and I get that now. After that stunt yesterday you’re never leaving my line of sight again. I love you too much.

And, uh. Guess you won’t need to imagine or look at a picture for much longer, right?

 

Very slowly Stan closes the book and sets it aside next to the pictures and then just looks down into the chest where a single walkie-talkie is sitting underneath where the sketchbook had been.

This is all too much.

To know that all this time he’d been so close. A phone call. A letter. A visit. Just one damn conversation away from everything he ever selfishly wanted. This can’t be real. He must have died on the drive home and this is heaven. No, hell actually. Where is Ford? Why wasn’t he at the door to greet him, why hasn’t he come downstairs or into the damn room at least-

Deep breathe. In and out. In and out.

His hands are still shaking and he doesn’t trust his legs not to buckle if he tries to get up. Staying still, trying to calm down, in this chair is the best option. Having a handle on all these emotions, regrets, thoughts, and realizations tumbling around is necessary before he faces Ford. It’s a blessing in disguise to be left alone.

Let’s assume I’m not dead. That would mean somewhere in this house Ford is hiding or just hanging out with this other walkie-talkie. Waiting for their reunion. No, not a reunion. They’ve had dozens of those. This is something different.

What would you describe the first time you see someone after both of you poured your hearts out separately like complete saps? Oh, and your brothers too. What’s the word for that?

It doesn’t exist. Not in any language he knows.

A whole ten minutes go by trying to calm down and gather his thoughts and feelings but it just isn’t working. If anything, the distant sound of the record starting over in the other room only makes the panic rising in his chest worse. But he still can’t make himself pick up the last thing inside the chest and make the call.

Stan wouldn’t even need to say anything, Ford would just come to the kitchen from wherever he is and find him instead.

Love isn’t something he’s experienced in being given for free. Ma is the only example of it he has and that’s completely different from this. He’s her son and would probably love him no matter what just because of that genetic link. The miracle of childbirth or whatever.

Everyone else in the world has made him fight for everything. That list includes respect, giving a shit, and most of all love. Yeah, he’s a fighter. But all this still doesn’t feel like enough. Not enough to earn something this good. Nothing would ever feel satisfactory. At least he can blame a hundred percent of that on Pops.

Huh. It’s kind of funny. Even this moment has been nothing but an uphill battle, hasn’t it? Driving off. Remembering. Coming back. Sitting here, bickering with himself. It pulls a broken laugh out into the room that turns into a loud sob halfway through.

I can’t. I just can’t do it. One little itty-bitty thing, one push of a button and Stan just can’t.

Instead of reaching into the wooden chest, he pushes everything out of the way to lay over his arms and sob. The sound fills the room only getting louder and louder as more time passes.

Ford didn’t think this would be so damn hard to sit through in the pantry off the kitchen.

During Stan’s absence, he had gone through every possible scenario of what could happen when Stan came home. Without getting a call from the police stations it seemed Stan had somehow snuck home without being seen. That on its own was a mess to be cleaned up later.

So, Stan hadn’t forgotten everything. That’s good, easily in the top half of the list of possible outcomes of his brother's return. But still not great. The absolute best top three scenarios involve Stanley not using the gun at all and changing his mind.

From what little Ford has gathered watching and listening from inside the pantry, hidden by the curtain, it seems this could be one of those lucky three. It’s almost enough to make him cry himself. Except he’s done enough of that. It’s Stan’s turn now. Ford just needs to stay quiet until he’s done.

Much like down in the basement, Stanley deserves some hypothetical space to process everything. It doesn’t seem to have disgusted him at least. Only Stanley wouldn’t be repulsed by sketches both sexual and otherwise drawn from memory. Or the pictures he’d specifically taken that dumb photography class for. It was worth every minute ‘wasted’ having to learn about lighting, focal points, and camera settings.

Now, almost half an hour since Stan first walked in the door, Ford is finding it more and more difficult to keep waiting. Stan is sobbing and it hurts to hear. He wants to walk out into the kitchen and hug him, tell him it's okay. What exactly is he upset over?

Stan isn’t mad, is he? Come on now. If Ford doesn’t care and has thrown his tiny conscience out the window why wouldn’t Stan? You don’t feel something this awful so deeply for so long and then still care what other people think when you realize you can have it. Right? No, certainly not.

This is just Stan’s version of his breakdown last night after solving the puzzle. That’s all. Ford is sure of it. It’s okay. They can trade roles; Stanley doesn’t need to be the strong twin today. He’s overdue for a vacation. Actually, that isn’t a terrible idea, maybe- 

Later. Not now.

After a few more minutes without the crying winding down, Ford can’t take it anymore so he leaves the pantry and walks across to where Stan is sitting at the table, hovering behind his chair.

Really? Now the fear is going to pick up? Now isn’t the time.

Ford pushes forward and through it anyway and puts a tentative hand on Stan’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” His words can barely be heard over the crying.

Stan can’t help but tense his shoulders having been snuck up on, it's just second nature. The tension is brief though once his mind catches up. Rather than trying to talk he attempts the deep breathing exercise again and does a little better than last time.

Get it together Pines the love of your life is waiting for you to stop crying and kiss him already!

That does not help with his breathing in the slightest.

Ford went about this in the gentlest way he possibly could, hadn’t he? It was the truth spoken through written words old enough for Stan to believe him. Still, Lee looked like he was about to have a panic attack over the table. No, they can’t have that.

Without taking his hand away Ford pulls a chair over to sit next to Stanley and then turns Stan’s chair to face the empty one. “You’re alright. Look at me Lee, please.” He keeps his voice gentle but firm sitting across from Stan.

It takes all of his strength to push away from the table and turn in the chair to face Stanford. Nothing about this feels real and not even looking at Ford through the tears and the sobs drives that home.

“Hey, it’s okay. I get it, I might have gone a little overkill with that last drawing. But my bad art skills aren’t worth crying over, are they?” Ford cups Stan’s face, brushing away his tears, and pulls a small package of tissues out of his pants pocket to offer his brother.

A choked and ugly laugh takes the place of the sobs he’d been letting out for who knows how long. Damn it Ford, I’m trying to process over a decade's worth of emotions here and now you’re making me laugh? When the laugh dies out the sobs don’t come back which is a relief.

Stan expected this to be weird and different, and it is, but it's also identical to how things used to be once upon a time. Before they both grew up and turned into class-act morons. He lets Ford brush away the tears and uses the tissues to blow his nose several times so he’s not covered in snot.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re a better artist than you give yourself credit for. Do you have any idea how much money we could save on film if I just get you to sketch everything?” A small smile dances at the edge of his lips and, other than the occasional sniffle, he feels more in control.

Ford keeps the one hand on Stan’s face, noting how he needs to shave. He looks tired. Did they both stay up this whole time? It is barely noon which is earlier than Stanley said he’d be back. “Whatever your heart desires, I’ll happily sketch anything you want. Though I’m biased to say I like drawing you the most.” It feels unnatural saying something so gross and gooey while making eye contact, but Ford does it anyway.

Is Ford trying to send him into another round of hysterics on purpose?

No, he’s just done hiding. It calms his racing heart some and he leans into Ford’s palm the tiniest bit while shifting forward in the chair a fraction of an inch. “So, what, you plan on drawing me like one of your French girls now?” The small smile grows a little wider seeing Ford blush and glance away. It’s a familiar expression Stan remembers from their youth and it feels almost bittersweet to see it again now.

Ford is mostly just glad Stan stopped crying and that a kind touch was enough to ground him again. He didn’t consider or dare think what ‘getting this far’ would feel like. Having Stan’s charm and wit turned his way is exactly what he wants. It’ll just take some getting used to so he doesn’t blush scarlet every damn time. “I’ve been doing that for an inappropriate amount of time. A new sketch where you aren’t underage would probably be a good idea. Incest is enough to land us both in hell anyway if it's real. Although I can’t imagine it can get much- “

Stan reaches over and tangles a hand in Ford’s hair to pull him across the short distance into a proper kiss. Sure, he’s been bold before, it's part of who he is, but this feels bolder. This isn’t just a kiss. It’s the kiss, the one he’s been wanting since after they turned thirteen without all the inexperience of youth to go with it.

For a moment Ford is so surprised he can’t do much of anything other than shut up. That seems to be Stan’s point anyway. Is it hot in here or is it just him? He returns the kiss immediately but doesn’t try to take control of it. Instead, he just savors it, trying to remember every second like this will never happen again.

When Stan pulls back it's with a joyful laugh but he doesn’t go far. The hand in Ford’s hair makes sure their foreheads stay pressed together practically breathing the same air. “Stop that. I can tell your brain is running a marathon up there. You can’t autopilot sex, Ford.”

Opening his eyes again they're so close enough together that Ford can see more details than usual. Stanley looks happy with joy and mischief dancing in his voice and gaze. His breath tastes of coffee, really bad coffee, and cigarettes. He was probably smoking while making the trip back here. How fast was he speeding to make it back hours sooner than expected and-

It’s really funny how stupid Ford is being right now. Here they are, sitting mouth to mouth in the kitchen, and Ford’s brain won’t shut up long enough to just enjoy it. Maybe he’s trying to calculate how long they can kiss without breathing or something equally ridiculous. It clears up the remaining tension and worries. Stan melts.

The smartest dork on the planet and he’s frazzled just kissing. Kissing him.

“Fine, if your brain won’t shut up maybe I’ll have to help you out.” No response is going to come anyway so Stan doesn’t wait and just pulls Ford back into another kiss. This one is more passionate. There are remnants of their first kiss just in a much sweeter and experienced package. Battling of tongues, swapping of spit, and Stan very lightly tugs at Ford’s inner lip with his teeth.

Stanley has gotten a lot better at kissing since the last time they did this and the little tug with his teeth pulls an embarrassingly loud noise from him.

Something somewhere inside him snaps and Ford moves in response beyond just his mouth. The hand cupping Stan’s face shifts back to tangle in his long hair with a fist while he gets out of his chair without breaking apart to climb over Stan’s lap, the other hand hanging onto his shoulder.

His head is dizzy from the kiss making deep thought impossible.

It feels like there’s a live wire between them sending sparks into the air and creating a new kind of tension. They’re both wearing far too many clothes in Stan’s opinion. It takes real strength to pull back from the vice-like grip Ford has engaged to keep their lips sealed together. A crazy stupid smile graces his face because of it.

Ford really wants him. Duh, the guys on your lap you idiot. No, but like seriously. Ford’s tugging at his shirt and trailing down across his jaw while Stan’s left panting catching his breath and trying to string enough thoughts and words together to keep things moving.

Stan’s being quiet, other than breathing, and it makes Ford pull back to try and decode what’s going on. Any question that something could be wrong disappears seeing just how big of a smile Stan is wearing. This is new. Stanley has never in all the time they’ve existed smiled this big or with that much pure joy.

There’s lust there too and Ford is sure he’s wearing an equally loopy grin “Sorry, might have gotten a little carried away there. Now that I’m allowed, I need to document everything. All of you. I’ve got theories, but nothings better then hard evidence.”

Stan laughs again before trailing both hands down off of Ford’s shoulders and hair. He’s been rather polite so far. Not necessary. Ford can take it. Stan’s hands land on his ass to provide a little support while standing up out of the chair.

Ford doesn’t have any option but to wrap his legs around Stan’s waist and hang onto his shoulders unless he wants to end up on the floor. The growing erection from Stan’s lap becomes obvious in this new position and he’s glad to just hide his face against Lee’s shoulder instead.

“I’ll show you some hard evidence. And maybe later, after I’ve fucked you stupid, you can run some experiments. If your brain can handle anything else the rest of the day when I’m through with you.” The list of things Stan knows he’s good at is short. Cons and crime, lying, and sex. But damn is he good at those things. Now he’s going to use all that skill to leave Ford capable of little more than stuttering.

It seems unlikely Ford could flush any darker but he’s sure Stan will prove him wrong again soon enough. “Upstairs, in my bedroom then.” While Stan walks Ford uses this time to familiarize himself with his neck, pressing kisses across the skin and then attempting a hickey that he’s pleased to feel makes Stan stumble at the stairs.

Carrying someone around is not exactly as easy or as sexy as people make it look in the movies. Or at least that’s what Stan figures out when going up the stairs. The greatest advantage of the position is how much of Ford he can touch. One hand stays down on his ass, getting familiar with the territory, while the other runs across any piece of skin within reach.

Up under Ford’s shirt, across his lower back, his shoulders. They’re chest to chest and every step up the stairs provides some delicious friction to both of their crotches. A loud groan slips past Stan’s lips when Ford finds a particularly sensitive spot along his collarbone. He picks up the pace heading down the hallway and pushing Ford’s bedroom door open.

The sight that greets them stops his lust-fueled brain dead in its tracks, eyes darting around the room. Electric candles are scattered across both bedside tables and a few down on the floor around the bed illuminating the dark room since the curtains are tightly closed to prevent daylight from coming in. A bouquet of roses sits in a vase on the far dresser and next to it is some kind of bottle in an ice bucket. Without looking Stan’s willing to bet all his money its wine or champagne.

It looks like something straight out of a movie or a honeymoon suite at a hotel. Words fail him and for a while he just stands there in the doorway, distantly aware he should probably put Ford down but unable to unlock the arms holding him close. Damn. He’s not supposed to start crying again. He got that all out downstairs, or at least he thought so. But yeah, he’s crying and the love in his chest is so strong it physically hurts.

Ford has to shift a little to turn and glance at the room which is still set up exactly as he left it. The silence from Stan isn’t exactly what he expected. Maybe he did go a little overkill. It isn’t that Stan doesn’t like it, because he’s a sucker for romance, but-

“Is this what you were doing while I was gone? Turning our house into…. this?” It’s a miracle Stan keeps his voice steady through the question without it quivering.

“I was preparing for every possible outcome. Is it too much? We could go across the hall to your room if it is. I had something less intense set up over there although that bed is significantly smaller and the headboard isn’t secured to the wall which could damage the drywall in the event you-“

What did he expect? Ford lives for calculations. Why would their love life be any different? More than anything, he’s touched and it's almost enough to make his legs weak.

While Ford rambles Stan reached back and closes the bedroom door, locks it, and then turns around to press Ford against it. Kissing is becoming his new favorite way to shut Ford up. He pours every ounce of love, affection, and lust into the kiss. If Ford wants to be all consumed by him then Stan will give him that, happily. He’s gotta put these feelings somewhere. Inside Ford-

Stan pulls away laughing around the tears, bringing both hands up to Ford’s face while his hips keep him up. “God, I love you with all your stupid eccentricities. You are perfect in every conceivable way.” He doesn’t give Ford a chance to respond and instead shifts forward, firmly securing Ford against the door harder so that beyond their clothes there is no distance between them. 

Ford feels so lightheaded that he worries he might pass out which would be very bad because he can’t miss a second of this. Now it’s really too hot in here and Stan is only making it worse, sharing his body heat and grinding their hips together.

“Fuck, Lee. Please, I need you.” He moans out, pulling his hands away from Stan's hair in favor of trying to get his shirt off and out of the way. The faint scars are an afterthought compared to the thin layer of chest hair covering Stan's skin. In the candlelight, it’s easier to feel than see. It probably matches the same color of Stan’s hair, a dark chestnut brown. His pubs-

Stan kisses Ford again while pulling them away from the door to move over next to the neatly made bed. “That’s the idea, now let go for a second so we can shed a few layers.” He has to pry Ford off but once back on his own two feet, it’s like he wakes up and starts getting with the program. 

He just can’t stop smiling and it makes kissing between undoing Ford’s stupid buttons difficult. This moment right here makes every terrible thing he’s ever had to do or been put through worth it, melting away with all the tension from his shoulders. 

Running his hands across every piece of skin Ford can reach he traces different raised scars, carding fingers through soft and coarse hair on Stan’s head, chest, and down through his happy trail. He’s supposed to be working on undoing Stan’s belt but he gets a little distracted applying pressure to Stan’s cock through the fabric and reveling in the groan that pulls from Stan. So, he does it again, the noise giving him goosebumps. 

Is this what it’s like to feel high on speed or something? It’s closer to being drunk than sober but his mind feels sharper instead of dull. He’s forced to let go so Stan can slide his shirt off onto the floor and manages to make himself focus on the right task through sheer force of will.

Later he’ll touch everything, see everything, and learn exactly how to make Stan fall apart. Not now.

Stan makes quick work of Ford’s belt and fly before tugging his pants and boxers down in one go finally ridding him of the stupid clothes. If only there was better lighting to see exactly what Ford looks like now. He’s taller and finally filled out since high school. Not cut but rather wearing a healthy amount of weight on his frame compared to being able to see ribs like before.

The shadows hide any scars that might be there. If everything went right, Bill should have gotten rid of them all, leaving Ford with a fresh start. No marks, other than the ones Stan plans on leaving. While Ford is distracted with his pants, undoing and pushing them down, Stan trails his mouth down Ford’s jaw and to the crook of his neck nipping at the skin along the way before biting harder halfway along the side below the ear.

With Stan’s pants gone, in a puddle by their almost overlapping feet, Ford can finally touch everywhere. His hands wander down Lee’s chest, digging in nails, across his stomach and hips before finding his prize. It appears that Stan’s penis is slightly longer than his own and a hair thicker but without a tape measure he can’t check right now. “Ahh! Shit.” His hand tightens where he’s just holding Stan at the base because of the sharp bite.

With all six fingers, Ford can feel Stan’s immediate reaction in the form of a throb and twitch. Kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his discarded pants and boxers Ford pulls Stan back onto the bed in a tumble of hot skin and dancing shadows across the wall. Maybe next time it wouldn’t be a bad idea to set up a fan or something. He didn’t expect this to be so sweaty and the air hard to breathe.

On the bed, Stan settles back between Ford’s legs leaning over him in another kiss. He’s hyper-aware of the hands running across his arms, chest, and shoulder blades with nails lightly digging into the skin. “Fucking hell,” He groans out, pulling back from the kiss just enough to speak, barely half an inch while he pants. “Where is the lube, Sixer?” There is no universe where Ford thought to buy flowers and champagne but didn’t think to pick up a bottle of lube.

The friction between his hands and Stan’s rougher, more worn, skin all over his body is only accentuated by the addition of sweat. It takes the light bite to his lips from Stan and an amused laugh before he opens his eyes again to see Stan looking at him expectantly. And so, so happy.

“Oh, uh, the bedside table.” He motions off to the left briefly and lets out a noise of complaint when Stan pulls away. Ford follows instead, reattaching himself to Stan’s neck and trailing down his chest instead of lying back and waiting.

Rather than teasing Ford he just keeps things moving and opens up the top drawer and then the bottom one in search. Another absurd laugh falls from his lips rummaging through the drawer. It’s chock-full of options. All different kinds of condoms in various sizes and colors fill the space with only one jar near the bottom that must be lube. It looks like Ford walked into the drug aisle and bought one of everything.

After grabbing the lube, Stan paused, squinting, to look at the different boxes. He tears one open that looks familiar and moves back to the center of the bed clutching the supplies in one hand. “Alright, lay back and put your legs over my shoulders while I work my magic.” He shows teeth, untangling Ford’s arms, in favor of shifting further down the bed. This adjustment puts his head almost directly in front of Ford’s cock giving him a perfect view. Jesus Christ.

The new position makes him feel incredibly vulnerable but Ford doesn’t hesitate to comply shifting into a comfortable enough spot using the pillows. “This shouldn’t take long, the lube I invented makes this process considerably-“ His last word morphs into a mix of a gasp and a moan when Stan, completely unprompted, leans forward and takes the head of the dick right near his face into his mouth.

In Stan’s opinion Ford is still way too capable of speech and its about time he fixes that. He takes just the head into his mouth, applying suction and running his tongue across the slit with a groan while his hands work. One opens the jar, collecting a generous amount of lube, and the other spreads Ford apart. It doesn’t feel cold so he doesn’t delay in spreading some across the hole while taking his brother's cock halfway.

This is hotter than anything Stan had dared to imagine late at night in bed or in the shower with moans hidden by the sound of running water. All the beautiful noises Fords making encourage him to rush. It’s scary how easy and calm he feels. Happy and almost ethereal. He works, adding more lube and taking more into his mouth until he’s eased his throat and worked his way down to the base while pushing in the first finger.

Ford keeps a hand on Stan in his hair while gripping at the comforter with his free one to avoid yanking Stan further down than he’s comfortable with. Most words have failed him at this point and he can do little more than moan, gasp, and hang on tight. “Stan, Stanley! Fuck!” His being loud only seems to spur Lee on and a surprised gasp escapes when a second finger is added.

A familiar burn accompanies it but these aren’t his own fingers. They seem sure like they already know exactly where to go and just how to find- “LEE!” It comes out in a whine so high-pitched he’s not sure anyone other than dogs could hear him. Ford's face and chest are bright red. How is it possible he has enough blood for both those places and his dick?

This lube is more effective than any other kind Stan’s used before, which is saying something. He’s used everything from spit to- less pleasant liquids. Ford seems to open up like butter around one finger and then the second. It’s not outside of the realm of possibility he prepped earlier at some point.

Two fingers scissor Ford open, adding a third, while Stan doubles his efforts around the hot and heavy cock in his mouth. The sweat, musk, and tang all screaming 'Ford' dances across his tongue and fill his nose enough to make his eyes water. No, no. We are not crying while giving a blowjob. Not now. Well- Ford does seem too distracted right now anyway. He lets them fall.

On every third thrust of the fingers, Stan makes sure to brush across Ford's prostate. With his mouth he starts to bob, applying suction while pulling back from the base to set a rhythm. Both of the legs over his shoulders are trying to pull him in closer and he lets out a low growl having his hair tugged sharply.

“Lee, I-“ Ford pulls on Stan’s hair again, kicking at his back a little with one leg. “I’m so damn close! Please, hurry up, I’m ready.” Any other words get cut off with a yell when Stan increases the contact with his prostate to every other thrust of his fingers while simultaneously having his cock taken down Stan’s throat into the intense tight heat.

The growing cresting wave of pleasure crashes down. His vision goes fuzzy despite trying to keep his eyes open and on Stanley, more damn blood rushes through his ears coming from somewhere, and he cums harder than ever before. “God, oh god, Stan, Stanley. You, fuck. Fuck me!” He’s babbling, legs wrapped around the back of Stans head tight, whole body taunt.

Stan works Ford through it continuing his attention without slowing down. A brush to his prostate every other thrust becomes constant while he swallows down the load and then continues to suck. It’s satisfying seeing Ford turned into such a hot mess and absolutely falling apart. Can’t do your calculations now, can you Pointdexter?

He doesn’t give the other a reprieve for a second even when Ford’s cries of pleasure turn into overstimulated sobs as his body relaxes in the afterglow but the pleasure and pressure don’t let up. It should be completely possible, though difficult, to help Ford finish again. It’ll just take a lot of skill, focus, and trust. Only after Ford’s cock is half hard again does he let up and start to pull back. The hand that had opened him up takes the place of Stan’s mouth continuing to stroke him.

If Ford didn’t know any better, he’d assume Stan plans on killing him. His attention doesn’t let up and it hurts. It surprises him that the pain doesn’t push him to pull away. He must be a masochist to continue to stay right where he is while Stan works his body like a fine-tuned machine, turning the crank and raising the dead. Except instead of Frankenstein, it’s his damn dick.

There are lots of thoughts to be had about how exactly Stan knows what he’s doing perfectly but Ford isn’t capable of any of them. He continues to grab at the sheets, moaning lazily with his body turned into putty, a hand still tangled in Stan’s hair. Shouldn’t he be doing more to contribute? Thus far he’s just been lying back and letting Stan do all the hard work. Maybe-

Stan pulls Ford's hand out of his hair and swaps, encouraging Ford to continue slowly jerking his cock. Fuck. His erection aches and throbs but he tears his eyes away in favor of ripping open the condom and putting it on. A few quick strokes to add more lube makes him shiver. Time to move. Now.

Both of Ford’s legs end up back over his shoulders and the stretch doesn’t seem to hurt as far as Stan can tell. Probably because his whole body is still lax from that first orgasm. Face-to-face is the position he’s least familiar with but there is no other way their first time should go. “Relax for me, Stanford, I’ll take it easy and give you a chance to adjust for a minute. Just try not to squirm.”

Finally, Stan is back within reach and Ford moves the hand previously tangled in the sheets to dig into Stan’s shoulders and hair to pull him down into a kiss. His other hand is still lazily stroking himself and-

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Ford saw exactly how much more endowed Stan is but feeling it start to press in, the slick lube easing the way, makes his mind go blank again. More effectively than the first orgasm did. “Fuck, your huge!” He chokes out into the kiss trying to breathe. This isn’t funny Stanley! Why are you laughing?!

Instead of answering Stan just kisses Ford harder around his laughter, pressing him down into the pillow and keeping him pinned. He’s not that big. Maybe bigger than average but nothing Porn Star worthy. It’s still a nice stroke to his ego thinking about how he’ll be the biggest Ford will ever have. And the blunt statement does make him laugh a little too. “Shut up and keep still, unless you want me to finish before I can get you there again.”

Waiting has never been so torturous in his whole life. Seconds felt like hours and the minute he keeps still surrounded by the heavenly heat of Ford's ass feels like a full week and a half. But he refrains, not wanting to hurt him. The kissing used to fill the lull is nice and he takes the opportunity to explore Ford's mouth with his tongue and then work on that hickey from earlier some more.

Yep. Stan’s going to kill him either with his very talented mouth, impressive dick, or maybe his tongue. A shiver runs through Ford when teeth bite at his earlobe and a surprised moan squeaks out. “I’m good Stan, please move. I need you to move. I feel like I’m going to die.” It’s possible to die from sex but at this age the odds are slim.

It can’t be the worst way to go. Surrounded and filled by Stan in the romantic and stuffy atmosphere of their bedroom. They could be at the damn dump and it would still be at the top of the list if it was like this.

Using one hand to brace himself on the headboard and the other to hold Ford’s hips Stan adjusts to get better leverage before slowly pulling out as requested and plunging back in. The restraint it takes to go slow is fresh agony so it’s a relief when Ford insists he speed up. With pleasure.

It’s an easy practiced motion to roll his hips forward to the hilt, out to the head, and then back. Stan doesn’t hold back and instead just adjusts a few times until Ford starts yelling again. Most of the sounds and words are muffled between their messy clashing kiss but every single noise draws his climax closer and closer. He tries to snuff the noises out to make this last longer, sealing their lips together so they both have to catch air through their noses.

Ford clings to Stan and his ears focus in on all the other sounds in the room beyond the obscene noises he’s making. The loud wet slap of skin against skin, the creaking of the bedframe, and small thumps from it hitting the wall. So much for being secure. Stan looks like an animal covered in sweat crushing him in what should be a very uncomfortable position. Every thrust is hard, precise, and feels like another flame being added to the fresh fire.

His cock is hard as a diamond again between them with Ford’s hand working fast over it despite being pressed tight between their bodies. The skin there is slick with spit and sweat anyway. They’re both a mess, hair sticking to skin while the continued motion builds and builds. Ford can’t breathe and that realization makes his cock throb.

Cuming again doesn’t feel so far-fetched with Stan mauling him and hammering against his prostate constantly. It just makes it difficult to keep watching. His glasses are pretty damn foggy, smeared with sweat and kind of getting in the way, but Stan hasn’t taken them off so he won’t either. He needs to see.

The force from each thrust occasionally knocks the headboard into the wall and causes the sailboat painting above the bed to shift off the wall a little. Stan feels the papers fall before Ford and he reacts without thinking. The hand on Ford’s hip pulls away to grab the letters that had landed on the back of his head and shoves them back behind the headboard to deal with later before Ford sees them.

The memory of taping those envelopes there and what they contain cools him off enough to continue without finishing in the next ten seconds. He shifts them, pulling back from the kiss, and moves Ford’s legs down around his waist so he doesn’t get bitched at later. “Just look at you,” His voice is fond but his pace remains brutal. “A sexy and complete mess, just for me. You feel what you do to me, Stanford?”

He supports himself back over Ford’s face, kissing him again with a low groan. “Almost every boner I’ve ever had I was thinking of this. Fucking you. Blowing you. You railing me over a piece of furniture or against a wall. Jerking each other off in a closet hoping no one walks in on us. It’s always been you and it’ll always be you. Every. Fucking. Time.” Stan kisses Ford, cutting off the choked sob his words cause.

His mind is spinning and his heart is heavy with love so strong it brings him to tears. Ford pushes Stan back from the kiss just enough to force out words, “I love you, Lee! Yes!” The ability to keep his eyes open is finally lost feeling the pressure building again. “Don’t stop, I want you to fuck me straight through this mattress and break the bed! I want the neighbors to hear you yell when you finish! I-“

At least they’re both complete saps. That makes it easier to let himself cry with Ford. He keeps one hand up to support himself and pushes Ford’s hand off his dick to take over stroking him across the finish line. “I love you too, Sixer!” Ford tightening up, clearly on purpose, turns the beloved nickname into a low dirty growl. “Fuck!” His voice is gruff and a little bit of his long-lost Jersey accent leaks through.

This climax hits Ford like a bullet slamming into him all at once. The remnants of time long lost from their youth is the nail in the coffin pushing him over the cliff. His hands claw at Stan’s back while he screams. Not a name or a moan but a raw yell that hurts his throat and steals every molecule of air straight out of his lungs.

Just when Stan didn’t think Ford could get any hotter, he finishes, screaming right in his ear, and gets tight. It’s crushing and takes real effort to keep moving. Finally, fucking finally, he’s kept his promise and allows his own orgasm to finish building. Three more thrusts is all it takes, but he keeps stroking Ford through it to draw out every drop.

“That’s it, just like that. Fucking hell. God, you’re so tight.” Now he’s the one babbling in Ford’s ear continuing to thrust at a slower pace to work them both through. “You did so damn good. So perfect. Come here.” He rolls them, pulling out in the process, to lay back on the bed while clutching Ford against his chest. Stanford seems to have turned into a puddle incapable of any higher level of thought. Yahtzee!

Thinking is a suggestion and Ford has no interest in it right now. He’s aware of moving, and shifting, but Stan stays pressed against him the whole time so it can’t be for anything important. Distantly he feels sore in more than one place but the satisfaction, exhaustion, and pleasure thrumming through him drowns everything else out.

Stan has to shift them both around some to get the comforter un-tucked to cover them both. It causes a big mess smearing spit and cum but he doesn’t care. They’ll clean up later when Ford comes back down to Earth. Right now, there is nothing else he’d rather be doing than cuddling Ford, covered in their various fluids, riding the highest high ever.

They both fall asleep like that; tangled, exhausted, and overwhelmingly whole.

Notes:

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Two slight inconsistencies in this chapter I'll address now.

One: I don't think police cars had any sort of computer back in the 80s. I also couldn't figure out how exactly a traffic stop would of gone for someone like Stan back then much less in this situation. So, take all this with a grain of salt.

Two: The quote 'draw me like one of your french girls' didn't become a thing until after the movie Titanic came out in 1997. However, it was too perfect not to use. It fits the plot so I'm bending things again.

PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!?!? I'M DYING TO KNOW! XD

Chapter 51: Denial

Maybe its about time Stan Pines accepts the fact that he’s dead. Because that is the only reasonable explanation he might be able to wrap his head around.

He’s done a lot of shitty things and equally awful stuff always happens to him. Good things don’t get sent his way and it’s just that simple. It doesn’t take a genius to understand this past week or so doesn’t fit the mold.

Abusive father. Thrown out at seventeen. Drug trafficking. Prison. Torture. Being alone. Unloved.

This? Right here? Doesn’t fit.

He’s been awake for a while now, with no clue what time it is, trying to rationalize things again. The weight of Ford is still present on his chest and the up and down motion of them both breathing is constant. The various fluids have long since dried, making everything itchy, but he can’t bring himself to break the silence and end the moment.

Everything feels like mist and one wrong move will shatter the illusion. Where would that land him if he woke up from this dream?

Maybe he was never invited to Gravity Falls in the first place and all this is his brains final gasp, throwing together a beautiful life, before the bullet sends brain matter all over the hood of the car in the parking lot.

Or, if he did go to Gravity Falls, there are dozens of moments he could have ended up dead. Just take your pick.

Hitting a patch of black ice on the way into town, sending him skidding into a tree. Ford could have fired the crossbow leading to him dying in the snow on the lawn. The portal might have sucked him up instead causing suffocated, getting cut in half, or a near instantaneous death for some other unknown sciencey reason.

According to the journal Bill didn’t necessarily need a host to be alive to possess someone. Maybe Bill killed him early on after figuring out his plan. Or maybe that needle in his head gave him a brain bleed and he’s still on the bathroom floor inching closer and closer towards death.  

Up in that tree in the dark maybe he missed the branch and tumbled down onto the spears. Or the knife through his foot made him lose too much blood. That was a pretty fuzzy night afterwards. Fuzzy enough for him not to realize the reaper had claimed him spread out on the couch or collapsed still on the toilet.

Stan had never felt closer to death then up on the water tower after hauling himself back up. That could have been it. The wood gave out, he fell to his death, and now-

Now what? Is this heaven then? His mind isn’t creative enough to come up with all this. Sure, he’s always tried to hold onto his childlike wonder, but sex doesn’t have anything to do with that. This is just….

He doesn’t know.

It can’t be reality because its too nice and perfect.

Maybe the death came later, after the defeat of Bill.

Fids might have had to shoot him down in the basement. Dad killed him in the gym instead of letting himself be choked. Last night he pulled out the handgun and shot himself in favor of facing Ford back here. The car went off the road into a tree, rolled, or maybe off that bridge he’d skidded across running from the second cop.

Lighting hit him between the car and the porch.

Maybe it was another brain aneurysm that did it. After the first one the odds of another are pretty high, isn’t it?

The bedroom is hot and smells of sex and roses. His skin is sweltering because of Ford’s body heat and also pretty damn itchy. He better not get an infection or something because they didn’t clean up right away. Wouldn’t that be funny?

He’s crying again, quietly, while looking down at Ford still asleep with his head resting on Stan’s lower chest, tangled up between both legs. Stan’s hips are going to hurt later because of it.

If there even is a later.

In the scenario where he did die this moment won’t last forever. The death at the end of these precious seconds before will happen eventually. Maybe instead of his mind playing out the first half of his life, the awful horrible memories, it’s running a fresh tape, showing something to comfort him through the end. If so. How long will this go? Days? Weeks? Years? Decades?

Before Bill he liked to think he had a good handle on reality and hallucinations. What was real and what wasn’t. But after all those dreams, months of fake realities, Stan just doesn’t know. He isn’t sure and probably never will be again. Isn’t that awful?

This could be real, for all he knows, but he just can’t accept that. Not without using some sort of backwards logic that it could and will end at some point.

Maybe that’s enough.

If he can’t accept that its real, because of course he can’t, maybe he just has to accept that it isn’t.

For some unknown reason this is happening. Some version of Ford is here, tangled up after some very good sex, and its magical.

Might as well live in the moment, live like its real even if its not, and enjoy himself. What’s the point in fighting it? He’s probably dead anyway, why make this all harder and shatter the illusion?

Letting himself have nice things still isn’t easy even under the assumption its not real. Which is why the tears won’t stop and it’s getting more and more difficult to keep his breathing even and quiet so he doesn’t wake up Ford.

Ghost, illusion, hallucination or not Ford is still probably tired after two orgasms back-to-back. They’re closer to thirty then twenty now which doesn’t make that kind of thing easy. He’s proud to have accomplished it and Ford deserves it. Stanford deserves the world.

It seems ridiculous that would include Stan.

Ford could have anyone, go anywhere, and do anything. He’s smart, talented, funny, handsome, and just as Pines stubborn as the rest of their lineage.

So why does he want him?

Perhaps he shouldn’t be complaining and just accept whatever this hologram gives him. It just feels like another scam. Like someone is pulling a prank on him and any second the rugs going to get ripped out from under his feet sending him slamming into something infinitely worse.

Into a world where Stan got a taste of the high life only to be dropped back into hell.

Ford’s whole body feels light and heavy at the same time. Like every muscle relaxed and now he’s melted into the bed and body underneath himself. Stan’s body.

Ugh. His stomach and chest feel itchy and its really warm in here.

Neither of those things are what wake him up. No. Instead it’s the sound of Stan trying to control his rapidly accelerating air intake. It would be impossible to miss with his ear pressed right up against Stan’s chest. It wakes him up enough to shift and lift his head to look at Stan.

“Hey, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” Ford continues to ignore the very gross mess between them and moves up so they’re face to face again with both hands cupping Stan’s jaw, brushing away tears.

How long had he been asleep while Stan was crying? Idiot. What could possibly be wrong now?

Ford isn’t helping. There probably isn’t anything he could say right now that would calm him down. Stan just cries harder, squeezing his eyes shut unable to look at him despite not much being visible in the candlelight anyway.

He shouldn’t be crying right now. It’s not attractive to cry during or after sex. He probably looks like a total mess. God, he’s so stupid ruining a good thing. Why can’t he just be normal for once even if he has to fake it? He used to be good at this God damn it!

What did he miss while being out? Ford takes a moment to look around the room but doesn’t see anything out of place from before. Stan’s just crying, sobbing, and won’t look at him.

Does he regret it?

No. That isn’t it. Shut up. Stan is perfect and has made his feelings painfully clear. There is no way that’s the issue here. Maybe he didn’t make his own feelings clear enough? The pictures and sketches may make for solid evidence of inappropriate lust, but not necessarily love. It could definitely be interpreted the wrong way if Stan was reaching.

“Stanley, look at me. Please?” He presses forward more so they’re almost forehead to forehead again. It’s a relief when Stan opens his eyes. They look full of pain and Ford needs to take that away. “You are perfect just the way you are and I love you, endlessly. Please, tell me if I did something wrong. I’ll do anything to stop you from crying. I want you to be happy, Lee.”

Stan has to close his eyes again before Ford has even finished talking because every word makes his chest hurt and his eyes sting with more hot tears. It’s all too much and he can’t take it.

Being torn apart with a scalpel, burned alive, driven off a cliff, or dangled from unimaginable heights? No problem.

Being loved by the one person he wants most? It causes more pain then all the others combined.

It feels so completely foreign, something he hasn’t experienced in so long, that it just doesn’t fit right anymore. Like trying to shove the square in the circle hole in the doctor’s office waiting room.

This should make his heart soar like nothing else on Earth but he just can’t get over how unworthy he is. It crushes him, it’s hard to breath and his heart races enough to make him dizzy.

Ford’s brow furrows trying to understand what the problem is and why his words only seem to make things worse. Stan’s fully sobbing now, eyes shut tight, and chest shaking just like downstairs in the kitchen when he’d gotten stuck at the table. But he’d been able to pull Stan out of it then, why not now? What changed?

The answer is obvious. They’ve had sex. But that was good, really good. He runs back through the memory quickly. Okay, Stan cried a fair amount then to. But it was an emotional moment for both of them. Years and years of old and new emotions colliding together coming to the surface and-

Sometimes his own stupidity is astounding.

If that letter down in the basement and this realization almost made him go insane, what would similar emotions do to Stanley who feels things practically on the subatomic level? No wonder Stan can’t stop crying.

Well, how can he help drive this home then? Or at least calm him down? Is that even possible?

Ford settles for continuing to hold him, brushing away tears, and peppering kisses across the skin he can reach even if it makes the crying worse. “I love you, Stanley. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, ever. Accept maybe the bathroom when you feel better so we can wash up.”

Ford continuing to coddle him is not making it easy to calm down. But its not like he could pull away either. That would be worse then just sitting here with all the pain. For a while he just lets things be awful and stops fighting it in favor of letting himself drown.

Eventually the sobbing does subside, leaving him a shaking mess with all the tears and snot.

Yeah, maybe none of this is real. But he’s always tried to enjoy good things while he had them, right? Even if its temporary? Summer in Maryland. Year in Mexico. Six months in Colorado.

Stan forces his eyes open to see Ford still laying across his chest, using the blanket to clean up the snot since there aren’t any tissues nearby. They’ll need to do laundry and change the sheets because of earlier regardless. The gesture makes him smile a little. Ford hates when things are messy but he stayed, cleaning him up, instead of going to shower.

Hands still shaking he brings them both up to wrap around Ford’s back to hold him with the lightest grip possible. “So, what’s my grade?” His voice is unsteady and it lacks the comedic effect, sounding too serious, but hopefully Ford will humor him. Stan doesn’t want to talk about all that and drag it up now that it’s settled, for the time being.

It’s a relief when Stan finally looks at him and Ford makes sure to smile back, using the blanket and then discarding it off to the side. “For the sex?” Stan is ridiculous. It makes him roll his eyes while pretending to think about it. “Based on that one performance, I’d say you’ve tested out of the class or maybe even earned an honorary degree from the headmaster.”

Stan’s grip gets tighter and more of the pain fades from his smile, “If it was possible to have a degree in sex I might not have been so opposed to college, you dork.” The idea of learning anything useful on a college campus finally pulls a laugh out of Stan and he leans forward the short distance to press a kiss to Ford’s lips before lying back against the pillow again.

Ford is finally able to relax and lay his head across Stan’s chest now that he seems in a better mental state. It would be silly to assume admitting their feelings would just make everything easy moving forward. The itchy dried cum and spit between them is starting to get annoying. Still, he stays, content and distracted enough by Stan’s hand running up and down across his back.

In the minimal light Stan brings up his watch to check the time. It’s afternoon, almost five o’clock, which means they should definitely get up from their nap. There’s a pizza downstairs that should still be good depending on when Ford bought it. Fuck. Yeah, he could go for something to eat. Ugh. Dick tastes a lot less sexy when it turns into morning breath.

“Later we’re going to have to deal with the bulletin I put out on you when Fids and I broke into the local police station. You have any bright ideas about how to make that go away without committing another act of burglary?” Ford asks, tracing random math equations across Stan’s arm.

Laughter erupts and for a good minute Stan is lost in it. He’d worked out the part about Ford doing it, but to know Fids had helped? They both care so damn much and it hurts. So, he laughs instead of crying. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. I took care of it so we shouldn’t be hearing anymore about that particular declaration of love.”

Ford is blushing again but forces himself to sit up and look at Stan with a skeptical look. He’s probably better off not knowing the details, but- “Stan, what do you mean by that? How do you make a two-state bulletin magically ‘go away’ just like that?”

He keeps his grip around Ford’s back tight so he can’t escape when he gets mad in two seconds. “Well. I got stopped this morning two hours into my drive back and I might have convinced myself it was someone working for a gang that doesn’t like me. It was a really weird traffic stop; the weirdest one I’ve ever experienced. So, I kinda used the memory gun to keep from getting arrested.”

He tries to pull away to turn on the lamp but lets out an annoyed groan when Stan keeps him secured in place. “That’s not safe! The memory gun is still broken, you idiot! You might have erased that cops whole life on accident! Not to mention one cop doesn’t equal the whole police force, you- “

To shut Ford up Stan just leans forward and kisses him until he stops trying to talk into it and then pulls back to finish his explanation. “Would you let me finish before getting your panties in a twist?” After a beat of silence, he continues. “While that cop was knocked out I fixed everything on his computer. Drafted up an email explaining it away and even talked to an officer on the stupid police scanner before high tailing it out of there. There is still the moral dilemma of me potentially erasing more than intended, but there’s nothing we can do about that now.” It isn’t going to weigh on him too much, not when this was his welcome home present.

The memory gun definitely isn’t supposed to knock someone out for a minor memory like forgetting Stan. Odds are, from the description, more was lost then intended. That does upset him, a little, but what could they do about it? Not much without risking Stan’s lie unraveling. Other than that moral qualm it sounds airtight. It’ll just take a few days to reach everywhere that email was. Good. They’ll be staying here, mostly in bed, anyway.

An annoyed huff leaves him, “Did the guy at least convince you to change your mind or did you realize how stupid you were being all on your own?” He settles both arms over Stan’s chest and rests his head on them to stay at eye level with him.

Now that’s a hard question to answer. Okay, not really. But the explanation for how he concluded not to use the memory gun is. “No, I didn’t run into a cop until almost five hours after you initially sent out the email.” One of his hands moves up to straighten out Ford’s hair now that he’s not as concerned about him trying to get up. “As for my realization…”

He looks away, back, and then away again. “I don’t know. I wasn’t really me making that decision. But I found a way to remind myself before I used the gun. I know it isn’t right to use it, guess that stronger part of me won out. Kinda ridiculous I’d ever forget anything about you. I didn’t really want to, or something.”

Figures the police would be too late to intervene during the actual decision. Whatever, all that matters is Stan didn’t do it and they’re here now. “I’m glad you came home. I was worried about you. Don’t you ever do something that stupid again. We’re either destroying that memory gun or buying a safe for it tomorrow.”

The scolding is kind of ruined by how dopy Ford looks smiling his way. “Fine, fine. I won’t. But you don’t ever call the cops on me again. What would you have done if they searched the car? I had some serious shit in there. That’s at least three years jail for the drugs and another five for the unregistered gun in the glove box given my record.”

Ford’s face goes pale at that. Right. Stan had initially left the house to buy drugs.

In his exhausted and emotional state that had slipped his mind. Getting Stan to remember was possible, just very difficult and annoying. But if Stan had ended up in jail this moment would have been put off almost a whole other decade! Stupid! Stupid! “I’m sorry, I-“

This is fun. Stan is endlessly enjoying shutting Ford up with kisses, especially when he’s saying something Stan doesn’t want to hear. “Relax sugar lips, it worked out. Almost got nabbed by another cop going between states but I’m pretty experienced running from people. It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”

The knowledge that Stan had run from the cops later on in the drive doesn’t make him feel better. It’s the smile he’s wearing that calms Ford down. “Something tells me you liked running from the cops, didn’t you?” His eyes narrow.

Stan shrugs as much as he can laying down, “Yeah, I did. It was a pretty big adrenaline high. Made for a more interesting drive home.” Another thought occurs to him. “Wait, we should probably call and tell Fids I’m not dead or something, right?” He pulls his hand from Ford’s hair and reaches over to turn on the lamp, bathing the room in proper light unlike the collection of candles.

Ford reluctantly gets up and sits back on the bed between Stan’s legs, wrinkling his nose seeing the mess smeared across both of them. “I suppose we should, although I’m not sure how much he’ll remember since he was half asleep through the whole night. I gave him a few more days off and left a note with Emma when I brought him home so she wouldn’t kill me.” She probably still wanted to and Ford couldn’t blame her.

Stan is about to swing both legs over and off the bed when he catches sight of Ford’s chest. Earlier he had been a little less focused on the details of his brother’s appearance so the tattoo on the one side of his chest of a star and the phrase ‘Hey Now, I’m an All Star’ had gone unnoticed. Now he can’t help but laugh looking at it. It renders him incapable of responding properly and by the time he has recovered both of his sides hurt.

The laughter makes Ford flush red and he steals the clean half of the blanket to cover up with. Logically it makes sense that Stan must be laughing at the tattoo Bill gave him, but it is still embarrassing and momentarily makes him very insecure. If Stan’s laughing this hard at the star, what will he think seeing the other one? It’s a miracle Stan didn’t see it in the dark, a tactical choice on his part the day before. “Would you shut up?!”

Stan straightens up again and shifts forward towards where Ford has moved away, “Hey now, you are an all-star! You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.” Looking at the blanket Ford has covered up with he can’t help but wonder if there are other tattoos or-

He manages to stop himself from grabbing the blanket away as his dumb head makes the jump. Ford didn’t go to college frat parties and doesn’t drink much. But Stan knows someone who both drinks and is a big fan of getting tattoos. Stan sucks in a breath and shifts back against the headboard to keep his shoulders both hidden. “Ah. Right. Bill?”

Ford drops the hand that he’d been using to cover his face to look at Stan. How could Stan have possibly made that connection, unless- Fresh anger rises and he starts scanning every visible piece of skin across Stan’s body in the light. Legs are clean, stomach, chest, arms. That just leaves his back. “What did he give you, let me see?” He demands, moving closer to Stan on the bed. He has been meaning to get a look at that burn mark anyway. Guilt settles in his chest with the anger.

Stan has to grab both of Ford’s hands when he seems to forget about the blanket trying to get at his back. Damn it. This is the last thing he needs Ford to see right now. Like the guy isn’t carrying enough guilt as it is without having another ugly mark to remind him. “Stop, Ford. Stop.” He insists, giving Ford a shove when he tries to physically pull him away from the headboard.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Ford tries again, needing to see. The result is Stan and him scuffling on the bed until Stan can get Ford pinned down into the ruined blanket. “Stan! I’m going to see it eventually anyway! It can’t be that bad!” His face is red both because of how easy Stan made this look and because without the blanket Stan can see his other tattoo.

‘Flirty Gal xo’

No wonder Ford didn’t want him to see that. It almost sends him into another laughing fit but anger over Bill being the cause is what keeps his hold from loosening or his laughter from escaping.

How come Ford got fun and ridiculous tattoos and he got something awful? He wouldn’t have been so mad or upset about a tramp stamp. Not thrilled, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Stan sighs and lets Ford go while keeping his back turned. “Just, give me a chance to fill you in before I let you see, alright? Because its not funny like yours.”

Once released he sits up and turns back to face Stan wearing a frown. It should be a relief not to be laughed at again but now Stan looks serious and angry. What could Bill of done that would be so bad? “Okay, well get on with it so we can shower.” He shifts closer again but just extends a hand to hold instead of trying to look again. Ford won’t win out against all the muscles he can see.

Now is not the time. This is serious!

Accepting the hand to hold makes Stan feel a little better. It’s not that bad, not for him anymore, but Ford probably won’t take it well no matter how much of a positive spin he puts on it. “Bill use to take me up to high places. The second time was up on the water tower where he hung me over the banister in handcuffs. It was tame compared to other stuff, but back then it was bad.” He doesn’t look at Ford while he talks, eyes on their hands instead.

“So bad that when I got home, I gave up. If I’d been capable of talking, I would have summoned Bill and ended the deal. It was the only time during all of that I had been so scared that I almost abandoned you.” Their fingers are laced together and Stan counts them to remain calm while ignoring the guilt to get through this. One. Three. Six. Eight. Ten. Eleven.

“Eventually, I gathered myself enough to shower which is when I found the tattoo. It made me cry at first. But then I was just angry, pissed. It gave me a whole new wave of strength and drive to kill him.” He clenches his hand but counts again. One through Eleven between both hands. “I was reminded of why I was doing this, for both of us, every time I saw it. Just keep that in mind.”

Being handcuffed over the railing didn’t sound too bad but Ford also isn’t Stanley. He’s not afraid of heights, knows how tall the thing is, and this also would have been in the middle of winter making it freezing up there in the wind. He doesn’t get why that is worse than some of the nightmares they shared, but now he’s really starting to worry about this tattoo.

Until Stan turns around and he’s looking at it. He doesn’t get it.

The nicely healed burn mark is more moving than the L on the left shoulder. Okay? So, Bill marked Stan with an L, what about that is so world crushing? Ford removes his glasses and briefly gets up off the bed to go clean them at the dresser before coming back to look again.

Nope. Still not getting it.

Ford is being silent for so long that Stan turns back around expecting to see some sort of wall of tears. Something. Instead, he’s met with a slightly upset but mostly confused expression. Is his brother really that stupid or just blind? Maybe two orgasms made him an idiot. “You don’t get it, do you.” Stan feels relieved and his shoulders relax.

Something is missing, some big important thing that should be obvious. But its not. “Explain it to me, please. I want to understand.” Ford leans back to look at it again, closer to the skin, until Stan turns away again.

Stan should lie here and say something that won’t matter or maybe just flat out refuse. But Ford did say please and genuinely looks torn up about not getting it. Besides, the last thing he needs is Ford putting it together without him around. He sighs, “It’s a six-finger hand in the shape of an L.” He brings up one of his own hands to his forehead, “You know? The universal sign for loser?”

For a second Ford’s face is blank and his brain won’t process what Stan is telling him.

Then he pushes Stan and moves back behind him to look at the tattoo again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Now he wishes Bill was alive for the soul act of getting to kill him again. How dare he mark Stan with something this appalling! The hand on Stan’s shoulder above the tattoo starts shaking and he needs to hit something. Bill preferably but since he isn’t around Ford settles on punching the headboard which only causes his hand to throb on top of pulling a pained yell out of him.

Stan turns around to face his brother and can’t help but find the rage he sees there hot. Just for a second though before he pushes the thought away. Focus. “Calm down Ford. It isn’t that bad. I wouldn’t get it again, but-“

“How can you say that!” Ford yells, starting to cry without realizing it. “You were putting yourself through Hell for me and he continued to mock you? Trying to convince you that I never loved you? It’s awful! I don’t think he could have come up with anything worse if he tried!” He moves forward to pull Stan into a hug, knowing this anger doesn’t have anywhere to go that’s healthy. No sense breaking a hand over someone who’s dead.

A loud and tired sigh escapes Stanley but he returns the hug regardless feeling tears fall onto his shoulder. “I know, I know it’s not funny or silly like yours. I don’t know. I can’t even be sure that’s how I was supposed to interpret it. It is on the left side. Maybe it’s just supposed to call me dumb not knowing my left and rights? Whatever the insult, which I know is from him, it made me mad enough not to give up. That counts for something, right?”

The hug does calm Ford down a fraction of an inch but he can still see the tattoo from this position which certainly isn’t helping. “You aren’t a loser, Stanley. I’m going to pay so you can get this removed, covered up, or something. I don’t know yet, but it’s going away. Even if I have to grow you a new patch of skin and do the surgery myself.”

Stan can’t help but laugh with both shoulders shaking. He pulls back to look at Ford, using one hand to brush away his tears. “Relax Doc, I know I’m not. A loser wouldn’t be able to save the world and get the girl.” To prove his own point, he leans over and kisses Ford again briefly. “We’ll deal with it later. For now, I’ll just try to keep my back away from you during sex so it doesn’t ruin the mood.”

Anger and sadness get replaced with a scowl and a flush. “That’s right, you’re a hero. My hero. Now come on, we need to shower before this stuff hardens to out skin.” He gets up off the bed first while still holding Stan’s hand but wrinkles his nose and makes a noise of disgust when he steps on the used condom. “Did you even try to aim for the garbage!?”

Stan laughs looking down at Ford’s foot and pulls his hand away in favor of just picking Ford up again, this time over his shoulder. “Nope, I didn’t even know you had a can in here. We’ll clean it up later.” He keeps a firm hold on Ford so he doesn’t fall on the way between the bedroom and the bathroom where he finally puts him down with a huff.

Being picked up once was impressive enough but twice makes Ford’s face completely red. It’s not impossible for him to get hard again but they have more important things to talk about first. Getting his brain to work hasn’t been this difficult since high school. “I’ve got a pizza downstairs we can eat while you make some phone calls. Mom called while you were gone and said she plans on mailing us more pictures. She wanted to know if there’s anything from our old bedroom that you wanted that could fit in a shipping box.”

Now that’s something to think about. It’s been so long since being back in Jersey that most of their crap is long since forgotten. Living on the road for so all those years he didn’t get to hold onto much so he hadn’t ever missed any of it. “Nah, nothing comes to mind, I can’t remember.” He jokes with a laugh and nudges Ford to make sure he knows its not serious. “We’ll just go through it together the next time we visit.”

Ford follows Stan into the shower and resumes scanning his body here in the better lighting while Stan grabs a washcloth to clean both of their chests and stomachs with. Cataloging every mark, hair, and the flaccid size of Stan’s penis as well. When they go downstairs, he’ll need to grab a tape measure and properly measure instead of just estimating.

Stan cleans up Ford first and then himself while being careful not to get something else started. They need to eat and at least answer their voicemails first. Then maybe they can crack open that bottle of whatever and mess up the sheets again-

Nope. Pops. Bill. Being locked in a trunk. Searing tooth pain.

“So, safe to say we have a big secret to hide now? Did you think ahead about that or where you a little to distracted by how attractive and charming I am?” He interrupts the silence while grabbing the shampoo to wash his own hair, ignoring how much staring Ford is doing. Weirdo.

Ford brings his gaze back up from Stan’s chest where he’d been counting the small array of scars barely visible underneath the chest hair. “A bit of both. I don’t imagine hiding it from our parents will be difficult. We’ll see them for a handful of days each year. Maybe two weeks tops. It can’t be hard by Christmas to refrain from making out in front of them.”

He grabs his own shampoo and trades spots with Stan so he can use the water. “The real issue is going to be Fiddleford, I’m afraid. We have the benefit of him not having any siblings of his own to give us some grace but that only reaches so far. He’s our friend, we have to at least try to avoid scaring him away. I don't know how grand our boat will be without his help.”

Stan makes a point not to stare much because otherwise they’ll very quickly end up with another problem. Instead, he looks at the shower curtain while thinking. “Hmm, so how do you plan on explaining us having one bed then? Or the eventual request for grandchildren? Unless you think they’ll be happy enough with Schermie’s kid.”

What could they do about Fids? Stan had been careful not to leave a mark higher than Ford’s shirt would cover, but what about his own neck? They’d have to be careful about that. Then there was the issue of keeping their hands to themselves and generally not making out in front of the guy. For the next several weeks and months that would be almost impossible. Stan wants to do it again right now, and that’s despite having had a very satisfying round of sex five hours ago.

Rinsing out the shampoo and grabbing the conditioner he lets Stan have the water again. “We’ll continue with the plan of two beds in my room but share one at night. That combined with locking the bedroom door should suffice for the immediate future. I can’t imagine them finding it weird for at least a few years. Same with requesting children given the trauma we both recently went through. Not to mention our future lifestyle of traveling constantly doesn’t leave a lot of room for relationships.” It might seem weird, but what kind of parent would jump to incest as the conclusion? No one reasonable.

Stan can’t help but laugh, “So your main plan is to just buy time off our mutual suffering until they die?” Well. It’s not like he can think of something better right now. A few years should be enough time to figure out another solution. “How high up is the hickey you gave me, is it something I can cover with a shirt or am I going to have to lie about getting laid while I was out of town?”

Ford just ignores Stan’s laughter and goes back to cataloging scars when Stan turns around. Beyond the burn and the appalling tattoo there are some faint scratch marks on Stan’s back and a few burn marks across both shoulders that are mostly faded.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. You’ll have to lie. You’d have to wear a turtleneck to hide it. Stan, what are these scratch marks from?” He reaches out to touch Stan’s lower back and ignores the faint red lines further up. In the throws of passion Ford realizes he dug his nails in considerably, almost breaking skin.

He keeps the time turned away from Ford brief while washing his face and then changes places while grabbing the body wash. “Oh, those? Heh, got into a bit of a fight with a racoon when I was in Vegas. You should have seen the other guy.” It seems unlikely Ford will know that raccoons aren’t native to Nevada so it feels like an innocent enough lie.

Hmm. “You went and got a rabies shot afterwards, didn’t you? Or is that something else you’ll need to talk about with your doctor after your health card comes in?” Ford turns away to wash his own face and then takes the time to wash the rest of his body to.

This is how lying goes. One turns into two which snowballs into a big ball. “Yes dear, I made sure to get a rabies shot. Calm down. I didn’t completely neglect my health over the last decade. Just mostly.”

Ford moves back into Stan’s space and is the one to pull him into another kiss, having to be careful not to slip and fall. “That stops now. Regular dentist cleanings, checkups, and everything. I want you to be around for a very long time because I can’t live without you.” He holds both sides of Stan's face while he talks to make sure the message gets across.

Rather than trying to come up with a response to something that mushy and sweet Stan just pulls Ford into another kiss for a minute. Ah hell. Damn it. Fuck. Well, no actually, that’s not the goal. His other brain seems to think so though. Stan pulls away and shifts over to rinse off, ignoring how Ford is staring again. He isn’t helping matters.

A kiss is satisfactory enough, although Ford would have liked verbal confirmation. The erection Stan is getting is much more interesting though. Thinking about sex, Ford can feel that he is sore. His legs hurt along the back of his knees from where they had been thrown over Stan’s shoulders, and his ass hurts some too, but not as expected for how rough they were. “You know, I thought sex would hurt more then it did.” Maybe he just has a high pain tolerance or something?

That makes Stan spin fully to face Ford again, eyebrows shooting up in surprise from where he’d been working on willing the slight problem away. “Excuse me, I’m going to need you to repeat that. You thought it would hurt more? As in, you hadn’t done that before? As in-“ Nah. Ford’s just being confusing. There is no way Ford made it two weeks shy of his twenty-eighth birthday without having sex. No shot. He’s not- Okay, maybe he’s bad at flirting but-

Blushing is getting old already. Ford crosses both arms over his chest getting a bit defensive, “Yes Stan, as in your my first. It wasn’t intentional to save it for you or something romantic like that. But I’ve never been very social and that didn’t change much over the years. I thought maybe in college, but I was busy! You don’t earn twelve PHD’s and get to have a social life.”

Regardless of it being intentionally romantic or not Stan still thinks it is. Accident or otherwise that was Ford’s first time and it was so damn special and- Oh great, now he’s crying again. How often is this going to happen? Stan is getting really tired of it and would like to run out of water sometime soon.

Ford can’t tell if this crying is a good thing or not but either way, he moves over to hug Stan again while he does it. This must just be one of those things normal people care about. Like kissing someone before your old, it must apply to sex and other things as well. It doesn’t matter to him but maybe it does to Stan? Having the hug returned at least tells him Stan isn’t mad.

It takes a minute for him to compose himself, which feels ridiculous, enough to talk again. It’s just sex, it doesn’t matter that much. But some part of him is completely over the moon that despite all their time apart they still get to share some firsts and that he got to show Ford a really good time instead of some awkward fumbling in a frat house bathroom. “So, I’m going to have to teach you how to do everything for a change, huh?”

“I’m not completely dense you know. I’ve done plenty of masturbating and I’m sure I could pick up some books on the subject-“ Loud obnoxious laughter from Stan interrupts him and Ford stomps down the irritation of being mocked on a subject he’s less knowledgeable on. “Hey! I’ll have you know a lot of information can be obtained from reading! Stop laughing Stan, I’m being serious!”

This puts the experience in bed under a whole new light and Stan couldn’t stop laughing if he tried. It also explains why Ford bought all different kinds of condoms. Oh, for fucks sake, he’s dating an inexperienced idiot! It takes a lot of effort to stop and muffle the laughter into chuckles before he insults Ford too much.

Stan pulls back to cup Ford’s face grinning wide, “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you everything I know on top of whatever you pick up from some books. Actually, I might give you a chance to try and pick up some tricks first before I show my hand. I like making you fall apart. But I might have been a little easier on you if I’d known you hadn’t done that before.”

Great, now he has to figure out a way to subtly buy books about gay sex without anyone knowing. Maybe he could steal them? Oh! Or he could order them and have them shipped? To bad it’ll take forever. Ugh. “No, you were perfect. Just maybe give me a little warning next time you want to try something like that?” Now his face and chest are red with embarrassment. “I liked it, the, uh- overstimulation. It was enjoyable.”

He turns off the water and grabs them each a towel out of the cabinet to dry off grinning like an idiot. Stan is starting to think he’s just doomed to always be in some state of arousal around Ford. Whatever, there are worse things to live with. “Really? I mean, I kind of took a gamble on that one, but I guess my luck held out.” Even when it comes to sex they just work and God if that doesn’t make his heart sing. It’s gross how sweet this all is.

After drying off Ford goes for the sink to brush his teeth while they both finish freshening up in compatible silence. Brushing teeth, hair, and shaving before heading back out of the bathroom. He follows Stan into his bedroom where the less romantic plan is still set up. The bed is made and instead of flowers and champagne there is a simple red heart shaped helium balloon tied to the nightstand. There is also a separate stack of condom boxes and a bottle of lube on top near the lamp.

It makes Stan laugh looking at it but secretly he’s touched to see the lengths Ford went to just for him. He knows Ford doesn’t care about romance, or didn’t growing up, but he took the time to think about what Stan might want which is what makes it meaningful. “You where really hoping to get laid, weren’t you?” He looks at Ford where he’s standing in the doorway for a moment before turning away to pick out fresh clothes.

Right about now he should go to his own room and get dressed but still refuses to leave Stan’s side even for something so small and so nearby. “It was pretty high up on the list, after making sure you were emotionally taken care of, yes.” It would be almost impossible to deny given the evidence, so he doesn’t try. “You did say I could run some experiments now, didn’t you?”

Stan settles on a pair of boxers and a simple t-shirt to cover up the tattoo before going back over to Ford and guiding him across the hall to the other bedroom. “That I did, but can it at least wait until we’ve cleaned up and eaten?” He gives Ford a little push over towards his dresser and starts stripping the bed, grabbing the letters from underneath when Ford is busy picking a shirt.

In the rush of everything with Bill Stan had forgotten about these letters. He was very glad to have found them before Ford accidentally did, it would only make his brother cry. They’d already talked about everything and neither of them needed more reminders.

After putting on a pair of boxers and shirt, which doesn’t really feel necessary given how quickly they’ll be discarded in the next hour, Ford helps by taking care of the discarded condom and the candles. “Where do you want to keep the flowers? Up here or in the kitchen?” For a couple days, until Fids comes over again, it’ll be fine to keep them out in the open.

Stan is already heading out of the room with the dirty laundry in hand, “Put them on the bedside table and then bring the champagne downstairs.” Even doing something as boring as laundry and walking around the house Stan can’t stop smiling especially when he comes back into the kitchen to see Ford refilling the ice bucket and pulling out plates to reheat the pizza.

This isn’t a bad way to spend the afterlife.

Stan grabs the phone and then heads over to Ford, hugging him with one arm from behind while dialing Fiddleford’s number and pressing the phone up to his ear with Ford close enough to hear. “Stay quiet, this should only take a minute or two.” Being close now makes up for the time they were apart because of laundry. They’re terrible but Stan can’t bring himself to complain when Ford just turns around to return the hug while tucking his face against Stan’s neck.

Fiddleford has been trying to have a normal day and not worry himself into a fit over Stanley. Memories from last night? A total blank. He kind of remembers the phone ringing but everything after that is gone. Ford left a note and then they later talked on the phone about how they filed a police report, something about Stan and the memory gun. Which explained the note about why tearing down the portal was delayed, again.

Everything was fine before bed! Damn Pines.

When the phone finally rings while he’s watching Tate color at the dining room table Fids picks it up quickly, hoping for some good news.

“Hey Fids, what’s shaking?”

If he was at Ford’s place Fids would try to strangle Stanley. Instead he leaves the kitchen and goes down into the basement before saying anything so Tate can’t hear. “What’s shaking!? You run off with the memory gun, acting like a hypocrite, and you have the nerve to turn back up and act like nothing happened!? We contact the police you idiot! Do you have any idea how upset Ford was? How worried I was?!”

Stan has to hold the phone a little further away because of all the yelling and fresh guilt tries to settle in his chest but with Ford here its not burrowing as deep as it usually would. He doesn’t try and talk for a minute and just lets Fids rant and rave until he seems to tire himself out. “I’m sorry Fids. I know I was being real stupid. Some of those bad memories came to the surface and kept me from thinking straight for a minute there. I wasn’t myself. That ain’t an excuse, but its still true. I didn’t use it, for the record, and nothing like that’s gonna happen ever again, I promise.”

Fiddleford is still pissed, and will be for a while, but learning that Stan might have been experiencing some lingering effect from literally losing his mind does prevent him from yelling again. The mind erasing is still fresh so things are still settling. He does deserve a little grace. “You give the memory gun to Ford and no more trips out of state if you get sick of him. I have a basement you can stay in if you start planning a murder.”

He has to pull away from Ford when they both start laughing. Yeah, murder. Right. “It wasn’t just because I got sick of him Fids. Shit, hang on.” Stan moves across the kitchen to pull the bag off the floor near the table where it got abandoned earlier. Both medications are fine at room temp but it still couldn’t hurt to put them away somewhere safe until use. “I went to pick up medications for my eye surgery, remember? I’m getting real tired of not being able to see shit without squinting.”

Ford hadn’t mentioned that part and now the running off makes a little more sense. “Am I to assume Ford is going to ask me to help with that? Because I don’t know how well I can stomach helping cut out your eye Stanley. I might throw up.” The idea makes him a little nauseous.

Stan also pulls the memory gun out of the bag with the instruction manual and motions Ford over to look at it. The notebook gets picked up but Ford also pushes him into a chair to sit on Stan’s lap before opening it. Stan's face is starting to hurt from smiling. “Um, maybe? I get it if you don’t want to help. I’m pretty sure it can be done by one person, but having another around for emergencies couldn’t hurt, you know? Even if you’re just hanging around outside with the phone?”

That’s something a little more his speed. “I suppose I could do that. When do you two plan on performing it? Actually, that’s another thing I wanted to talk with you about. School is out for the summer and we could very well put Tate in daycare full time, but you did offer to babysit occasionally. How would you feel about watching him once or twice a week?”

So much for Ford listening. Stan can tell he’s completely immersed in the new notebook leaving him to make this call alone. Sure, he likes spending time with Tate, but is it a good idea to have him around twice a week all day? What would they even do?

Well, what’s the Gravity Falls version of summers on a beach? Biking? Hiking? Building a tree house? Or they could get some swings maybe? That could be fun.

It might not be a bad idea to keep busy some while Ford and Fids are building nerd shit. “Which days were you thinking? And is that going to replace date nights or in addition?” Five days is plenty of time to figure out what he wants to do otherwise.

Fids goes back upstairs to the kitchen to look at the calendar, “How about Tuesday and Wednesday? And after talking about it we’re thinking date night on Saturday every other week. If you want to, that is. You don’t have to watch him those extra days either, just so you know. I just noticed you like spending time with him and you seem responsible enough given Ford and I will be right downstairs if anything happens.”

Well thanks for having so much faith Fids. I’m touched. A short-huffed laugh leaves Stan with a roll of the eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence Fids. I’m a little insulted, but I’ll do it anyway. Could be fun and I bet he’ll enjoy hanging out with me a lot more then sitting in some stuffy daycare while you and Emma are at work. Or summer school? Absolutely not, I’ll spare him that fate. We don’t need him turning into a total nerd like you two.”

Only after asking does Fids stop to consider how Stan momentarily lost himself enough to drive across state lines. It makes him pause, reconsider, before letting it go. Nah, that won’t happen again. And him and Ford will be right there. He’ll just have a good talk with Tate. It’ll be fine. “Excellent. If your back does that mean we’ll be resuming work on the portal as planned tomorrow? The new schedule with Tate can wait tell next week regardless.”

Stan’s settled one arm around Ford’s lower back and leaning over against his shoulder while talking. Its so nice getting to have this, finally. “Nah, you still get three days off with your family for the inconvenience. Ford is trying to win brownie points with your wife. Besides, we have some more housekeeping stuff to do around here anyway. We’ll see you Thursday morning bright and early? Or at least Ford will, I’ll probably be sleeping.”

Emma was pretty mad this morning, so taking more time away to spend with her and Tate is probably for the best even if putting off tearing apart the portal makes Fids anxious. “Alright, fine. But if you need space from him or he gets in one of his moods you call me next time. Preferably at a reasonable hour.”

Ford still has those? That’s hilarious. “Oh, don’t worry, I know how to handle him.” It takes real restraint not to grab Ford’s ass for fun. “I’ll put everything on the calendar for next week and start thinking about what kids like to do, alright? Talk to you later Fids, and sorry again.”

Ford finally looks up from the riveting notebook when Stan hangs up the phone having caught about half the conversation. “We’re going to have to kid proof the house, aren’t we?” This only makes him scowl because Ford had been planning on keeping Stan trapped in bed for the next several days, occasionally venturing to the bathroom and kitchen.

“Oh hush, I’ll have Fids make a list later this week and I’ll take care of it this weekend while you spend an afternoon prepping for my eye surgery. It shouldn’t be that hard.” He nudges Ford to get off his lap so they can stand up and then pulls him into another kiss until Ford drops the notebook on the table and melts. “Come on, let’s eat upstairs. I’ll carry the pizza and you grab some glasses for our champagne.”

Ford can’t even complain about the idea of getting crumbs in the sheets when there’s the promise of more sex. He just follows instructions grinning like a fool.

Notes:

Fun fact! Did you know the L shape loser sign made with fingers didn’t become a common pop culture thing until after 1994 following the release of the movie Ace Ventura Pet Detective? Because I sure didn’t when I made it a major plot point a month ago. 😭 OOPS.

Chapter 52: Seeing Ruby

Notes:

This felt like filler (I’m gaslighting myself because it’s so not) Have some Smutt!

How did other Ford ever manage to graduate, much less get any work done?

For the first two days its impossible to be more then a few inches apart at a time without having some serious complaints. Lots of laying in bed, on top of each other, and just as much sex.

Maybe in that other dimension he wasn’t such an antisocial loser in high school if he managed to somehow bag Stan not that far into starting college. Perhaps that Ford realized how much fun sex was at a much earlier age instead of finding it a pointless waste of time.

It isn’t. Not with Stanley anyway.

Ford gets why Stan seemed so intensely focused on getting laid in high school.

Part of him is not so secretly very jealous of the other lovers Stan has to of been with. It has to be countless given how damn skilled he is. (It’s like he’s got it down to a damn science and that itself is hot.) Sure, Ford remembers Stan’s high school girlfriend but a decade is a long time to sleep around. Across the country and several others in fact.

For his own mental sanity Ford doesn’t ask and Stan doesn’t bring it up.

They have a small conversation about Stan planning on getting tested that almost throws Ford into a fit though. ‘It’s just a precaution, it has been like ten months since I could last afford it’ doesn’t make Ford feel better. At least not until Stan insists he hasn’t done anything since before coming to Gravity Falls. That prevents him from pushing the issue.

Still annoying though. He wanted to go without condoms now to feel the difference.

Whatever, it’s better to just focus on the here and now instead of complaining about the past. Stan is his now to have whenever and however often he wants. It’s kind of scary how quickly he’s gotten so possessive in just two days. Not that Stan seemed to mind at all.

If anything, he seemed to enjoy the excessive attention.

Beyond some intense blushing Stan had stayed perfectly still while Ford took measurements across his whole body to commit to memory. Not all of them sexual either.

How thick Stan’s thighs were. His waist. His biceps. The span of his broad chest. Foot length. Penis length and thickness flaccid and hard. Hair length both around the face frame and in the back.

If only they had one of those fancy scales so Ford could determine just how much muscle Stan had compared to bone mass and fat deposits. Stan had insisted they not buy one and gotten very flustered when it was suggested, so Ford didn’t insist to keep peace.

Every scar, patch of hair, and callus got documented and filed away mentally for later reference.

This was the kind of thing he’d refused himself in high school and it had almost driven him mad when doing those sketches. ‘No, that’s not right, doesn’t he have more hair here’ or ‘What day am I drawing him, was he bruised there’ and so on. The only way to accurately draw Stanley was to have all the data. Everything.

Not that he would need to do that anytime soon. Why would he need a picture when Stan is right here already naked? Although, maybe they could set up a temporary dark room and take some pictures, just in case they ever need to be apart for any length of time.

Years from now. Decades even. Nah. Never.

Funnily enough Ford is also a hypocrite. After looking at everything it had been very difficult to keep still and not refuse when Stan expected the same curtsey of inspecting him in his own way.

It helped a lot that Stan turned it into foreplay, massaging his back while looking there and then peppering lots of kissing everywhere else. Lots of hickeys too. It took a while for Stan to get through his own inspection because they would have to have intermissions for sex.

Overall, it feels like they have made the most out of these several days home alone even if Ford knows he’ll be jumping Stan again once Fids leaves tomorrow. It will be very difficult to focus downstairs in the lab when he’d rather be upstairs continuing to be glued to his other half’s side.

Even now while Stan is attempting to cook Ford is hovering and hugging him from behind.

“Ford, you do realize we can’t actually morph into one person, right? No matter how much you try.” Stan’s voice is amused though, pushing around the food in the skillet without turning to look at Ford’s head on his shoulder.

“Good, I wouldn’t be able to hold you otherwise.” A squeeze around Stan accompanies the comment.

God their gross.

Stan has done enough crying about it over the past few days for the both of them and in a way has become numb to it at this point. Not accepting, because he’s still sure this is fake somehow, but not as openly upset anymore.

It’s just weird that it keeps going.

Every time they drift off to asleep and every time they wake back up Stan expects the world to fall apart. But it doesn’t. The sun keeps rising and setting, Ford is still here, and the pain hasn’t happened. Yet.

Whatever. He still made sure they did some crap during their days off together. If it was left up to Ford, they would have had enough sex to make them both painfully sore. For a scientist it seems ridiculous he didn’t know it was possible to end up raw down there if you go at it to much.

During necessary breaks they’d finally brought in the bed frame and rearranged Ford’s room so the beds had an end table between them. It was the only logical position because the door and the closet blocked the other walls. Who could argue with how close the beds where when the other arrangement didn’t make sense? No one.

They had also moved the punching bag up to the attic and rearranged the storage rooms again, further condensing all of his brother’s crap. Now all the dangerous stuff that might be a hazard to Tate was safely locked away behind closed doors with the respective keys taped on top of the doorways out of reach.

During some of the time they’d spent lounging around watching TV Stan had taken some time to think about that a little more at least. Tate is still young, six, which means there is a huge range of things to keep him busy. Still young enough to enjoy coloring and to need a nap but old enough that playing outside and riding a bike will be fun.

But mostly Stan is really hung up on building that tree house for the kid. It’s obvious, isn’t it? There isn’t a beach here like him and Ford had, just a lot of woods. Having somewhere to play pretend is important, a space just for Tate. Plus, it’ll be good practice for when they start the woodworking process of the boat.

Ford and Fids might be doing all the technical math and science but Stan still wants to help. If that just means staining wood and handling the interior living space or maybe the wood layer of the hull then so be it.

“You could help or something, like maybe getting out the supplies for the side salad from the fridge?” Stan puts his free hand over Ford’s arm instead to keep him from listening. Every second of this is a gift and he really doesn’t want it to end.

Ford reluctantly pulls away after another half a minute to follow instructions. It’s difficult to start a fire working with vegetables, so it should be safe.

It was a relief to see Stan swing back a little further towards the ‘unhealthy’ side of eating again. Not drastically of course what with his insistence, but eating a meal with a little grease or some butter wasn’t going to kill them. Not with all the physical activity they’d been getting up to.

“Other then mattress shopping and the safe do we need to make any other stops in town for grocery’s or anything?” The fridge looks well stocked still but it had initially been Stan’s stupid idea to leave the house in the first place.

They had a bed, food, and the memory gun was locked up in the secret compartment on the second floor with the love letter and chest of sketches/pictures where no one would find them. Why leave the house? That meant putting on clothes and having to avoid touching Stan which did not sound like fun.

‘It’s for practice’ Stan had insisted, as if a slip up wouldn’t be detrimental to their reputations. Ford could at least admit it would be easier to explain it away to a stranger who hardly knows them then Fids who has become an intricate part of their lives and might see straight through a lie.

“Not unless you need to stop by the library to return any books.” Watching TV had been more for him while Ford would just lay out on his chest with a book to eventually get lost for a while. It was the best way to distract his brother out of the methods Stan had tested.

Ford stops in the middle of cutting up the lettuce to wrinkle his nose. Right. Now he had to go back to the library at some point after being flirted with by the librarian. Damn it! Although, perhaps with this being Stan’s area of expertise he could help make this problem go away?

“Speaking of,” subconsciously he moves back over to stand near the stove to see Stan’s face while they discuss this, “that poem you left me was particularly difficult. It took me getting help from the librarian to understand it. Sunday, she gave me her number and seemed to be romantically interested.” Right now he’s beyond shame over having asked for help. The poem was outside his expertise and that was Stan’s point. God he’s smart…

Focus.

Stan pauses mixing the pan, both eyebrows shooting up looking at Ford. That’s several surprises all at once. First, Ford asked for help. From a stranger no less. That’s a big deal and his heart does another little choke over it. Second, someone flirted with Ford. Which does upset him as it would anyone. But both those feelings get overshadowed by the third thing.

Tina had flirted with both of them. Laughter is the response Ford gets and Stan has to move the pan off the heat so it doesn’t burn while he’s distracted.

Ford scowls and crosses his arms, “I don’t see what’s so funny about this. Of course I had to cheat to solve that impossible riddle!” It should have been obvious in retrospect but it wasn’t at the time. “And its not completely unfathomable someone would flirt with me, you do it all the time!” He’s been practicing not getting flustered so his face only gets half red while Stan cackles away.

Moving the food back over the heat Stan just shakes his head still grinning. “I’m not laughing at you or the fact that you cheated. If anything, I’m proud of you for working it out at all. It’s funny because she flirted with me too.” He abandons the food and goes over to the drawer near the phone to dig out the sticky note to go show Ford. “After you ran off to collect our books, she gave me the number of her uncle who runs the hardware store in town. Amnesic me talked her up a little.” He offers over the paper and slots back in front of the stove.

He ends up standing there holding the piece of paper staring at it for a long time stewing over how this makes him feel. Ford already wasn’t interested because Stan is literally right here. Now he’s double not interested. Pissed to. Very pissed. Both at Stan and her. Of course, Stan hadn’t remembered his feelings at the time but looking back Ford probably should have been paying more attention to why they got that free bag.

If it wouldn’t be weird Ford would have half a mind to try calling her now to leave a very angry voicemail. But brothers don’t usually get upset about this kind of thing, so he can’t.

“You kept this?” Ford goes with instead, glaring at Stan but remaining calm.

Yeah, mad Ford is pretty hot. It takes him a second to get past that and see that the anger might be directed at him. Oh. “It does have the hardware stores number on it.” He points out, turning off the stove and moving to get plates. “Besides, I’ve been a little to busy with you to think about anyone else, much less throw it away.”

This is the moment where Stan should stop. Don’t poke the bear, don’t say anything else, and just let Ford write down the good number and toss the sticky note away.

But his own mind is a curse sometimes. It has questions and depending on the answers to said questions, ideas. This is an opportunity even if it could cause their first real argument. He mulls this all over while going over to finish the salad Ford barely started.

Looking over the paper Ford’s anger subsides some, at least the part directed towards Stan. They weren’t like this then and Stan didn’t remember. Stupid memory gun. “That should make it easier to make her go away, won’t it? I don’t know. You could call her and spin something about us not wanting a woman to get between us or whatever.” Yes, that should work. He’s proud of the idea and he goes over to the drawer to get out a notepad so they can throw the stupid number away.

Stan is happy, painfully so, but he is also wondering. Maybe they both share that, a sense of curiosity. It’s probably going to kill them both one day since it already almost has on a number of occasions.

“Now that we’re on the subject, have you ever been with a girl before? Or are you still a virgin in every sense of the word.” Normally it could be considered a normal enough question but given the context it isn’t surprising the kitchen gets tense. Stan continues cutting without turning around.

His mind starts racing with eyes narrowed trying to not get mad or collapse in on himself all at once. It’s hard to provide an answer, “No. I haven’t. Why?”

Yeah, Ford is big mad. Fair enough. Stan turns back around and winces some seeing the glare directed his way. He sighs crossing the kitchen and can’t help but think that this is a really realistic simulation. The expressions, the eye movement, even the tone and articulations are perfect.

“Stop that. You look ready to kill me,” Possessive Ford is usually hot, but not so much when he looks murderous.

Yeah, Stan should shut up right now and drop it. But he kind of wants to test the extent of the illusion. Will it remain completely realistic or bend if pushed? Plus, Ford does really seem to like sex. As passionate as they’ve been its likely they’ll both have to abstain completely before the end of the week.

“I only ask out of curiosity. And,” he hesitantly puts both hands on Fords hips. “It’s not every day you get the opportunity to have a threesome with your twin.” He wears a big smile and ignores how completely unamused Ford looks.

The response comes out in almost a growl and Ford pushes Stan’s hands away without moving for real distance, “We’ve been together barely two days and your already discussing bring someone else into our bedroom! I can’t believe you!”

Stan should have expected the world wouldn’t bend. At least he knows bad things can still happen going forward. Hurts to figure it out the hard way though.

Trying again Stan moves closer, boxing Ford in against the cabinet so he can’t run off without being given a proper explanation. “I’m doing no such thing. Just listen for a second, will you?” His hands move up around Ford’s shoulders instead, one gently running through his brother’s hair in the spot that puts him to sleep.

Crossing his arms Ford leans back as far away from Stan as possible while continuing to glare. Otherwise, he doesn’t respond for fear of what will come out as a reaction. No, that is more or less exactly what Stan is suggesting and he won’t stand for it. He will not lose Stan or let anyone else have him ever again.

At least Ford isn’t yelling more and swearing, that’s good.

“I love you, idiot. I could never be happier than I am with you right now. Especially the sex despite your level of experience.” Ford is a quick learner but some things will just take time for him to become a natural at. “At our current rate, even slowed down by Fids coming around, I expect we’ll both be sore before Saturday night. Both of our asses will need a rest which I don’t expect you’ll be looking forward to given you have about a lifetime worth of pent-up sexual energy bottled up.”

The more he listens to himself talk the more Stan regrets saying anything at all. Maybe this is hell and the gimmick is him inevitably screwing this up. That would be an interesting twist from the usual blood and gore Bill used to engage in.

“And, like I said, it’s a pretty strong stretch to think we’d run into anyone else in this little town who’d be interested in sex with both of us. But I’m only bringing it up for you. I mean, what kind of brother would I be if I wasn’t making sure you didn’t die with any of your V cards? Not a very good one.” The grin has faded into a more serious expression because this isn’t a joke and he’s not trying to goad Ford in either direction.

Sure, maybe Stan used to fantasize about fucking some chick with Ford, but that was back when he never expected to have him and a threesome might have been the only chance to do something close to sex with his brother. It was a more rationalization tactic in their early teens to excuse away the thoughts of ‘ew, that’s your brother you’re getting off to’ that had followed him around.

Not gross if a chick is involved. Or incestuous. And certainly not gay.

Ford keeps his jaw locked and arms tensed but does listen while Stan talks. Nothing being said makes him feel any better. But it does at least clear up the train of thought some. Maybe.

He looks for the lie, because that’s mostly what he’s worried about. Could Stan be dissatisfied and that’s why he’s bringing this up? No, don’t be ridiculous. They’ve barely taken a hand off each other or been in a different room except to use the bathroom.

Stanley loves him endlessly. Is it so far fetched that he’d do something weird like this? Take an opportunity and only entertain it for him? Perhaps. Stan has done worse for love. Much worse.

Is this a test or something? Does Stan secretly expect one answer either way and will be upset with one or the other? His look of anger morphs into one of deep thought and confusion with the anger having simmered.

Doesn’t matter. The answer is the same.

“I don’t want to share you and I’ve never particularly had interest in women anyway. I suppose we’ll just have to slow down a little to avoid to much discomfort.” He uncrosses his arms and pulls Stan forward into a hug. Still angry, but mostly at Tina. No library today or he might do something inappropriate.

This conclusion is a relief because even if this is a good opportunity Stan knows its to soon for something like this. Honestly? He isn’t confident they could behave properly in a threesome at the moment. Anyone might find it a little weird if two brothers are more into each other then the chick in the room. This all started as an experiment and curiosity anyway.

Stan got his answer and he’s very happy with it. “Good. Maybe I’ll need to teach you how to give a proper blowjob, again. Last time you didn’t really seem to be paying very close attention.” He stays there for a while before pulling back and grabbing the note off the counter to head over to the phone. “Finish up the salad, I’ve got a heart to crush.”

Now he’s mad at Stan again. Whatever. Stupid salad...

Dialing the number and putting the phone on speaker so Ford can hear Stan doesn’t expect Tina to answer. It’s probably better if she doesn’t so it doesn’t make Ford mad again. They’ll need to talk about that later. Flirting is part of who he is and if he just stops doing it completely that’ll raise more questions than he can lie his way out of. Not now though, not after this conversation.

After the voicemail message goes off Stan starts talking like he’s reading off a script. “Hey Tina, it’s Stanley Pines. Safe to assume your at work right now? Listen, Ford told me about how you gave him your number. I’m not gonna jump to any radical conclusions on that even if lots of people find the idea of a threesome with twins hot. Probably not the last time this will happen, if that’s what you meant.”

“Regardless, we’ve decided that neither of us is interested since the last thing we need is to fight over girls again like back in high school. We’re to old for that. Seriously though, the offer is flattering so no hard feelings all around? I think it would kill Ford if he couldn’t visit the library anymore. So, maybe call and leave us a little message later to let us know things aren’t gonna be awkward over this. See you around, bye.”

Listening to Stan rattle off lie after lie over on the phone does make Ford feel better. He finishes chopping the salad and things calm down again, getting less tense and weird, while they eat and then get ready to go into town. He makes a duck down into the lab to grab the mix tape Stan made him before meeting up back in the car. It’s annoying that they can only hold hands out here and it’ll be worse once they get into town.

“Why don’t you leave this one in,” He stops Ford from removing the tape still in the player. “This tape is the first draft of the one I left you.” Its sweet that when forced to listen to music Ford picks the tape even if most of the songs wouldn’t be to his taste from what Stan remembers.

He was being ridiculous back in the kitchen. Ford hits the rewind button once the car is on so he can listen to it from the beginning with the same excitement he had down in the basement visible on his face. Since no one is around he ends up leaning over against Stan’s shoulder while they head down the driveway, trying not to cry again. “You made one in high school?”

“Well yeah, what did you think prompted me to do something so annoying in the first place? I might need to make a new one sometime soon to replace this one. It’s pretty worn out from how often I’ve listened to it.” He puts an arm around Ford with the other on the wheel for now instead of complaining about how he should be buckled and not clinging to him like a lovesick fool.

Stan let’s them enjoy the moment and stays that way until they get closer to town and the first car comes within sight at which point he unfortunately has to shove Ford over into his seat because his eyes are closed. “Buckle up, will you? I don’t need to get another ticket.”

Ford can’t even bring himself to frown or scowl because of the new tape. When they get home, he’ll have to borrow it to finish listening to. “Were you always so romantic and I was dumb not noticing?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I was always doing stupid stuff for you. It’s why I was so convinced you always knew or something. I just didn’t have the guts to bring it up and get clarification if that was why you started hating me.” Parking the car in front of the mall so they can go in and buy a safe he turns to look at Ford. “Why did you start hating me. I mean, I know it was your feelings, but….?”

The sticky gross feeling in his chest gets a cold bucket of water dumped on it as shame and guilt resurface. Is here in the car a good time to be discussing this? After glancing around and making sure the windows are closed, he turns back to Stan with a grim expression.

“You remember that July Forth after we turned thirteen? We were out on the beach all day with out blanket to save a spot for the fireworks?” The fond look on Stan’s face is all the answer he needs. “Well…when you left to run home to get us lunch, after we forgot it, Crampelter and his goons showed up.” This was the part from that day Ford hadn’t ever told Stan about. It was only made extra hard by not being able to cuddle or hold hands at the moment.

“They didn’t do much, just kicked some sand on the blanket. But,” This is stupid. All these years later it shouldn’t be so difficult to talk about it. “Like usual, it was what they said that stung. ‘Oh look, it’s just Freak one. Where’s freak two? Or did you finally break up with your boyfriend?’ So, I threw rocks at them until they started to leave, laughing. ‘Guess it’s a good thing you two were born in Jersey, Incest is legal here, freaks!’ It was-“

Stan doesn’t mean to slam his hand down on the horn but missed the steering wheel he been meaning to punch. The noise is loud and turns the few heads nearby. Fucking Crampelter. Oh, just as soon as he’s allowed back in Jersey that guys dead! Dead! Maybe even before if any of his old contacts are good.

No. Stan wants to do it himself. That sleazy sack of shit doesn’t deserve to breathe, even scummy Jersey air. He has half a mind to put the car back in drive and go home so they can pack a bag, warrants be damned. They’ll take Ford’s car and if they get pulled over use Ford’s license. Problem solved.

It’s that guy’s fault all this happened and that Ford starting being stupid. God, if only-

Ford has to physically remove Stan’s hand from the horn to stop the honking and its pretty alarming just how pissed Stanley looks right now. He hasn’t seen Stan this mad before. It’s kinda-

No not now.

“Stan, calm down. This was years ago!” He tries to insist, redirecting Stan’s hands to the seat between them. “You know how they were. It was just words, I’m the one who took it seriously, will you stop!” He gives Stan a shake trying to get Stan to listen for a second.

Without buckling back up Stan puts the car in drive again and pulls out of the parking lot with a sharp jerk. He doesn’t head for the main road though. Instead, he heads around the back of the mall onto a little dirt service road where he pulls into a small little out cove mostly hidden by trees unless you’re driving past.  

After parking the car Stan reaches down under the driver’s seat to pull a silver lever that lays back the front seat. The mechanics of the car when they first bought it only allowed for the seats to recline slightly but with a rework four years into being homeless Stan had been able to modify it. Now it lays back and the front and back seats turn into a bed too small for an adult.

Big enough for fooling around though.

Ford is still clinging on to the door handle, unsure if he should get out of the car, when the seat falls backwards and he almost hits his head from how unexpected it is. Since when has the car been able to do that? He barely gets a second to process the change before Stan is over on his side of the bench, hovering over him, pulling Ford up into a hard and angry kiss.

He would by lying if he tried to claim Stan pealing out of the parking lot to potentially fuck him on a back road in their car wasn’t turning him on. Maybe the jokes back then weren’t so bad if this is the end result. Getting mauled by Stan is the best possible outcome really. “Stan, I know I said I don’t mind a little choking, but I do need to breath a little.” An embarrassing noise escapes when Stan starts to undo the top of his shirt to work on one of the hickeys from the day before to make it darker.

Stan wants to murder someone or get in a fist fight. Neither of those is possible right now. Ending up in jail, again, isn’t something that fits into their new life. The next best thing after killing or fighting is fucking. The universe basically decided for him.

That’s why he pushes Ford back further so they’re laying down and he’s got Ford pinned into the seat out of view from the rear window facing the road. There are houses nearby, but far enough away and blocked by a thick line of trees. Its as safe as you could get not fucking at home. Probably safer than a lookout point given people expect sex there.

Ford should tell Stan to stop before someone sees them or more likely hears. He still hasn’t gotten very good at being quiet and the mall isn’t that far away here. Maybe a two-minute walk, anyone could come by and- “Stanley!” He hisses followed by a groan.

One of Stan’s hands has managed to undo Ford’s belt but get interrupted when Ford grabs his hand just shy of reaching in. He might be mad, but that doesn’t make him a monster. He stops, panting and still a little twitchy with anger.

Why was he objecting again? Stan’s hair is a mess, face red, and he looks really hot right now. “Don’t you think there are healthier ways to deal with being pissed about this?” The strength for his objection isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.

“Not unless you want me to kill someone. I’d only need to make a phone call and mail a check to make sure that bastards dead before our birthday if he hasn’t already had a heart attack from being a lazy piece of shit who’s never done anything worthwhile in his whole fucking lif-“

Ford pulls Stan back into another hard kiss to keep him from yelling more and giving away their spot. It’s a silent consent to continue. It shouldn’t be so attractive that something so small, even if it did help shape their lives, has Stan seeing red. He wants to kill someone, for him. It’s as romantic as it is hot and yeah, his ass is going to be so sore later but it’ll be worth it.

Stan only paws at Ford for a minute, keeping him pinned down on the seats, before pulling back to shift off. “Get your pants down,” He heads over back under the seat to dig out the small kit he’d tucked under the passenger seat. Stan hadn’t expected them to be having sex in here so soon especially since he brought it out this morning. Thank God he did.

Once he’s no longer pinned to the seat Ford takes the chance to glance around the area just to make sure no one is around before finishing what Stan started and pushing them down to around his knees. His face is red and his heart is hammering. Fear of getting caught, lust for Stan, and excitement over it all races through his veins.

Pulling out the bottle of lube and a condom he moves back over to Ford and helps redirect him so he’s up on his knees with his hands over the back seat facing the window to keep an eye on the road. “Try and keep your eyes open, I’ll make sure you aren’t being too loud.”

He makes quick work of prepping Ford which is mostly adding a lot of lube since it’s barely been two hours since their last round before lunch. “This is how prom should have ended, with me fucking you in the backseat or maybe over the hood.” After opening and putting on a condom he practically drapes himself over Ford to keep from hitting his head while lining up and pressing in.

Ford made sure to ruck up his shirt out of the way so it wouldn’t get stained but didn’t get so far as thinking about the rest of the potential mess this would cause before Stan was pushing him back down and sliding home. It doesn’t matter how many times they do this; it still feels perfect every time. “I don’t think, ah, it would have been a good look to come home covered in punch and semen Stan-“ The first thrust pushes out a loud moan, shutting him up.

Stan keeps his hips steady using one hand while bringing the other up, covering his brother’s mouth to muffle the volume. “Less talking, more mindless moaning Stanford.” To accentuate his point he starts moving, not having to warm up much before increasing the tempo and reaching the hand around to stroke Ford’s cock.

That would have made him laugh except Stan started to pick up the pace and adjusted the angle, leaving Ford to rely heavily on the hand covering his mouth. Some of the windows are fogging up and its extra hot in here because of all the heavy breathing mixed with the summer heat outside. “Fuck, Stan.” He lets out a groan between the fingers watching a car drive past on the road to fast to see them.

In the confined space it’s easier to thrust quick, hard, and short making the car rock a little. “Shh, don’t want anyone to hear how much you enjoy being fucked on your little brother’s cock. Incest ain’t legal here Sixer. Think they’d put us in the same jail? You could be my bitch there too so no one else can touch you. All mine.” He’s talking against Ford’s throat, mouthing kisses against the skin without leaving marks, just a little spit between gasps and quiet moans.

Words that once filled him with a sense of shame, fear and guilt now go straight to his cock causing it to throb and twitch in Stan’s hand accompanied by an extra loud moan. Ford pushes back to meet each thrust and spreading his legs as far as the pants around his ankles allow while panting through his nose but unable to get in enough air.

Tightening his hand Stan can’t help but grin, “Oh, you like that? Me fucking you in the shower with everyone watching the Pines twins put on a show? I bet you’d be loud to, leaking all over the floor worse then right now getting precum all over the seats.” A low and loud growl vibrates against Ford’s throat picturing it. “Or maybe I’d fuck your throat instead out of sight in a stall with you down on your knees, making you choke keeping you from making any of your pretty noises.”

It sounds so dirty and looking at the painted picture behind closed eyes makes him keen, slipping his tongue out to lick at Stan’s hand. The salty sweat there isn’t the same as cock but-  

Jesus Christ.

Instead of continuing to cover his mouth Stan is pushing two fingers inside and back towards his throat, adding a third when Ford continues being too loud. It’s making a mess of spit but it adds to the fantasy sucking on them like Stan does have him down on the floor mouth stuffed full of cock.

“That’s it, take it like a good bitch for me. Fuck your perfect, gonna make me cum too fast. You’re so sexy that you’ve halved the time I can last. It’s a shame, I never want to stop.” The windows are completely fogged up at this point but Stan is beyond caring if they get caught here if he ever did at all. His thrusts are faster and the hand around Ford’s cock tighter chasing the finish line coming into sight.

Ford is starting to think he should piss Stan off more often if this is the kind of wild sex that results from it. He’s saying the kind of thing Ford has only heard in pornos but it isn’t ridiculous coming out of Stan’s mouth. If he could get away from the fingers, he’d be warning Stan about the incoming mess but instead he just nips at them and claws at the fabric below the back window leaving marks in the carpet.

His hand works faster over Ford’s cock creating a loud wet thwack in the space every time his hand catches on the head before slamming back down. Watching Ford fall apart is beautiful. Pressed together he can feel the shiver down the spine, the twitching of his cock spurting on the seats in thick ropes, and the vibrations of muffled yelling around spit-soaked fingers.

“Oh fuck, Sixer,” His own thrusts become a little more erratic and the biting from Ford’s teeth mixed with his hole trying to suck him dry tips him over with the edge almost immediately after. “Shit, fuck! God damn it, Stanford!” Stan fucks them both through it panting before pulling his spit covered hand free from his brother’s mouth and stilling their hips.

Every single time they do this Ford’s head ends up hazy and stupid for at least a solid two minutes. Now is no different. Without a clock in sight Ford can’t be sure how long they stay that way but eventually he’s aware of Stan pulling out and shifting away to get out of the car for some reason. Whatever, he is not about to ask questions still enjoying this stellar orgasm.

The anger is long gone and instead replaces with pride and glee over seeing how slumped and ruined Ford is over the backseat of the car. He can’t dwell on it to long though because the last thing they need is the seat getting stained. After climbing out of the car Stan tosses the used condom off into the woods before grabbing some paper towels, a rag towel, and a cleaning spray out of the trunk.

Back inside Stan carefully moves Ford around and does the work of cleaning them both up since this was his idea. The stupid satisfied grin he’s wearing persists and only gets wider the longer Ford remains mute. It takes the mess being cleaned up, their clothes put back on, and the windows rolled down before anymore words are exchanged.

“Maybe I should share more bullying stories if that’s the result.” Ford mutters from where they’re cuddling on the dry part of the back seat while the smell of sex dissipates out into the fresh forest air around them.

Stan just laughs, straightening out Ford’s messy hair. “Hmm, at least wait until we get home. We still have shopping to do.”

Once the smell has faded Stan gets them back in the front and fixes the seat and his own hair before turning the car back on to get their shopping back on track. He drives into the mall parking lot significantly more relaxed.

Notes:

Here is the first version of Ford's mix tape except it has some normal music because otherwise that would be sus. Slim pickings for love songs pre-1971 but all these should be from then or earlier since I imagine Stan made it their junior year sometime. Enjoy: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Fx3LE8nWvGvcQZ6V06BeG?si=5d80afb142204e3f

Chapter 53: Eye Lie

Notes:

In these difficult times, have a chapter to dry your tears. 🤣

It didn’t take very long for Stanley to get bored being upstairs alone.

After Fids came over and the two nerds went down into the basement to work on the portal Thursday, Stan was left to his own devices for a longer period of time than since before the showdown, what with the house being crammed full of people that first week and Ford refusing to leave his side the last several days.

He tried to keep busy by doing some redecorating. Putting pictures from albums in frames and hanging them around the house and in hallways. Moving Ford’s degrees into the hallway for everyone to see instead of hidden away in the bedroom. And, after the mattress was delivered, Stan set up the bed afterwards despite how difficult it was to get upstairs without help. That filled up most of Thursday mixed in with reading when his eye could tolerate it.

Friday, he took to doing miscellaneous chores next. Dusting. Sweeping. Vacuuming. Spending the whole afternoon mowing the stupid lawn with the stupid push mower.

Then he ran out of stuff. There weren’t any more housekeeping tasks to do around the house. It left him alone with just his thoughts which was never a good thing.

Instead of doing something dangerous, like thinking, he went upstairs to the attic and took some measurements of the space to pick out a spot for a desk. Beyond having an office of some kind Stan still had no clue what the space could be for but a desk and some bookshelves seemed like a good start. It was also a lot less ambitious than a whole treehouse as a first-time project.

Too bad he didn’t get much further than measuring and drawing some very poor sketches of what he had planned before the day was over. Stan kept them hidden from Ford, not because it was anything worth hiding, but he wanted to do this on his own without help to prove that he could. If he could.

Showing Ford, intentional or not, might lead to suggestions which could turn into the project being snatched away. Sometimes that used to happen in high school, probably unintentionally. Ford has his own projects, like tearing apart an interdimensional portal and designing a very swanky boat. Building a desk and some shelves in comparison is pretty boring. Ford could probably do it in two hours.

Showoff.

All the worry they had about Fids seeing them and suddenly knowing they were secretly screwing seemed to be pointless and it was easy to slid back into being Ford’s brother that first day over lunch. If anything, Fids seemed happy seeing them getting along even better since last week!

It was super funny watching him react to the whole story (with some parts edited) about the pair breaking into the police station. Stan left out the part about erasing a cop’s memory from his own story because Fids might have had moral objections to it from his conscience.

Fids and Stan had spent all of Saturday morning doing a little bit of childproofing around the house, mostly locking up medications and cleaning supplies. The waiting is the worst part. Anytime now Ford is going to come upstairs to grab them both for the surgery. He can’t decide if he’s excited or nervous. Both?  

And scared.

This is his idea! He’s the one pushing for this so intensely. Hence why he can’t admit that he’s scared and nervous. That’s all it would take for his brother to call it off. Ford didn’t seem exactly thrilled to be volunteered/told he gets to do the surgery. It’s a big ask and if Fids wasn’t so squeamish Stan would pay him to do it instead.

The mention of surgery for both of them brings back memories of that shared nightmare with Bill. Stan tied down on the kitchen table; Ford unable to stop himself from using the knife…

This is different though. It’s just his eye, not his organs. Real Ford is doing it, he isn’t possessed and this isn’t a nightmare. It’ll be fine. They just have to get over this like everything else.

Still, he keeps pacing back and forth in the living room while avoiding the kitchen. He isn’t supposed to eat before the surgery, for one, but Stan also doesn’t want to look at the dining room table. Not today.

“You know you don’t have to do the surgery if you don’t want to, right?” Stan thinks he’s being slick pacing back and forth while looking mostly indifferent. It might have come across as excitement if Fids didn’t know Stan so well. “Wearing glasses isn’t that bad, you just have to be a little more careful not to break them or lose them somewhere.”

It’s a nice gesture but Stan does have to do this. It’s the whole reason he built the thing! Glasses won’t guarantee the pain goes away reading either since the ones Ford has been loaning him don’t prevent it. He finally stops pacing behind the couch and turns to face Fids with a sigh. Maybe talking about it will help? Can’t hurt.

“I never told you about my nightmares much, right?” His shoulders deflate while walking around to sit across from Fiddleford on the couch. “Well. They actually turned out being worse than I initially thought. Bill, the bastard he was…”

Keep it short, don’t make Fids know anything more then necessary.

“You know the concept of the multiverse, right? An endless array of dimensions with each one being slightly different? Bill would switch my consciousness around into another Stan’s. So, all those dreams of dying were real, just in another life. And, in turn, Ford was also being moved around out of the nightmare realm. Dreams about killing each other were a little more than dreams.”

Fids regrets ever mentioning anything. He should have let Stan keep pacing back and forth until he wore a hole in the floor instead of having to learn another level of horror about the twin’s lives. Every new layer only makes him feel better about the role he played in Bills downfall, on top of the pity for his friends of course. They shouldn’t have had to go through that.

“Anyway…. The point of me telling you that is there was this one time,” Stan glances over towards the doorway that leads to the kitchen and back. “Where Ford was possessed and tied me down to perform some surgery while I was awake. I’ll spare you the details, but I think both of us are a little extra uncomfortable about this because of that.”

“Why are you doing it then? I mean, it’s not like your blind, right? Maybe you should wait until you’ve both had more time to process everything before jumping into this and-“

“No, Fids. I’m not, but I can’t do anything. I can’t drive without getting a headache or read or just look across the damn yard! It’s annoying and I’m not going to be much help building the boat if I can’t fucking see! The strain from my bad eye only hurts the other one more every day, making it all worse.” Stan sighs, crossing his arms and sitting back.

“I designed this thing to fix a specific problem and its perfectly safe.” He looks back over at Fids. “Can I ask you something, I know your squeamish, but do you think maybe-“

Oh no, absolutely not.

“No, Stan. I’m not cutting your eye out. Ford is the evil scientist, not me. I’m just there to read off the instructions and man the phone. This is on you two, not me.” He’s firm about it because the last thing he needs is more nightmare fuel.

It was worth a shot to ask at least.

Stan knows he’s got it easy being asleep, Ford is the one who has to face the nightmare head on in the middle of surgery. It’s the real cause of the anxiety because one slipup and the whole project is screwed. Ford would never kill him on purpose but by accident is a whole other story. “Can you at least be the one to knock me out with the Propofol? Not having to see each other before I’m asleep might make it easier.”

Just this once, Stan is going to take the cowards way out, guilt be damned.

Fiddleford sighs while rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually rest. “Alright, fine. I’ll help you inject the needle. But that’s it. I’m not helping anymore then that.” Stan is a good friend but sometimes the things he asks for really drive home how ridiculous their lives are. How different would things be if he just hadn’t come to Gravity Falls to help Ford? The portal never would have gotten build, that’s for sure.

Stanford has been avoiding going upstairs for the last half an hour. If he just doesn’t go upstairs, they don’t have to do this. More then ever he wants to tell Stanley no, but how can he? Stan almost died for him. It would be ridiculous for Ford to refuse him any request, even one that makes his chest tight and hands unsteady.

It won’t be that bad. He’s gone over the instructions a dozen times and everything is ready. It’ll be fine. As long as he doesn’t screw something up.

Before he can lose nerve Ford forces himself to press the button for the main floor and makes his legs walk out to go find Stan and Fids. Talking is particularly difficult even after he reaches the doorway into the living room. “It’s ready, you can come downstairs so we can get started.”

The march into the basement feels like a trip down death row for how quiet everyone is walking into the elevator and then out into the lab.

While Stan and Fiddleford were childproofing the house Ford had been setting up their makeshift surgery location. It’s essentially just a chair with restraints to keep Stan’s head still, the IV stand, and a table with the various tools, needles, and medications. The new eye is sitting in its box next to a jar filled with the solution to preserve the old eye.

Why Stan wants to keep it is beyond him, but whatever. It’s Stan’s eye, he can do what he wants with it. Ford can at least appreciate that they’re both weird.

“Alright, stand out beyond the curtain Stanford, Fids is going to help me with the medications.” If his anxiety is noticeable then Ford’s is a wet blanket hanging over them off a clothes line. It’s like they play off each other, making the other feel worse. The sooner Stan is asleep the better.

Ford doesn’t object and takes the opportunity to double check the stuff at Fids station. The house phone, fully charged, and the instructions laid out for him to read off as they go. It helps knowing Fids will be right here the whole time.

Fiddleford is more than a little concerned watching Stan prepare the IV on his own arm but helps when possible, taping things in place and following instructions. Stan might as well be a nurse because he seems to know exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s done this before. The faint scar over the vein isn’t helping either.

Stan is a criminal. Would it be such a jump to assume Stan has done drugs before if he’s indulged in pot? No, probably not. He wants to ask but before he can Stan is handing him the needle and explaining how to inject it through the port.

Stan keeps his voice down as if that will prevent Ford from hearing them through the curtain. “There, now you give it five minutes and start cutting. Or whatever the guide says.” He puts all of the confidence he has into his words not wanting to scare either of them into backing out seconds before. “Doc, the patient is ready for you.”

Ford drags his feet back beyond the curtain and goes a little pale seeing Stan hooked up to the morphine now that he’s been given the Propofol. The anxiety only gets worse looking at the table full of tools. This all looks completely different from that night in the kitchen. It’s okay. This is fine.

Perhaps he’s a coward but Stan still forces himself to smile at Ford as he’s already starting to feel drowsy. “Hey now, it’s going to be okay, Sixer. Just you wait, this time tomorrow you’ll be asking me to cut out your eye. You’ll be so jealous…” He laughs and shifts to get more comfortable in the chair feeling his body starting to relax.

Stan’s kind words at least allow him to move again, hovering next to the chair. “Fids, could you go grab the heart monitor we rigged up from downstairs.” He waits until Fids moves out from beyond the curtain and back towards the elevator before crowding in closer to Stan. It looks like he’s going to fall asleep any second.

He’s scared, terrified, that something here will go wrong and Stan won’t wake up. It’s supposed to be foolproof, but what if its not? Stan was very sleep deprived when he invented this and it’s going to be connected to a nerve running straight back to his brain. He can’t lose Stanley again, especially now that things are perfect. “Stan-“

It’s difficult to keep his eyes open and focused on top of trying to move his mouth enough to talk. He forces it, because Ford looks right on the edge of chickening out. “I know, but you’ll do great. Just keep things quick and nothing can go wrong. I love you and can’t wait to see you clearly…” He had more to try and spit out but his tongue stops working about halfway through the thought.

Ford takes the moment they have alone to lean down and kiss Stan gently. When he pulls back Stan’s eyes are closed and it appears he’s out cold. Damn it. “I love you too…” But Stan isn’t awake anymore to hear him.

This is a huge sign of trust from Stan and Ford will be damned if he fails his brother now. He needs to get a grip and focus instead of dwelling on how all this makes him feel. Ford takes full advantage of the moment alone with Stan and awkwardly hugs him until the elevator come back up. It gives him a little more strength. Too bad it gets swallowed up by the black hole in his chest.

Setting up the heart monitor they made makes the whole setup seem more clinical, like they’re in a real hospital instead of downstairs in the basement like some back-alley organ harvester.

It’s easier to say ‘get ahold of yourself and stop freaking out’ then to follow through on those words.

Seeing Stanley asleep, hooked up to a heart monitor and IV, and to know what he’s supposed to do…. The more time passes the less sure Ford is that he can do it at all. Stan would do it for him, no problem, but he doesn’t have the nightmare of tearing your brother apart to fight with. Not from the same perspective.

“You ready, Ford?” Fids asks, peering around the curtain from his chair where he’s holding the instructions book. Stan had said to make this quick before they have to give him another dose to keep him under.

‘No, actually. You think we could kidnap a surgeon and memory wipe them afterwards so I don’t have to do it?’ Ford thinks but doesn’t say this idea. Well, actually-

No, no. They can’t do that. Even if he’d prefer it. “Yeah, sorry.” He turns away and goes to wash his hands and put on gloves, a terrible attempt at keeping the room sterile. That’s basically impossible here so they have no choice but to live with what they have. Germs and plenty of room for potential infections.

Ford grabs one of the towels they’d cut up and uses it to cover most of Stan’s face and neck other then the eye he’s removing, the mouth, and nose. His hand won’t stop shaking picking up the first tool and his voice shakes when he talks. “Go ahead and start reading the instructions.”

Fids closes the curtain and turns back to the book, not wanting to watch. It’s the whole point of the barrier in the first place. “After waiting ten full minutes from the injection you’ll have half an hour to finish the procedure. To start, use to speculum from the kit to hold open the eyelid.”

See, this isn’t so bad, just follow the instructions and it’ll be fine…...It’s still unsettling looking at Stan’s eye like this. It looks dead other then the reaction to the light above.

“Next, you’ll need to inject the eye’s anesthetic to lesson the pain and prevent a cardiovascular spike between now and when the morphine kicks in. Inject it either directly into the eye or into the muscle wall barely visible in the corner. Whichever is more convenient.” Fids can hear Ford moving around but can’t see exactly what he’s doing so he waits for Ford to say something else to make sure he isn’t going too fast.

The speculum stays in place on its own freeing up Ford’s hand to pick up the small needle.

Injecting it anywhere feels wrong. Into the muscle is something Stan will feel and have to heal from later. The eye is getting disposed of anyway, but its still part of his brother.

This is ridiculous, but it feels like part of Stan is dying and he’s the one killing it.

Ford injects the needle into the eye and looks away while pressing down the plunger before tossing it aside into the garbage. The next minute stretches forever with him waiting for Fids to keep going, “What’s next?” He knows, and doesn’t need Fids reading the script, but it helps having instructions from someone else. The words come out in a snap and Ford tries to calm himself looking at the heart rate on the screen still steady as ever.

“In order to access the eyeball, you’ll need to cut the two outer coverings. The conjunctiva layer and the tenon’s capsule. Pick up the blunt conjunctiva scissors to do this and cut both layers free to allow access to the muscles on either side of the eye.” He can only imagine how difficult this must be for Ford to do and it makes Fids reconsider if he’s the right person to be doing this at all. What if his hands are shaking and he nicks an artery? Or if he accidently damages the nerve too severely because of fear?

This is all written out very clinical, maybe Fids should have just done it to lower the risk of something going wrong? Nah, he’s overestimating his own ability to do well under pressure. Ford is still the best bet….

Surprisingly there isn’t any blood yet and that is the only reason Ford is able to continue, carefully cutting away and forcing his hands to remain steady. It’s identical to the book he’d checked out from the library. Pretending this isn’t his brother and soulmate makes this part go a little faster.

Using the tools to adjust the eye he’s able to see the muscles along each side, carefully cutting those to allow more free movement. It’s the only way to get access to the optic nerve in the back. His mouth feels dry cutting each of them one by one. How is the new eye supposed to fix all this damage being done to the retinal cavity? Fixing the nerve is one thing, but everything else? This isn’t pretty, how is this-

“Now that each of the muscles are cut, secured by the thin threads, you’ll need to apply some light strength to lift the eye out of the socket to access the nerve. This is the part you can’t hesitate on, once you sever the nerve you’ll have to line up and activate the new eye quickly to limit blood lose and tissue death.”

Oh sure, the part involving blood is the thing Ford can’t screw up!

Gently removing the eye is easy enough and there are only a few drops across the eye. It’s enough to make Ford feel like vomiting. No matter how much he pretends this isn’t Stan, he still knows it is. This is his other half and Ford had been stupid enough to cut him up and now its to late to go back. But he can’t go forward either.

“Fids. I need your help.” Just admitting it out loud makes the bile rise in his throat but Ford forces it back down by swallowing. Who knows what kind of complications would happen if he threw up right now. There would definitely be infection and Stan would get sick and-

Fiddleford sighs but gets up to go wash his hands and put on a pair of gloves. They don’t need the book, the instructions going forward are pretty clear. ‘Line up nerve, flip switch, put back in socket.’ He can hear the panic in his friend’s voice. It’s not like Stan’s stomach is open, it’s just an eye, how bad can it be?

Fids goes around the corner and expects the scene to be worse than it is. Ford is frozen holding the eye out of the socket by the small piece of thread he’d secured it with. A few drops of blood are on the towel covering Stan’s face and dripping from the eye but otherwise it’s not as gory as Fids thought it would be. Not yet anyway. “What do you want me to do?”

Ford doesn’t know. He wishes he could just go back five minutes and change his mind. How did he even get this far? Stan’s eye is almost out, why isn’t he strong enough to finish the job?

Because he’s tired of hurting Stanley. He’s done it so many times in so many different ways. But this is what he wanted, right? Stan asked for this! Insisted on it! Why does this have to be so hard! He feels seconds away from a panic attack and has to look away.

This is bad. Ford looks downright terrified and he’s starting to cry now too. Fiddleford would be lost and confused except Stan warned him this might happen. Not directly, but the hints had been there. His friend had been scared of this and he’d refused to help before. Damn it you two…They need to get things moving again before Ford loses it completely.

“Hold the eye up and I’ll cut. Do you want to hold the nerve steady or the new eye? Ford? Stay with me here. Focus, for one more minute, okay? Breathe.” He grabs another set of scissors and the new eye, moving around to Stan’s other side with hands that aren’t shaking as bad compared to Ford’s.

The best Ford can do is not step away and leave Fids alone, otherwise he can’t do anything much less look back towards Stan and Fids. His eyes remain tightly shut holding the ends of the string keeping the eye suspended. “Just, get it over with. I’ll hold the eye. You do the cutting, I can’t look.”

This is fine. Totally fine. Not weird or an insane turn of events for his life to have taken, right?

Fids has to grab Ford’s other hand and make him hold the new eye, positioning it near the old eye to free up the hand without the scissors. One hand holds the optic nerve while the other snips it before he can lose the guts like Ford already has.

This is the gore he was expecting.

Seconds after cutting the nerve a very large amount of blood starts to spurt and escape from it, getting on his gloves. Fids actually does throw up, angling his head away back behind the chair onto the floor. Move. They need to move, before the bleeding gets worse. Except Ford isn’t helping at all, just standing there like a statue looking at the mess with dead eyes.

Now isn’t the time for this Ford!

Without wiping away the remnants of vomit, not wanting to get any on his gloves, Fids moved Ford’s hands, switching which eye is hanging over the socket, the surgical scissors getting discarded on the floor.  He lines up the nerve, having no idea how exactly this is going to stop the bleeding, but mindlessly following instructions anyway.

With everything lined up, and a lot of blood pooling, he flips the switch and roughly pushes the new eye back into the socket like the instructors say before sitting Stan’s head upright again with a blood-soaked glove. Whatever, Stan can shower later. That’s why he’s wearing all black clothes for this.

Ford isn’t in the basement anymore.

Instead of looking down at Stan sitting mostly upright in the chair they’re both back in the kitchen. Stan is laid back out on the dining room table, wrists and ankles tied tightly with rope, and he’s cut open straight down the middle and all the way through.

Ford can’t move and is stuck standing right next to the table being forced to look down into the empty cavity. The space he emptied organ by organ into the bucket under the table on the floor. Bones are visible too, the spine and the ribs and so much blood-

Fiddleford doesn’t allow himself the grace of watching what the eye is doing to reseal itself in the socket right away because he’s a little caught up emptying Ford’s hands of sharp objects and moving him away just in time for Ford to throw up on the curtain and the floor. At least it didn’t end up on Stan.

“It’s okay, come on, let’s get you over here. It’s alright. He’s okay.” Guiding Ford around the puke he sets his friend down in the chair at the desk and then goes back around the ruined curtain to check on Stan and remove the speculum.

If you ignore the blood leaking out of the socket and down onto Stan’s shirt the process is pretty amazing to watch with the eyelid still out of the way. The nerve must have cauterized itself during the healing process because the faint smell of burns flesh is present. It only gets stronger the longer the process goes on, making the basement smell awful. That has to hurt, doesn’t it?

The eye moves around a little, into position, all on its own while reattaching the variously cut muscles out of view. The final part, and the only thing Fids can see and marvel at, is the two final barriers resealing the cut all on their own. If he’d blinked the whole process might have been missed. What went without being seen in the time it took to move Ford to a safe space?

Stupid brothers. Yeah, this wasn’t that bad. He should have just done it and maybe recorded it so him and Ford could fuss over the novelty of it later instead of throwing up all over the floor.  Fids adds a couple eyedrops using the bottle from the box before closing the eyelid. Then he moves back around to check on Ford again.

Honestly, he deserves a raise for all he puts up with.

In Fids absence Ford had slid off the desk down onto the floor, underneath the table, to hide and curl in on himself behind his knees. His eyes are both tightly closed and he can’t stop seeing it. All the blood, the awful smell, the ruined and jaggedly cut skin. Stan’s skin. He killed him and now he’s dead and-

“Stanford, your okay. Hey, look at me. Look up, open your eyes and look.” Ignoring the smell of vomit, blood, and burn flesh Fids discards his gloves on the floor and tries to get Ford to look up and see where he is. “Your back home, it’s okay Ford.” Without more context for the nightmare there isn’t much else he can say to try and bring his friend back around to reality.

Ford is an expert at compartmentalizing. He managed to keep his feelings towards Stan almost completely under wraps for a full decade. But the funny thing about this method is that once a floodgate is opened, you can’t put everything back. Once the love for Stanley was out it wasn’t possible to put the damn back while the water all rushed through.

He’d like to think it’s because of other Stan, who gave him hope the feelings might be mutual, but its also due to the weight of it all being too much. Shoving it away piece by piece as it happened was what made it possible. Every new feeling and thought got shoved into the box with the rest.

That’s what he did for months on the other side of the portal locking away each new awful memory to keep himself from breaking down and losing it. Now he’s been reminded and forced to face one of those awful memories unintentionally and Ford can’t put it back again. He ends up sobbing over both legs curled up completely ignoring the blood he’s getting on his pants because of the gloves he’s still wearing.

What would Stan do to calm Ford down? Well, Stan’s voice would probably help matters, but he’s asleep so that’s not an option. What about a hug? Yeah, that sounds like something he’d do.

After removing Ford’s gloves Fids drags him out from under the desk and into a hug, carefully avoiding getting any blood on himself and ruining these clothes. It might be difficult to explain the stain to Emma without lying. “It’s okay Ford, you’re okay.” He treats this like one of Tates nightmares, trying to sooth Ford and calm him down.

“No, it’s not! I killed him. I mean, it was Bill. But I killed him and now he’s dead. Lee is dead Fids!” Ford is yelling now and it echoes in the lab off the walls and back towards them leaving his own ears ringing around the sobs. “I’m the worst brother in the world! Why does Stanley always have to pay the price, it’s all my fault. All of it. If I had just stopped Dad none of this would be happening!”

Stan didn’t really prepare him for Ford having a full-on mental breakdown on the floor here. Since coming back Ford hasn’t talked much about what happened beyond the portal or how it made him feel. It makes sense that knowing all that happened and all Stan went through he’d feel guilty. Fids is still surprised by how completely it seems to be overwhelming his friend.

Ford had always seemed so sure of himself and his actions, never thinking twice or holding regrets. He stood by his mistakes even after being proven wrong. Now they crush him down into the floor and seem to be making it hard to breath. Part of him is glad because Stan deserves a brother who cared about him and can admit when he’s wrong.

Mostly he’s just sad and hurt having to watch such a spectacular meltdown. “Hey, listen! Sit up, open your stupid eyes and listen Stanford!” He gives Ford a shake, like a bad parent would to a baby that won’t stop crying, until he finally opens up his eyes to look. “Yes, you made lots of mistakes. You are a flawed human being. But you did it, we finished the surgery. Stan is okay. Don’t you hear the heart monitor still beeping?”

Ford struggles to stop shaking or crying but he does look at Fids and then tries to hear the distant beeping barely seven feet away on the other side of the barrier just out of sight. Stan’s still alive. Right. They’re in the basement, not upstairs in the kitchen. Very slowly his breathing comes back under control. He keeps his eyes open to avoid seeing any of the blood again, blinking sparingly until he stops shaking so much.

Fids waits until Ford looks a lot calmer and is cleaning up his tears before speaking again. “You might need to work on this, especially if you two plan on sailing together. This kind of reaction in a life-or-death situation could be catastrophic.”

Just the sight of blood had been enough to send Ford into a spiral, what would happen out at sea without anyone else around to calm him down if something went wrong? He’d need to think about that later and yes, work on it. “Let’s, uh. Clean up. Before Stan wakes up and sees our mess.” Pulling away from the hug they both get up to do just that.

Between the two of them is didn’t take to much time to clean up their respective vomit, the gloves, and the tools they’d discarded. Ford also finally put the eyeball into the preservative solution and closed up the jar for Stan to keep.

While Fids brought the garbage upstairs to put in the can Ford cleaned up the blood that had dripped down Stan’s face and onto his shirt with a rag, waiting for him to wake up. It takes all of Ford’s remaining strength to sit not so patiently on a chair next to Stan instead of climbing into his lap or something with Fids around.

After a long ten minutes of sitting, after Fiddleford came back down, he got up and started pacing the lab because he couldn’t sit still any longer. It’s been almost forty-five minutes since Stan went to sleep, shouldn’t he be awake by now? What if something went wrong and the nerve thing screwed up Stan’s brain? What if he’s dead now or in a coma?

He goes to grab the instructions to flip through them again but doesn’t see anything about what to do if Stan just doesn’t wake up. How would they even begin to explain this to a doctor? Its insane. What they did is crazy and impossible to be honest about without going to jail. Even if Stan does wake up how is he ever going to explain this? Will it set off metal detectors? What if-

The first thing Stan notices when waking up is that he can smell blood. No, don’t panic. That’s normal. Expected. It’s okay. Calm down, don’t-

He sucks in a deep breath and it takes concentration to only open the one eye to start with. Right. Surgery, one eye for now. It’s fine. His body remains pretty loose sitting back in the chair but with one eye open he can see Fids sitting by his side and Ford pacing across the room.

Blink.

Oh, hello. Now Ford is over here already. Did he teleport?

Don’t be ridiculous, your brain is just being extra stupid because of the anesthesia. Maybe a little slower then normal but that’s probably just the drugs. Morphine does that sometimes.

He feels okay at least. Nothing hurts too bad, he isn’t lightheaded, and he’s alive. Those are all good things, right?

“How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Do you remember what day it is? What’s your name?” They probably should have wrapped that while he was still out but the instructions hadn’t said anything about it needing time to heal. It was supposed to be a same day fix, so why is Stan only using the one eye? Oh. Duh. Is the area numb for some reason? Ford tries not to crowd Stan but really needs him to say something to stop the panic raising its head again.

Leave it to Ford asking too many questions right after he wakes up from surgery. God, he loves me a lot, doesn’t he? I’m the luckiest person alive having Ford here. He’s the best for doing the surgery and making sure everything went okay. “Names Stanley Caryn Pines, the date is June 5^th, 1982 and can somebody turn that light down? It’s bright as hell in here under a spotlight.” He complains, closing his eye until his eyelid goes from red to black with the light change.

Fids is the one to turn off the light, bringing with the instruction booklet, before sitting back down next to Stanley. “You still feel like your mental faculties haven’t been affected by the surgery? That doesn’t answer how you feel. Pain? Dizzy? We need details.”

Stan laughs a little watching Fids pull out a stupid notebook to write stuff down in. “You two are dorks.” He laughs harder for a minute, longer than a minute, though the joke isn’t that funny. Another effect of the cocktail he’s on is that everything is kinda funny. “Still feel kinda hazy and drunk, but that’s the drugs talking. Otherwise, my eye only feels a little tight. I’m guessing I was off a little in my measurement estimates from before by a pinch or the irritation to the area is causing a little swelling. It’ll adjust in a day or two I imagine.”  

Ford reaches over to grab the jar and holds it out in front of Stan so he can see his old eye, “All and all everything went well. Other then Fids having to step in. I needed an extra hand removing and swapping out the eye quick enough.” He pointedly leaves out the whole panic attack on the floor or the fact that both of them threw up. He doesn’t need to know the trouble caused by asking them to do this.

Stan saved the world. He deserves a new eye if he wants it.

Knowing better then to try holding the glass jar Stan leans forward and lifts a hand to motion Ford to hold it closer so he can see. It should be disturbing but instead Stan dons a grin, “You two are the coolest people ever, you know that? I guess the twin insanity rubbed off on you, right Specs?” Stan moves one arm over the arm of his chair to nudge Fids.

Fids gives Stan a look of confusion for a moment before going cross eyed to look at the glasses over the bridge of his nose. “Specs? As in spectacles? Is that a new nickname, Stanley?” Despite how awful all this was the new name mixed with the prospects of testing the new eye forces a smile out of him.

Ford burst into laughter at the name. Who would have thought Stanley would get funnier coming off anesthesia? It makes the atmosphere of the room lighter. He shouldn’t have worried so much. Stan’s not going anywhere. He's to smart and stubborn to die or forget.

The laughter filling the room is contagious and Stan joins in until they’re both crying and he’s not even sure what about anymore. “Yeah, I’ve been saving that one for a rainy day and thought you might need it after all this. Do you two have any other questions for me before we check if it worked? Either way I’m cool, can you imagine me with an eyepatch?”

For a minute Fiddleford just writes in silence in his notebook filling in more observations while Ford is trying really hard not to lean over and kiss Stan. This moment was so awful twenty minutes ago but with Stan here its like nothing happened at all. “You’re ridiculous.” Ford says instead of ‘I love you’ in front of their friend.

“I don’t think so, you appear to be perfectly lucid and together other then being a little silly. Here, you’ll need this.” Fids passes Stan the blue booklet already open to the settings section. He gets up and moves to sit in front of Stan facing him so he can see the new eye. It looked realistic, but will it move around like a real eye? Or will it be too fast, too robotic, not smooth but jerking around like something out of a science fiction movie?

Fiddleford chuckles at that. Yeah, that sums up their lives perfectly. Science fiction brought to life.

Ford leans forward a little closer with his own level of scientific curiosity waiting for the closed eyelid to open. He’s scared too, but only the next few seconds will tell if its worth entertaining. It might not work. It might of all been for nothing. This eye might look dead compared to the other. That would be heartbreaking not being able to see love in this eye anymore.

They both hold their breathe, waiting.

“Jeez, no pressure or anything.” Stan mutters looking between them both before closing his normal eye and opening them both at the same time.

At first Stan is worried that they didn’t follow through with the surgery at all. The picture looks exactly the same through both eyes. Fiddleford still looks like a dork holding his clipboard waiting for results and Ford still looks as handsome as ever, leaning a little too close for them not being alone right now.

Looking around at each of them and then the room there don’t seem to be any noticeable differences in color or details. His eyesight is normal and it’s like they all come to that realization at the same time, letting out a collective breathe of air even though Stanley hasn’t said anything yet.

Ford feels like he could cry looking at the eye and he leans even closer into Stan’s space using a flashlight to check the new eyes reaction as an excuse. For a bionic eye the whole thing looks very lifelike. It looks exactly like Stan’s natural eye, emotions and all. The pupil reacts to the light significantly more, becoming a pinprick for a second before leveling out to a normal size, but otherwise its normal.

Fids gets back up and comes over to look at the eye with Ford, unable to hold back questions. “Well? Don’t leave us in suspense? What does it feel like? Do we look any different? What is the default setting? You wrote this section of the booklet in Spanish Stan so you have to tell us.”

“You two are total nerds, you know that?” Did he say that already? Probably, still true though. “No, you don’t look any different. The default setting looks identical to someone with twenty-twenty vision. My other eye is worse now but its barely noticeable. Here, give me those eyedrops you put in my new eye for a second and I’ll fix it.” He holds out a hand so Ford can pass him the bottle of eyedrops.

He does it, but that only raises more questions. “Stan, why would this bottle of eyedrops fix your eyesight and make them both even?” No, Stan wouldn’t-

“Uh, because that’s what they’re for? They heal the issue. It’s supposed to target the cells in this area of the body and repair them. Don’t get mad at me! I wanted a cool bionic eye!” Stan clutches the bottle of eyedrops close to his chest near the dried blood, still grinning despite how pissed Ford looks.

Getting up from his chair Ford resumes pacing out of frustration and anger, “I can’t believe you! Do you have any idea how stressful this was and all we had to do was use those eyedrops and you wouldn’t have needed to do this? Your insane!” Ford continues to rant and rave, yelling, for a while but Stan doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he puts two drops in his normal eye and blinks a couple times before pocketing the bottle as part of the care routine he’ll need to do for the rest of the week.

Fiddleford isn’t surprised by much at this point so no anger rises at this new information and betrayal. This is just the kind of thing Stan does and its annoying, but expected. “Wait, so do those work on any eyes or are they specifically designed for you?” He asks closer to Stan so he can hear over Fords yelling.

“Don’t encourage him Fids! He could have died all for a cool gadget! Why didn’t you write that down anywhere in your notes?” That finally makes him pause. Stan said he didn’t remember anything about all this science stuff, and yet-

Ford is totally ruining the joy of his cool new eye. He hasn’t even gotten to test out the setting or anything! “That’s because the care section of the notes and the research paper for these eyedrops were inside an envelope I left myself in the memory box. I knew you two wouldn’t let me go through with it unless I kept this a secret. So, sorry, but not sorry. Can you please stop being a buzzkill so I can try out the x-ray setting or something?”

He hadn’t bothered translating the half of the booklet in Spanish but now he’s starting to think he should have. Some of his anger fades a minuscule amount, “You gave yourself x-ray vision?” Some curiosity creeps back into his voice despite his attempts to hold strong.

Stan grins again trying to convince Ford this was a good idea. “Of course I did! X-ray vision, infrared vision, ultraviolet vision, radio wave vision, microwave vision, and gamma ray vision, and that’s not even mentioning the twelve color cones, zoom capabilities, and the ability to enhance details. I packed a lot of heat into this tiny little thing.” He brings up a hand to motion to the eye with the booklet.

No, no, don’t get excited right now! Fiddleford is right here! NO!

Rather than continuing to stand he moved to sit back down in his chair, crossing one leg over his knee with a huff of annoyance. “Fine, go ahead then. Test it out. I’m still mad though.” His voice betrays him, revealing he’s barely irritated. Mostly he’s impressed by how many scientific words Stan rattled off. And a little aroused. Not the time!  

“And for the record, yes. These eyedrops work on any eyes. Here, the bottle is full. You want to fix your eyesight Fids?” He offers him the bottle and grins wider when he takes it.

Despite accepting the bottle Fids looks at it skeptically. “Are you sure this is safe? I don’t want to go putting a strange chemical compound in my eye until after I’ve read the paper on it.” He passes the bottle back fixing his glasses.

“Okay, okay. Fine, let’s go upstairs and I’ll show it to you. I should probably test a lot of these settings not in the lab. I don’t need to know what kind of chemicals and other weird stuff you guys have down here by seeing something’s glowing and being able to tell its radioactive or whatever.” He takes it slow still, sitting forward but not moving to get up right away.  

Maybe he’s still a little loopy from the drugs but he isn’t blind. (Ha!) Ford is sitting down and blushing the tiniest bit for a reason. Stan will have to make a note of that for later. “Who wants to be my x-ray test subject? I’ll check and see if anything’s broken or you got any weird tumors growing around!”

Turning his attention back to the booklet Stan reads the blinking order he needs to change the setting. First, he has to turn on the first two additional color cones, bringing the total up to five, and then after an additional three blinks looking up, left, down-

“Woah.” Using this setting is very overwhelming, so he only does it for a second looking at Ford’s chest. His bones and some organs are visible and its pretty unsettling so Stan turns it off before his mind gets a real chance to process the additional colors in the room. “Okay, maybe we should wait a few days before I start testing all these out. That’s a lot of information to process while still drugged.”

Fids gathers up his notes and passes them over to Ford with the clipboard. “Well, now that we’re done with the surgery and Stan didn’t die, I should probably head home. You keep an eye on him for the rest of the day and follow the dosage procedure on the morphine.”

Now Stan forces himself up, being careful of the IV, to follow him. Walking isn’t difficult but he doesn’t complain when Ford hovers the whole time through the lab, up the elevator, and into the living room. Ford goes and retrieves the yellow envelope with the research paper for Fids and then sees him off before joining Stan on the couch, fully intending on watching him like a hawk the rest of the day, weekend, and maybe month.

He thinks about saying something about how clinging Ford is being, making a joke, but thinks better of it spotting the blood dried across his shirt from the surgery. “Hey, how about we order Chinese or something and spend the rest of the day cuddling upstairs watching TV in my room? You think they’d deliver out here if we tip well?”

Ford was a little busy listening to Stan’s heartbeat with his head pressed against his brother’s chest so it takes a second to respond. “Maybe, I could call and ask? Otherwise, we have leftover lasagna from yesterday? Your probably starving after not eating all day, here I’ll-“

Stan pulls Ford back down onto his lap before he can get out of reach from the couch. “Slow your roll Sixer, they aren’t going to run out of food if you calm down before we eat. It’s okay. I know that wasn’t easy for you. I’m sorry for lying about it being necessary.” Owning up to a lie isn’t easy, but if anyone deserves it, Ford does.

This scene feels familiar, like back in that other dimension when other Stan first came home and tried to calm who he thought was his Ford on the couch. “Stan, you know that other dimension where we grew up apart and met later in life?”

Maybe this dose was a little higher than it should have been because the connection between his apology and Ford’s question is lost on him. “Uh, yeah. Hard to forget about it?”

“I kind of kept a crucial part of that world hidden, but in that other reality we became college sweethearts and were essentially married, even planning on kids in the near future too.” Ford pulled back from Stan’s chest, wanting to see his reaction.

It’s not just the drugs talking making this funny and Stan starts to laugh but stops when he sees how serious Ford looks. That’s a lot to process but one question wins out beyond the emotions, “Umm, how is that possible? We look basically identical. How didn’t they realize they’re brothers?”

That’s a very good question and for a long minute Ford is silent thinking about that. In the end he can only shrug, “I don’t know. I never asked. Maybe they just didn’t care? I probably wouldn’t have with how charming you can be.” This mystery gets added to the pile of stuff he wishes could be communicated with that other dimension but will likely always remain lost.

“Are you trying to get in my pants already? I just had surgery Sixer, I get me saying all kinds of sciencey junk gets you off, but you think it can wait until the drugs wear off and we’ve eaten?” Squeezing Ford back against his chest prevents him from getting up despite food being mentioned once again.

Ford doesn’t rush to go anywhere, “Yeah, alright. I can wait. Later I’m going to have to ask you to list off all those settings again in as much detail as you can manage though.” Pushing down the lust is difficult but not impossible.

“You know what? I bet you’d look even hotter in infrared.” Stan falls into a fit of laughter, almost pulling out the IV, while Ford just flushes bright red. “Stan! Shut up!”

Chapter 54: Erased in Stone

“Stan, you need to let me get up. Fids is going to be here soon and I have to go downstairs. If anything, you should get up too so we can run some tests on your eye now that it’s had time to heal.” For the third time this morning he tries to get up and out of bed only for Stan to roll over on top of him to prevent it.

The first time it was charming, the second it was funny, now its just getting annoying. “Be serious for a minute, please? Don’t you have stuff to do today anyway?”

It’s a good thing, healthy even, that they can be apart for most of the day without dying. Ford seems to have adjusted back to having some space or has somehow found a way to prevent it from feeling like torture. Stan, on the other hand, hasn’t. Not exactly. He doesn’t have much to do today, beyond the kinda sorta plan to try his hand at carpentry. At least the eye will make this easier.

Stan thinks more about that before finally rolling off Ford so he can get up and dressed. “Do you happen to have a chainsaw? Maybe an axe or something? Otherwise, I could go into town and stop by the hardware store. You want me to return those library books you finished yesterday while I’m out?”

Despite Ford’s valiant attempts to get out of bed these questions make him pause, “A chainsaw or axe? What do you plan on doing, cutting down a tree?” It sounds absurd but turning to look at Stan laid back with both arms behind his head he appears serious. “Why? That doesn’t sound like something you should do alone Stanley.”

If this is today’s plan what else has Stan been getting up to while they’ve been down in the basement?

The changes around the house hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ford no matter how lovesick he is most nights after coming upstairs. In a weird way it’s nice seeing the house slowly morphing into something closer to their house in that other dimension. Stan had hung his degrees on the same part of the wall and selected pictures that mirror the other dimension. It proves he’s doing things right and that the past doesn’t have to define their future.

Thinking about it too much makes him sick both out of relief and guilt.

While waiting for Stan’s answer Ford gets up to make up lost time trapped in bed by getting dressed, passing the map of warrants on the newly empty wall Stan had set up the other day. On it each crime is marked by a pin with a red dot on the end to be removed as old debts are cleared. The box on the floor below contains the handful of letters that have already arrived.

So much for keeping the project a surprise.

“You and Fids both have your own super genius stuff going on so I figured I could at least practice woodworking before we get started on the boat once the portal is torn apart. I’m gonna make myself a desk and some bookshelves for upstairs from scratch, but I don’t want you trying to help me because I know you could do it in like an hour. Soooo, do you have something I can use or what?”

Facing the closet Ford can’t help but smile to himself picking out clothes. It’s a gradual change, one step at a time, but Stan is starting to better himself and using his intelligence for something other then crime. This isn’t that other dimension and Ford doesn’t expect Stan to ever go to college here, but these little things are nice.

With the eye surgery over and done with what else is there holding Stan back? Basically nothing.

“I think I have something down in the lab you can use. Not a chainsaw, but a lightsaber. Fids and I invented it our last year of college and got in a lot of trouble when the prototype went through the floor.” Having to rush downstairs before it started a fire and thus barging into their downstairs neighbor’s room had not gone down well on top of the damage the device caused.

The funny story pulls Stan out of the bed and across the room to hug Ford from behind while he works on buttoning his shirt, “I’m sure the RAs were less than happy with you.” Fondness and amusement seep into his voice, pressing light kisses to Ford’s neck. “How about you grab it out of the lab and come with to cut down the tree? Then you don’t have to worry yourself into a fit downstairs about me getting crushed or whatever.”

Ford turned his head so fast towards Stan he almost smacked right into him wearing a scowl, “That’s not funny Stanley.” Further complaints die being pulled into a kiss. It’s a tactic Stan uses often because it works, shutting him up. His voice is a lot less stern when they part, “Go get dressed, before Fids gets here and you have to lie about getting laid, again.”

“It’s only half a lie. Technically, I did get laid.” After one more kiss to Ford’s neck Stan finally leaves and goes across the hall to get dressed in a t-shirt and shorts to counteract the heat outside.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll need to ask Ford to do a better job of hiding his marks further out of sight so that he can get away with wearing tank tops in the heat. Mowing the lawn in a t-shirt hadn’t exactly been fun despite the joy him coming inside all sweaty had brought Ford.

At this point almost anything Stan does seems to make Ford happy. It’s weird, but not unwelcome, given this is apparently his own personal version of nirvana, just really out of character. The snippiness and frustration Ford used to express seems to have mostly vanished and he hasn’t gotten truly mad this whole time.

Lying about the eye had driven him close, but even that was short lived.

In a way, he almost wished Ford would yell at him. Some of the stuff he’s done is pretty ridiculous even by their standards. Almost destroying this dimension, making two deals with a demon… It’s because of that deal they both had to suffer through all those countless nightmares. And none of that would have happened if he’d never pushed Ford in the first place.

Maybe this isn’t some weird version of heaven at all? What if this is some sort of illusion by Bill?

No. Don’t be ridiculous. This may be an illusion but if it was designed by Bill, it wouldn’t be so nice. Stan just wishes the other shoe would drop already. It puts him on edge when he’s away from Ford for to long.

All these what ifs and possibilities left bouncing around in his head are going to drive Stan crazy one of these days since there isn’t any possible way to prove this is real. Whoever designed this illusion (be it his own brain, God, or maybe still Bill) they’re really nailing all the details and the whole thing is a little too perfect.

However he got here, whatever moment Stan stepped through the door, it went completely unnoticed. Maybe the memory is still lost because of the memory gun? Or that theory about dying somewhere right now is true? If that’s what’s happening then killing himself here might do the trick, but Stan doesn’t exactly want to ruin this world if he’s dead anyway.

Trying to use the eye to see if there was anything weird around the house last night, under the guise of getting some water, had proven pointless. Seeing things normal people can’t doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have a baseline to work with. All the weird colors without names and glowing crap didn’t provide any answers. It made him anxious, reminding him of Bill and that night up on the train tracks.

The only real clue or help he might have to figure this out is Ford. Except, you can’t exactly ask for help getting out of a simulation from someone who’s part of it, can you? No. Ford would at worst have him institutionalized and at best reassure him that he’s acting crazy before kissing him into forgetting or something sappy.

Working this out is left completely up to him, meaning he’s doomed. It’s not the worst place to be trapped or anything, but shouldn’t he be trying to go home? To the moment before all this? Hard to decide if he wants to go back if he can’t remember when he left. And that’s not even mentioning the impossibility of managing it anyway!

Walking downstairs into the kitchen he start breakfast on the stove. Whatever. He doesn’t know. Bill ruined him, breaking his ability to trust the reality around him. That combined with the perfect world he’s found himself in doesn’t add up. Time, usually, would be the solution. Except Bill broke that too, distorting Stan’s mind while working in tandem with the damage done by the memory gun.

This is just how things are, happy and wrong, and the sooner he accepts that the better. But when it ends, he isn’t going to be surprised or shocked.

Maybe he should start praying again in preparation for his inevitable death? Nah. Hell can’t be worse than his life was. If a god exists willing to put him through all this, they aren’t worth worshipping or thinking about. Stan is sick of gods. Hopefully death is a void instead.

Ford walks into the kitchen already talking. “It works almost identical to how a lightsaber would except it has some safety protocols in place. It won’t cut through human tissue and closes itself if you get too close, but it can still cause some pretty serious burns so make sure to be careful with it.”

Turning away from the stove, where he’d been trying to figure out the meaning of life in an egg yolk, Stan looks at the cylinder of metal being offered to him, noting the few buttons on one side. That’s enough thinking, back to playing house. “I take it you two dorks made this after that Star Wars movie came out?” Stan hadn’t seen it, but figures Ford did and then turned around to make the sci-fi part into reality.

“Yes, Fids dragged me out to see it as a break from studying. It felt ridiculous at the time, what with there being no sound in space, but it was still fun. Now, these buttons adjust the length and width and this one the heat. Don’t keep it at the top setting for longer than twenty minutes though, otherwise it might explode.”

After the novelty of the device wore off it had gotten shoved in a drawer to be forgotten about which was why they’d never bothered fixing the overheating issue. “You’ll know if its dangerously hot because it’ll start to burn your hand. At that point you should let it cool off for a while before continued use.”

Rather than testing out the device Stan pockets it and turns back to keep the food from burning in the pan. “If you keep showing off like this all the time, I might have to give you a list of impossible crap I want.” He chuckles, moving the pan off the heat and going to get them some plates.

Since before their parents left Ford had been trying to think up something Stan might like as a present on their proper birthday. The answer, that list, was basically falling into his lap. With Stan facing away he doesn’t have to hide his excited grin. “Oh really? Like what?”

While awaiting an answer he goes over to sit at their dining table, which they’d taken to covering with a table cloth until they could buy a different one. Although, if Stan is getting into woodworking, he could probably just make them a new and nicer one.

Good question. If I could have something impossible, what would it be?

For a few minutes Stan thinks about it, eating his eggs and bacon and answering while getting up to make them each some toast while Ford makes their respective coffee. “How about the ability to turn invisible somehow?” That would make stealing things a lot easier if no one could see him. Bad things can still happen here and something like that would prevent him from getting arrested, again. It's only a matter of time until he does something illegal.

Invisibility can’t be that hard to achieve after mind control, right? Just under a week isn’t a lot of time to figure it out, but maybe Fids would be willing to help if it’s a birthday present. “Later think about it and draw up the list, but invisibility is a good start.” The main intention of ‘invisibility’ is to go without being noticed or perceived. Implementing that concept sounds easier than turning atoms translucent. Although…

Coming back to the table he finds Ford writing away in a spare notebook ignoring the food and fresh coffee. It makes him snort while finishing his own breakfast, letting Ford run with whatever idea he’s got cooking. This, right here, is exactly what makes all this so unbelievable.

It’s been almost two decades since Ford valued his input and thoughts. The abrupt flip, on top of the gooey love, is suspicious. Not that he can point that out without the simulation turning sour. Isn’t that what happens in movies? Once the illusion is broken stuff starts becoming evil? No thanks. He’ll stick with whatever this is.

“Eat your food Ford, and don’t burn yourself drinking your coffee. Come on, we have a tree to cut down.” Despite it being Ford’s turn to wash dishes Stan does them without complaint so they can leave the house faster. He wants to get this part over with and get to the fun part of trying to build something. Carpentry isn’t that different from working on a car other then the risk of splinters.

Ten minutes later they’re both walking off the porch with Stan leading the way and Ford following behind. Ford made sure to leave a note on the coffee maker for Fids saying they’d be right back in case he shows up while they’re out.

The path through the woods looks different then it did with snow on the ground but Stan knows this is the right direction. He stumbled back to the house from the East side of the yard. It’s only a matter of time until they arrive at the clearing. It couldn’t have been that far given he made it back inside at all and-

Well. That’s unexpected.

The clearing looks almost exactly the same as it did that night with all the horror visible in the daylight now. Most of the spears are still standing upright, driven far enough into the ground to remain up this whole time despite the change of seasons. The distance between branches looks farther apart then Stan had estimated that night. The tree is taller than Stan remembers too. His shoulders tense up a little looking over the scene but he keeps his eyes on it to avoid looking at Ford’s reaction.

Why wouldn’t Stanley want to cut down a tree closer to the house? It would have to be done carefully not to hit the roof or their cars, but at least then he wouldn’t have to lug the wood so far. Maybe he doesn’t want a Pine tree? There is a nice Maple tree around the West side, but-

Oh.

It would have been nice for Stan to give him a heads up on this instead of dropping some unexpected lore so early in the day.

In the center of the clearing is a single pine tree with about half the branches stripped off and discarded along the edge of the clearing where they’ve been left to rot in a messy pile. Other trees nearby are also missing lower hanging branches. Those had to be the ones turned into spears and dug into the ground facing up towards the clear blue sky.

How would this scene of looked in winter covered in a layer of snow? It probably would have been dark too, knowing Bill, and Stan would have been all alone and-

It’s horrifying despite the missing story and some deep breathing is required to keep from spiraling at the image his mind unhelpfully provides. Stan lived through this, somehow, and that thought alone baffles him.

Stan went through this for him. Because of him too, but one crisis at a time. Looking at Stan is easier but talking escapes Ford, leaving his mouth dry while the silence drags.

In the sunlight the whole scene looks like someone did a shitty job trimming the trees, butchered the one at the center. The spears are the only indication of anything sinister with the blood from his foot washed away with the snow and rain. He should tell Ford the story and assure him that it wasn’t that bad or something.

Instead, Stan moves to start pulling the spears out of the ground one by one, tossing them over towards the pile of brush.

At the time Stan had been focused on surviving and hadn’t stopped to consider how long this setup would have taken. Did Bill spend the whole evening working on it, several days, exclusively for the shock and awe effect of pure terror when he woke up at the top and again after reaching the bottom?

Thinking about it that way made the whole scene seem pretty fucking stupid. Who had that kind of time? Why go to all the effort when he could have made Stan hallucinated the spears? For being a supposedly all-knowing demon Bill sure did have some serious oversights in his methods.

How can Stan casually start cleaning up without addressing the scene? Was this how Stan injured his foot? Did he fall and land on one of these spears?

A dozen emotions, dominated by anger and worry, swell up in his throat. “Stanley. What the hell happened here? Is this how you injured your foot?” Guilt is what keeps his voice steady. He should have stayed in the house instead of facing this. No. Calm down, you’re here for moral support. For Stan. This isn’t about you. Boy is that one a hard lesson to drive home sometimes. Habits are hard to break.

After tossing another spear onto the pile Stan turns around to finally look at Ford and then gravitates back over to pull him into a hug. New Ford is kind of a sap sometimes. “This was the first time he experimented with my fear of heights. I woke up at the top of the tree in the middle of the night and had to make my way down with a knife stabbed through my foot.”

His arms remain tight keeping Ford pressed against his chest. “I’m more upset about him ruining my shoe than anything. This one wasn’t so bad, I just thought about you to get through it.” Stan keeps an eye out back the way they came in case Fids decides to come find them. The sooner they can dispose of the evidence the better. He doesn’t want to have to explain this again.

“Why on Earth did you think about me to get through this? I’m the whole reason this happened in the first place Stan.” Ford’s hold is tight around Stan’s back because he doesn’t want to look at his brother while admitting to one of his many mistakes.

Sappy and dumb. That’s new Ford. Its nicer then arrogant and mean.

“Because you’re the one good thing I ever had, even when you sucked. Which you did. A lot. But you don’t anymore. Well, not the kind of sucking I’m talking about anyway.” Stan starts laughing before Ford has pushed him away and he ignores the glare too.

“Can you be mature for five seconds?” Ford complains, voice exasperated. He doesn’t join in on the laughter and slumps both shoulders looking at the ground. “I’m sorry I wasn’t better. I never wanted to hurt you. For a while, after you got kicked out, I was convinced you’d be happier.”

Noticing how serious Ford is being the laughter dies pretty quick. They had brushed a lot of conversations aside recently…. Any chance the simulation can end now? No? Okay, fine.

“Stanford, I know. Both of us only had the best intentions most of the time and we still managed to screw everything up. We take stuff to the extremes in everything we do. Love, ideas, and screwups. I’ve already forgiven you, now it sounds like you need to forgive yourself.” He keeps both hands over Ford’s shoulders but lets him be the one to decide to pull away or lean back in for another hug.

“How can I after every awful thing I did and caused? You at least redeemed yourself by cleaning up the mess, how am I supposed to replicate that at all?” Now he looks up at Stan as if expecting him to provide a real answer. If only it was that easy.

“After the life I’ve lived do you really think that redemption felt like enough? Apparently neither of us feels like we deserve this, at least we have that in common. Do you plan on punishing yourself by refusing this good life? Because I don’t. I’d rather be happy with you.” Stan can practically feel himself getting a cavity. Hopefully that medical card comes in the mail today.

Ford wants to object and insist that Stan is being ridiculous. Of course he deserves to be happy after everything. He went through hell for- A long time. Childhood with Dad, ten years on the road, and the six months with Bill. How could Stan still think he doesn’t deserve this-

Because he’s never had anything good before. Not a home, a family, or the love of his life. Now Stan has all three on top of being rich. It must be very overwhelming. No wonder he still cries a lot, sometimes for seemingly no reason.

Those same reasonings don’t apply to himself though. He had everything and wasted it the whole time. Family, discarded. Friends, taken advantage of. Even his home had become a disaster pretty much right from the start because he couldn’t be bothered to spend time cleaning and organizing.

Ford grew up the favorite child thanks to Stanley and had still more or less done everything he would have despite going to the wrong school. Then there was Bill-

“Sixer, your shooting steam out both ears over there.” Stan steps a little closer and moves both hands to cup Ford’s face after a quick glance around. “You want me to be happy, because you love me, right? Well, I want you to be happy for that same reason. But I also don’t want you suffocating yourself trying to be who you think I want. Your still allowed to get pissed at me sometimes. I deserve it for the lie about the surgery. Do me a favor and stop sticking me up on a pedestal while simultaneously damning yourself to burn in hell.”

The more Stan talks the more his own mind spins. Has he been acting weird? Perhaps keeping more of a handle on his temper and generally being less self-centered, but that’s a good thing, right? That’s how they ended up in this whole mess to begin with! Ford doesn’t think he could go back even if he tried having seen the truth. “I guess we’ll both just have to keep reminding each other that we deserve this.”

That feels like the only solution for now given neither of them seems capable of overnight change. Ford closes the rest of the distance between them, pulling Stan forward into a kiss to prevent more talking. This feels like a nice end to the conversation and wrapped up in Stan’s arms the horror of the clearing doesn’t feel so suffocating.

The world always was easier to face together.

If they were back home this would be a perfect segway moment into another round of emotional sex. But given the location Stan would rather not do that right now. After a minute or two he pulls back, “Alright sugar, help me clean up this mess so we can get this tree cut down.”

The process of removing and discarding the spears only takes them about ten minutes working together and cutting the tree takes even less time with Ford’s lightsaber. Turning up the details visible with the eye allows for finer cuts along the base and then along each branch as they start cutting and clearing away the branches off the tree.

He drops the tool when he gets up to the top of the tree where it landed outside the clearing.

“Stanford! Get your ass over here!” Panic and fear well up in his voice and it’s a miracle Stan manages to get the words out given what is currently half buried in the ground just three feet away from the top of the tree.

Hearing the urgency in Stan’s voice Ford drops the branches he’d been moving over to the pile to run back towards his brother. What could Stan of found that would make him afraid? The answer becomes obvious skidding to a stop next to Stan, following his gaze down at the triangular stone statue sticking out of the ground.

It's a perfect replica of Bill with a top hat, the one eye, and an outstretched hand visible. The stone looked old like it had been here for years but Ford is a hundred percent sure this thing hadn’t been here last spring. He was very familiar with these woods and despite his obsession with the God Ford had never made a statue dedicated to him.

“What the fuck is this?” Stan hisses out, fear turning to anger when he looks at Ford with a sharp glare. Right, he should turn the details setting back down. Ford needs to trim his nose hairs- Not now!

“How the hell should I know!? I’ve never seen this before. It wasn’t here last summer, that’s for sure!” The woods feel unsettling again having the image of Bill nearby, like its watching them.

“Oh, so this wasn’t part of your shrine to the fucker? Come on Ford, I saw the stupid tapestries and half your windows are triangles! I’m not dumb. You should have told me this was here so I could destroy it with everything else!” He pulls the lightsaber back out of his pocket, intending on destroying the creepy statue now that he’s found it.

Ford stops Stan by grabbing his arm before it can swing, “Stop! I’m serious, this wasn’t me! Someone else must have put it here or something!” Who then? The only other person who knows Bill ever existed is Fiddleford and the last thing he’d do is get a statue made as a prank or something.

So how did this end up here? Where did it come from?

Stan stops but only because he doesn’t want to accidently clip Ford with the device. He doesn’t trust safety features on a device that could explode. “Well, if I didn’t do it, you didn’t do it, and Fiddleford definitely didn’t do it, who the fuck did?”

They both just stand there looking at the statue for a minute until the silence is interrupted.

“Hey guys, what’s with all the yelling-“ Fiddleford had already finished a cup of coffee, as the note suggested he do, and for the last ten minutes had been hanging out on the porch waiting for them to come back. Upon hearing yelling, he had followed the sound hoping to find them and get Ford back on track from whatever side quest the twins were on.

Now he wished he hadn’t gotten curious.

“What the hell is that!” His voice gets high pitched near the end seeing the statue of Bill and he actually darts behind the nearest tree as if it’s the demon himself coming back to kill them all. Yeah, a tree is sure going to keep him safe. Moments later he realizes how ridiculous he’s being and peers out with just his head to look again.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Ford brings up a hand to rub between his eyes and then briefly disappears to go get a branch to cover the stones eye with. It makes looking at the statue easier knowing the eye’s vision is obstructed.

After several more minutes of silence Fids finally comes out from behind the tree to stand with them both silently inspecting the life size statue.

“Your absolutely sure this wasn’t here before?” Stan asks Ford while slowly starting to flip through different settings while looking at the stone. The more settings he flips through the more unsettled Stan feels. Most of the colors he’s seeing don’t have a name, because for humans they don’t exist. It kind of looks like silver mixed with blue if they where on fire in space? At least there doesn’t appear to be any weird energy radiating off the stone. Not that Stan was too worried. Bill is dead, he knows that better than anyone.

“Of course I’m sure, why? You didn’t see if during the last six months, did you?” How long has it been here? Did Bill do this while possessing Stan? That seems like a possibility. One last good laugh from beyond the grave meant to freak them out.

“I never went out this far into the woods.” Turning away from the statue to look at the end of the tree and back, Stan frowns. “I suppose anything is possible while I was possessed, but I would have noticed something this expensive missing from your bank account.”

“Did Bill ever tell you what happens to whatever his species or race is when they die, Ford?” Fids speaks up, bravely moving forward to poke at the stone with a stick. Luckily nothing happens.

Okay, so Bill didn’t pay to have this built. Maybe he did it himself at night? But why? Bill didn’t know about Stan’s plan so why-

Ford’s thoughts spin the other direction at Fids question and he tries to think back on everything Bill ever said about himself and his home dimension. It’s not exactly much. Bill had made a point of barely ever talking about himself and it had only made beating him more difficult. “No, all I know is he was the last of his kind. His dimension was destroyed by-“

Oh.

“Himself. Probably.” That’s a heavy pill to swallow and another one of the million things that should have set off alarm bells back in the beginning. Whatever, that won’t help them now.

Despite the seriousness of the situation Stan laughs, turning the eye back to its default setting, before moving over to stand next to the statue with Fids. In a typical Stan fashion, he moves the branch covering the eye out of the way and crouches down to knock on it with complete disregard for potential consequences. “Hello? Anyone home?”

“Stan!” Both Ford and Fids hiss at the same time. Ford sounds angry and Fids scared, like Stan is attempting to summon Bill all over again.

“What? He’s dead, I saw him off myself. Punched the living daylight out of him down in the basement while he babbled off a bunch of nonsense. Kinda sounded like you two when you get going about math, but if you talked in Latin and radio frequencies.” He puts the branch back and stands back up, stepping away after nothing happens.

“You saw him, before he died?” In those last moments of consciousness neither Stan or Bill seemed capable of doing anything which was the reason no one had ended up dead. It was like Stan’s body, and Bill, had been stunned. Ford is curious and wants to hear more about it.

“Yeah, he pulled my consciousness into the mindscape with him to burn alongside him. He had some choice words for me but mostly he just seemed more scared then angry.” If you lived as long as Bill without ever facing death it makes sense you’d end up terrified facing it at long last.

“So, what, this is his grave? How does Bill dying inside your head equal a stone statue out in the forest near the house?” Fiddleford was mostly thinking out loud, trying to rationalize this.

“Does it really matter how it happened? Point is, we should destroy it.” Stan goes to pull out the lightsaber once more and groans when Ford stops him for the second time.

“Hold on Stanley, what if he’s not…Dead? Could he be trapped inside the stone or something?” Ford knows it sounds ridiculous, but maybe they shouldn’t destroy it, just in case?

Stan wants to smack Ford upside the head for suggesting that, but… Very little is known about Bill and whatever he was. The stone doesn’t exactly look normal, not from what his bionic eye can see, so maybe? Wouldn't there would be even more colors and some sort of energy if Bill was inside the stone, probably?

He sighs, pocketing the stupid tool for the third time in ten minutes before crossing his arms. “Well, we can’t leave it here either, can we? If its somehow related to him and we can’t destroy it we should lock it up, right? To be sure no one can touch it, see it, and it can’t see us either.” The outstretched hand leaves him feeling unsettled.

“Well, we definitely aren’t bringing it in the house.” Ford remarks, trying to think of a solution for the statue that also involves it being far away from them.

“What about our old bunker?” Fiddleford suggests, “We could lock it up in the experiment room where the shapeshifter was?” They hadn’t been in there for almost a year now. It would be the perfect place to hide the statue where no one would ever find it.

“Uh, was isn’t the exact word I would use in reference to the shapeshifter. I’m pretty sure it’s still in there, Fids.” Ford admits, moving to lean back against a nearby tree while rubbing the back of his neck. Admittedly, not one of his finer moments. But what exactly are you supposed to do with a shapeshifter? You can’t just let it loose. It could turn into anyone or anything!

Demon God, shapeshifter, what else did Ford get up to during his time here in Gravity Falls? “Ford, you have got to go get those other two journals so I can read about all this ridiculous stuff you’ve been up to. I mean, come on, a shapeshifter? What, did you have it locked up in a cage without food, sunlight, and water and kept it that way for the last year?”

“I thought you said you’d kill it!” Fids almost yells, starting to pace a short distance between two trees. “We can’t bring this statue there now! What if it turns into Bill!” He doesn’t even suggest they go deal with the shapeshifter. It’s probably feral after being alone for so long if it’s alive at all. It wasn’t exactly well behaved in the first place.

When did he turn into the reasonable one? Ford locked a sentient creature up for a year and Fids thought it was dead? Have both his boyfriend/brother and best friend gone insane? Yes, they’ve been that way for a while now.

“Woah, back up for a second and forget about the statue for a minute. Shouldn’t it be dead by now if it’s been down there without anything for so long?” The shapeshifter information must have been in another journal because Stan would have remembered this.

Ford had been meaning to find time to go uncover the other two journals anyway. There just hadn’t been a good time to collect them to bring back for editing. It’s going to be such a pain making three new journals and writing Bill out of history. He’s dead, is it really necessary at this point?

“I sealed it inside one of the cryochambers so, technically, its contained. I was going to broach the subject of dealing with it again later after Fids and I had finished the portal. And, hypothetically, if it did escape it might be able to survive down there regardless. There is a small amount of natural condensation in the cave area and if it dug around for various rodents and worms to eat that would supplement a poor diet. In some of its smallest forms it might be able to survive down there for quite long time.”

“And I’ve been meaning to go recover the journals, but we’ve been very busy.” The list of stuff they need to do only seems to get longer every day. Tearing apart the portal, building a boat, birthday present, rewriting journals, the dozens of books he still needs to read, dealing with this statue, and on and on...

Maybe they shouldn’t have spent the whole last week lying around reading and cuddling with so much work to do.

“For starters, we’ll finish cutting up the tree and get it under a tarp near the house. That way it’ll be safe if it rains and I can continue this later. Second, we’ll go bring the other two journals home because I want to read them. Plus, if they are anything like the second journal you can’t have them falling into the wrong hands. This statue can stay here under a pile of brush for now until after we deal with the shapeshifter and clear out this mysterious bunker.”

“Okay, how about you two go deal with that and I’ll stay here and work on the control panel we were supposed to start taking apart today?” Fids is all for avoiding dealing with the shapeshifter again and this seems like a good time to make that clear.

Ford sighs looking at the statue again before nodding, “Alright, fine. Stan and I will finish up the tree and go get the journals. We’ll work out a plan to deal with the shapeshifter afterwards because we can’t just ignore the statue for too long. Fids, do we still have that gravitation ray we used moving large parts? Stan and I are going to need it to move the logs but I haven’t been able to find it downstairs. Did you take it with after our fight?”

“Yes, I did. I think it’s still in my trunk. I’ll go get it for you.” He darts off into the trees to get away from the statue of Bill now that they’ve figured out what to do with it.

“You really want to read my other journals after finishing the second one?” Ford asks while they both work on gathering up the pile of tree branches from the clearing to cover up and hide the statue.

“Duh, how else am I going to figure out how to deal with the shapeshifter for you two dorks? I’m a pro at cleaning up your messes, I’ll take it from here.” It’s half a joke but Stan smiles at the hug it earns him anyway. It feels nice to be appreciated.

Chapter 55: Fordtramarine!

Notes:

Hey guys, sorry about the long gap between updates. Me and Me were battling it out for the last five days trying to write this. But I finally figured it out after a lot of consulting with friends and metaphorically fighting myself. Enjoy!

You don’t go up against a demon god, and win, without learning a thing or two about strategy. The first step to dealing with the shapeshifter, for Stan, is reading the two other journals.

By the time they’d uncovered the first and third one hidden around the valley (which Stan wants to smack Ford over, because they are in some of the most obvious locations ever) there isn’t a lot of daylight left even if they did want to deal with this now.

Instead, Stan spends the whole evening reading through the other journals.

It’s all very interesting, a nice view into Ford’s recent past, but also unsettling.

Bill really has been around almost since day one (five whole years) and it makes getting through the books hard. Harder than reading was before the new eye.

Stan remains patient, biting his tongue, all through the three days it takes to finish both journals.

Monday evening, Tuesday, and into Wednesday night after Fids and Tate have gone home for the day.

Babysitting, while the boys tore apart the portal, wasn’t nearly as difficult as he thought it would be. Stan had worried, endlessly, that Tate might destroy something or accidently get hurt somehow. But he was as well behaved as ever. They colored, watched TV, went on a walk into town to visit the park, and he also took a nap upstairs in Stan’s room at one point.

It was easy. Which made sense, considering Stan had never had trouble with kids in his life. Tate already liked him, so there wasn’t much to do other than play and entertain the kid.

In a lot of ways spending time around children felt very healing, getting to entertain and punish the right way this time around instead of how Pops had handled things. Not that anything happened this time to warrant any sort of discipline, but if it ever did Tate would get talked with instead of beaten.

Maybe some time in the corner. That would be more reasonable.

Currently they’re laid out on the couch again, reading together. Ford tangled up between his legs, resting a book on his stomach, and Stan reading the third journals final pages propped up on his chest. Finishing the last page, from right before Ford had hidden it, leaves him thinking.

Five years is a very long time for Bill to get into Ford’s head. For the two of them to have interacted and talked, if only fleetingly at first. It’s almost the normal amount of time it would take a person to build a relationship. One strong enough to, I don’t know, build an interdimensional portal at the drop of a hat for them?

He keeps the book open for a while, mindlessly flipping back through the pages, so Ford doesn’t look up and start talking at him. Although he seems too busy at the moment reading another one of his nerd books anyway.

They haven’t really talked about Bill. Or not about what Bill was to either of them anyway. Now, having read the other journals, Stan isn’t sure he wants to know. Wanting and needing however are two different things. This new information draws up questions that are distracting him from solving the shapeshifter problem.

Eh, what can go wrong? This is in his head anyway.

He finally closes the book, setting it aside on the coffee table, so he has a clear view of Ford down near his stomach. “So, not to interrupt or anything, but you think you could tell me a little more about your ex-boyfriend, you know, the triangle?” With his hands free, Stan moves one down to play with Ford’s hair just to have something to do other than awkwardly sit through this conversation.

Figures Stanley would stew and wait until he was finished before dropping a bombshell question like this. Despite knowing it is asked without malice or any sort of teasing it still brings a slight blush to his face out of shame and embarrassment.

It’s not like he can run from this conversation though. Why not talk about it? Stan will understand better than anyone else. Ford bookmarks his page, clearing his throat, and sets it aside on the coffee table next to the journal without getting up.

He rests his head on both arms, shifting up so their faces are a little closer. “What about him, Stanley?”

Stanford full well knows what he means, but alright. Sure. “What I mean, is. You two where a thing, weren’t you? I mean, I’ve joked about it and poked at you. But you’ve never really confirmed if you two had some weird interdimensional dating thing going on or not.”

He motions over to the journal, “Five years is a long time, plenty of time for you to get attached and,” Stan pauses, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes for a second. “And for him to get very attached to you. I know your hot stuff, but how the hell did you get a God to fall for you? And why did you think that was a good idea?”

Ford finds he can’t answer these questions and look Stan in the eye at the same time. He turns his head off towards the muted TV instead, hiding behind his arms some to make it easier. “Yes, I suppose we were. It didn’t exclusively have a label, but it carried the same inappropriate obsession that a toxic romantic relationship would have. Literal worship in exchange for whatever knowledge he felt like sharing, I-“

Good thing he’s hiding his face because it’s a darker shade of red now. It might even be reaching his ears. “After growing up around idiots and going to school with idiots finding Bill felt like I’d finally met an equal. And, if I’m honest about it, right from the beginning he adapted a persona that wasn’t all that unlike yours. Humorous, good natured, kind. He even used Sixer, the nickname you gave me, right from the start. At the time it felt more appropriate to project my feelings onto a being that simply reminded me of you in many ways.”

Looking back the pair where a little too alike, except one of them was only looking for something tangible to gain. Stanley only ever wanted to be loved back. Ford forces himself to look up and over at Stan to see his reaction despite being sure he looks mortified and humiliated.

Stan should laugh at this, except it’s really not funny. Not only had Ford driven them apart in an effort to hide his true feelings. The damn idiot decided ‘oh, a god who’s smarter than me and just as cunning as my brother’ let’s try and mentally fuck that!

It’s almost flattering but the disappointment and anger overturn that. Ford should have known better! But he’s been told that before and has (hopefully) learned his lesson, just the hard way. Can’t get tricked by any other interdimensional deities if your taken, take that! Next comes being pissed at Bill, but the guys already dead so that train of thought dies off quick.

That just leaves flattery and the rest of his questions. “Well, Bill does a bad impression of me then. And he didn’t know you well enough to actually-“ He stops, shifting uncomfortably. The silence drags the longer Ford stares at him. Just spit it out!

Stan sighs, finally returning his gaze back over to get this over with. “I think, upon realizing you weren’t going to give in and join him. He still wanted you and couldn’t so easily let go of his obsession. So…. Instead, he decided to make his own, but better and seemingly more agreeable.”

“I think, maybe, the reason he gave me all that knowledge. Or what contributed to it, was that Bill hoped, or thought, it would make me like you. Like, if I could understand all that nerd stuff you do and care about it, we’d end up more similar than we already are. Of course, with the added bonus that Bill seemed to be into me taking torture better then you. I don’t want to know if he got off on that.”

“And, well. The worst part? Is it kind of worked.” Stan wasn’t sure what emotion to expect on Ford’s face but the thinking expression doesn’t seem too bad out of the dozens of options. Damn it to hell if he’s going to break the silence, so he just lets Ford’s head run regardless of where it’s going.

So, down in the basement at the end. Bill had offered him another chance…. What would have happened if he’d accepted? Would he have killed Stanley? What was the plan in the first place if Stan failed and Bill won? What if-

“What do you mean, it kind of worked?” Ford settles on starting there despite the dozens of questions cropping up.

Its honestly impressive Ford managed to keep himself on track. “Near the end, those last couple days, I didn’t even recognize myself. I was like you. Clicking my pen, rambling in stupid math equations, I wouldn’t have eaten at all those last two days unless Fids made me. I looked in the mirror and saw you. I didn’t recognize anything. I was slouching like you, talking like you, and because of my eyes and the lie Fids and I had going for Bill I was even wearing your damn glasses!”

He sighs, abandoning Ford’s hair in favor of messing with his watch. “I left myself one memory, out of the hundreds I got rid of, so I wouldn’t forget how important deleting all that math was. I can’t be sure if it was the science, or if Bill did something else in my head, but it felt like I was morphing into you. And I love you, your great, but I don’t want to be you. It was terrifying not recognizing myself.”  

Ford finally sits up, moving a little closer and shifting back at the same time so he can see Stan properly while remaining on top of his lap so he can’t get up. “That’s the real reason you insisted on staying out of the basement and didn’t want to help tear the portal apart, isn’t it? You didn’t want to trigger a memory.”

If Bill can delete memories at will, as he proved during his own round of tortured, who’s to say he couldn’t slowly chip at Stan’s psyche to morph it into someone else’s. Especially if they were already pretty similar in a lot of ways despite being completely different people.

No wonder Stan has taken on such an eversion to math and science. And no wonder it was so damn difficult to get his memories back. What kind of long-lasting effects would so many uses of the memory gun have when blanketed by the whole drive being wiped? There has to be some, right? No way Stan gets off Scott free here. They aren’t that lucky.

“Stanley. Are you experiencing any other lasting affects you haven’t mentioned yet? Further memory loss, paranoia, hallucinations?” He keeps his voice calm but his eyes are glued to Stan in search of any sort of lie.

Luckily, he’s prepared for this and, even better, he has multiple things to answer for all at once making it easier to lie through his teeth. “Yes, that’s the real reason I didn’t want to go downstairs. It’s another reason why I’m being picky about what I can help with for the boat. I know you’d probably go nuts if I started spouting off calculus or something, but I just can’t. I don’t want too. It was fun at the time, but I don’t enjoy that. Bill made me enjoy it, because you enjoyed it.”

This conversation is terrible. He should have just let old dogs lie instead of dragging all this up. “And not exactly. I’m maybe a little paranoia and some memories are still just scripts rather than videos, but otherwise I feel mostly okay. I’m me, at least, which is the important thing, right?”

Technically it’s not a lie. He is paranoid, only about the world collapsing in on itself at any given second.

It’s heartbreaking that Ford’s hopes and dreams of Stan someday remembering all that math, and thus being able to work on projects together, is being dashed so effectively. Forcing Stan to remember would be going directly against his brothers wishes. No matter how much Ford wants it, he can’t do that.

Besides, does he really want to end up dating himself? Sure, Stan and him look alike, but it’s almost impossible for them to act more different. Stan is good at cooking, working with his hands, and has this gentleness about him that every living thing can sense. Kids, animals, and people. On the other hand, he’s the opposite.

He likes learning, while Stan is relaxed. He enjoys avoiding people, and Stan socializes. Ford is awkward and Stan is charming. They fill in the gaps that the other is missing seamlessly. Dating another himself, despite how mentally stimulating that has proven to be, wouldn’t be fun. It wouldn’t be Stanley, the boy and man he fell in love with.

Damn it.

“Go into further detail. Scripts? When you think about something do you just get a general summary or a literal descriptive paper going action by action and word by word? And, what are you paranoid about, is it anything I can help with?” His worry calms down some and Ford settled back against Stan’s chest, looking up and keeping an eye on him despite being pretty sure he isn’t lying right now. You just never know with Stan.

Nah. This is important. Stan wouldn’t lie about this, not his own health. He promised, and he usually keeps those.

Rolling his eyes feels like the appropriate answer. When are Ford and Fids going to stop analyzing him under a microscope? Ever? Soon would be nice.

“Kind of both? Some memories are longer descriptions with more details and others are just a sentence or two. It really depends on how important it was or how much happened? Most of the bad ones or boring ones are pretty short, but that’s a lot of memories out of the ten years. As for my paranoia….”

Okay, maybe he can’t lie here. Not a full lie. But Ford will probably buy a half lie?

He sighs, moving his hands up over Ford’s back to have something to hold to keep from fiddling with his watch again while lying. “It’s mostly about reality. Sometimes, because of hallucinations Bill used to give me, things don’t feel real for a minute. Like I’m dreaming again or something.”

Stan knows he said the wrong thing when Ford sits upright so fast, he almost falls onto the floor.

“How long have you been experiencing that? Does is come along with hallucinations? What do they entail?” Ford starts to get up, but is pulled back onto Stan’s lap by both hands and an annoyed huff.

“Ford, stop freaking out, will you? So what if I had some light hallucinations driving down to California? That was when my mind was pretty fragmented arguing with itself. I felt like three people all at once. Two fighting and another trying to fix it all. I haven’t experienced it since remembering, so calm down. The paranoia comes and goes, getting worse when I’m alone. But I’m dealing with it, alright? It’ll just take some time.”

Stan had been hallucinating while driving? Ford pulls out of Stan’s hold and up onto his feet. “You were driving!” He’s yelling now, moving to pace back and forth behind the couch. “You could have gotten in an accident Stanley! What would I have done if you died and never came home! I never would have known what really happened! You would have died without knowing the truth! I-“

Very quickly Ford feels like hyperventilating which isn’t a fun experience while swiftly pacing back and forth, mind running in circles with fists clenched in anger.

Yikes. That was the wrong thing to say. Whoopsies.

He follows Ford, getting off the couch and moving to stand behind it without immediately reaching out to stop the pacing. It looks like touching him might result in a good punch somewhere.

His nose is finally healed, no need to have a repeat performance so soon.

“Stanford, it was fine. Seriously, I would have pulled over if it was a full-on flashback. The memories only lasted a second or two at most which is hardly enough time to get into an accident. Especially when I’m such a skilled driver.”

“None of that happened, Sixer. I’m fine and right here,” Now he shifts forward to pull ford into a hug before he can gasp himself into fainting. “Come on, take some deep breathes. Look at me. You really think I’d survive Bill and then get taken out by a car crash? You need to have more faith in that car. Do you have any idea how many times it saved my life? Too many to count. I’d be willing to bet she could save me from a semi short of a head on collision. Not that I want to test that, of course.”

Ford latches on tight like he’s afraid of Stan disappearing into thin air if he lets go or looks away. He still feels that way most days coming up out of the basement. It’s the nightmare’s fault, of course. Seeing the house lacking Stanley, even if he’s just in another room, reminds him of all that time spent alone waiting around for the torture and death.

Stan doesn’t try to say anything else for a while, just holding Ford and trying to sooth him until the shaking stops and he loosens the death grip. So what if this isn’t real? He’s still going to act like it is and treat Ford as good as if it was.

He’s not some lunatic. This isn’t a video game, book, or movie where the main character goes on a murder spree and then robs a bank because there are no consequences. Hmm, actually-

No, no. Focus. We aren’t doing that. Don’t be ridiculous. This place has repercussions, idiot!

“What causes the paranoia when your alone? Is it the empty house?” Ford asks quietly from against Stan’s chest. “Maybe we could get a therapy dog or something so you don’t feel as lonely when I’m downstairs or away with Fids?”

Huh. That actually might not be a terrible idea, kinda, except- “That’s a nice thought Ford, but it wouldn’t be fair to get a dog when we can’t bring it sailing with us. We can’t just leave everything with Fids. Besides, it’s more about being away from you, and we can’t be together all the time, that’s not realistic.”

Ford pulls back, moving a hand up around Stan’s shoulder, “Of course we could bring them with. We’d just need to design a spot on the deck for them to go to the bathroom. Oh, and get them a life vest. Make sure they can swim, of course. But it wouldn’t be difficult. We’d make it work if you think it would help you?”

It sounds kind of like a nightmare. Having to clean up dog hair, take it outside, make sure it doesn’t chew on anything, keep it from getting hurt. Would they even be able to leave it alone at all when investigating things on land away from port? Not to mention they’d never be alone.

Can Bill possess dogs? Probably. Oh, that opens up a whole other world of paranoia and-

Stan pulls Ford into a light and brief kiss to stop the spiraling fear slowly coming back across his brother’s face. “Relax. I know you’d hate that. Thank you for thinking of me, but it would be more overwhelming then simply being a little anxious sometimes when alone. I’ll adjust and get over it. I just need to find some ways to cope a little better. It’ll be okay, alright?”

It’s a relief to have the offer shot down so he leans forward back against Stan’s chest to listen to his breathing and heartbeat. “Okay, if you say so. But if you ever get too panicky don’t be afraid to radio me downstairs. I’m always happy to take a break to see you.”

“Of course, I might take you up on that later.” Stan chuckles, holding Ford a little tighter while looking back over beyond the couch at the third journal. Beyond dealing with the shapeshifter all this research has given him another idea. “Do you think digging up that statue of Bill and dropping it in the bottomless pit would get rid of it once and for all? Sure would be easier than clearing out your mysterious bunker, wouldn’t it?”

Pulling back from the hug the idea makes Ford pause. Things that go into the pit don’t come back, but there also isn’t a definitive landing location either. Who knows where the gravestone could end up on the other side.

But. It also wouldn’t be in their backyard anymore…

Forty-five minutes, two shovels, and one gravity ray later has only proven one thing.

Dropping the statue into the pit, in fact, doesn’t get rid of it. Just to be sure they’d gone back to check the hole they’d dug the damn thing out of only to find it had reappeared right back in its spot. Even the grass was back in place like they’d never dug anything up to begin with.

Bill may be dead, Stan is still confident of that, but this weird thing clearly has something supernatural going on about it. They can’t move it, for one, but they also can’t destroy it.

After the panic of it reappearing wore off Stan spent almost an hour trying to damage the stone, to no avail.

The lightsaber bounced off the stone and didn’t leave so much as a scorch mark behind. Firing a gun at it only caused the bullet to bounce off and become lodged in a nearby tree. And attempts to smash it with a sledgehammer broke the steal head without so much as shaking the rock.

“Fiddleford and I are just going to have to build a containment cage of some kind so that it can remain here without being accessible to outside sources. I’ll probably have to run electricity from the house out here to keep up a forcefield.” Ford has basically been standing around, holding the flashlight, this whole time while Stan continued to try inflicting damage on the stone.

By now, Stan is tired. He’s already put himself through more then enough physical torture, straining himself trying to damage this whatever isn’t worth it. Bill isn’t worth it.

Pocketing the handgun, after making sure the safety is on, Stan gathers up the stupid broken tools he’s been using to head back through the clearing and the forest to the house, grumbling. “Stupid fucking triangle. Damn immortal headstone. Doesn’t deserve a stupid grave…”

Ford follows, ignoring Stan’s grumbling, having already accepted their fate. There are worse things to have to maintain then a grave. The world didn’t end, so making sure no one shakes the stones hand seems like a small thing to handle in comparison.

It’s little more than a hunch, but nothing good could come from someone making a deal with a statue that can’t be destroyed. Better safe then have the whole universe destroyed.

Back inside the house Stan heads straight upstairs to take a shower and to change into clothes that aren’t covered in dirt. The statue just existing shouldn’t make him so irrationally angry. Most things get a gravestone of sorts, but that’s always done intentionally by their loved ones.

This seems to have a completely supernatural origin like Bill put it there himself before he died. But that’s impossible because the whole time Bill was here in this dimension he was confined to the basement, mostly inside Stan’s mind.

Whatever. A lot of things inside dreams don’t make sense. This must be one of those.

That allows him to calm down a little and the rest of his anger and frustration melts away in the time it takes to finish washing up. Coming back out of the bathroom he half expected Ford to be sitting on the floor outside, again. Instead, he’s in one of their beds with notebook on his knees, writing away about nerd stuff.

 “You’re really getting right into trapping that stone bastard, aren’t you?” Although Ford stops writing pretty much the second Stan joins him sitting against the headboard. He did his part to try and take care of the statue, now the ball is in Ford’s court.

“Of course, it’s not like we can leave it out in the open. You handle the shifter; I’ll deal with the statue.” But more important then either of those things is leaning over against Stan and pulling him into a hug.

Keeping busy down in the lab is easy enough because everything they’re doing downstairs is invertedly related to Stan. Tearing apart the portal means every part gets mentally cataloged against what he already knows they’ll need for their boat. The basement is a mess right now of part that are needed, might be needed, and won’t be.

The guts of the project still need to be removed, but overall, the portal will be torn down to a satisfactory level by the end of tomorrow. Then they can finally work on the boat. It’s exciting and brings back a feeling of adventure and joy that Ford hasn’t felt since high school.

Stan’s gaze has landed across the room over on the carpet between their beds and the closet. Thus far his mind had been too fragmented and broken to consider swapping bodies with anyone, but at this point he’s about as whole as possible. The important things are all back and what could really go wrong anyway?

An idea is starting to form the longer he looks at it, a soft and fond smile decorating his face.

Stan started to pull away, getting up off the bed and heading over to stand on the carpet. “So, how does this thing work anyway? Do we just both stand on it or what?” He motions Ford over, barely keeping the shit eating grin off his face.

At first the reason for Stan getting up off the bed, despite them having their usual cuddle after a shower, escapes him. But a wide grin of his own appears at the idea of potentially switching bodies with Stan.

It had been interesting enough doing it with Fiddleford for the very brief period of time he’d been permitted to remain switched. Oh, but Stan would allow him to run all kinds of experiments that Fids had objected too! It can’t get more personal than this.

Ford joins Stan on the carpet, trying not to look too eager. “It’s trigger through static electricity,” Stan isn’t wearing socks, considering he just got out of the shower, but he is. “Do you have any questions before we switch? Concerns? Limitations?” Though his feet are already itching to build up a charge.

A raised eyebrow is the answer Ford gets, though he does take a moment to consider it. “Eh, it’s not like you’ll do anything too crazy with my body. You already know it inside and out.” Stan lets out a loud laugh, extending a hand out towards Ford to initiate the switch.

Ford manages to not fall over after sending the electric charge through both their hands, switching their minds, but that’s only because he’s done it before. Stan, or Stan in his body, falling over is expected.

Just because he stays upright doesn’t make the experience any less disorienting. Being in Stan’s body is very different from being in his own. Looking at Stan’s wider frame and feeling his muscles is one thing, but experiencing it yourself is something else entirely. Compared to his own body this feels heavier, stronger.

Its also interesting to be able to look around and see things crystal clear without needing glasses. Maybe he’s overdue a prescription change, because the world appears in more focus then usual from his own eyes. Stupid eyedrops. Perhaps he’ll need to take advantage of that invention and cut out the need, and boring waste of time, of going to the eye doctor. What would it be like not needing glasses?

Like this, duh.

Perhaps being literally, not just sexually, inside of Stan is slowing his processing speed? Now that’s an interesting thought. Does being in the body of someone with a differently wired brain make usually easy tasks more challenging? Would doing math in this body be more difficult then in his own because it lacks the same decade of training and experience?

Stan, unlike Ford, ended up landing on his ass on the other side of the carpet because of the switch. For a second its very disorienting and leaves him with a rather annoying headache. Is that his own headache or did Ford have one before they switched? He doesn’t ask because Ford would only worry if it’s the former.

God Ford’s vision is shitty. Looking around through the glasses feels like he’s back pre-surgery and the whole world looks a little grainy. “You seriously need to use those eyedrops I invented. This is ridiculous. No wonder you fell in love with me, you can’t see shit!” Standing up he almost drops the glasses but catches them to reposition on his nose.

Ugh, Ford’s clothes are way too tight. What is he doing wearing office clothes when they’re supposed to be going to bed? What a dork. He feels stuffy and knows its true before looking in a mirror. This could be a fun opportunity to dress Ford up like a normal person and maybe style his hair different or-

Focus! Right, his idea.

Before Ford can get too caught up in his body Stan grabs his hand. “Come on, I want to show you something now that you’ve got the right equipment for it.” He pulls Ford, himself, out of the bedroom trying not to run into anything through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the entryway. “Here, put on my shoes.” Considering their feet are the same size it doesn’t really matter, but Ford will bitch later if he wears the wrong ones now.

Looking at the house as they walk puts a big smile on his face. It doesn’t look that different from in his own body. In fact, it looked identical. “You can see Fordtramarine naturally?” He finds himself asking, not questioning why they are putting on shoes and going outside.

“Huh?” It takes a second for Stan to catch what Ford is talking about but after looking around, ignoring the headache, it clicks. “Oh, Bill rewired your eye to that extent too...” Of course, Bill had only rewired his optic nerve to mirror Ford. It seems ridiculous that it took literally switching bodies to realize they could both naturally see the new additional color.

Stan shakes his head, pushing the new realization away, to focus on tying his shoes. Its weird having the additional two digits and takes him longer than it should because of them. He has to stop himself from grabbing his leather jacket and instead snags Ford’s coat off its hook. “Come on, if you think that one color is cool just wait until you see all of them.”

Ford can’t help but frown as more evidence gets added to the pile. It shouldn’t be flattering that Bill was so obsessed with him that he’d taken to morphing Stan into a slightly different version, just so he could keep a Ford around. What a quack.

Stan’s leather jacket is heavier compared to his own trench coat. He opts not to wear it because its pleasantly warm outside. This body runs warmer than his own and actually-  Having a hand put over his eyes, with six fingers, makes him jump a little. More colors, what is Stan talking about-

Oh! Right, his eye! Stan must be taking him somewhere with a lot of colors to look at with the settings! But why would they be going outside for that? Ford follows, not complaining, while starting to get excited as they cross the yard until he bumps into the car. “Stan, where are we going? Did you even grab the keys?”

Stan doesn’t need his own eyes to see that the sky is clear tonight and from where his car is parked there is a pretty good view of the night sky about the yard and house. “We aren’t going anywhere, just sit back on the hood with me.” After some awkward shuffling they end up laying back against the windshield, mirroring their position upstairs in bed. It’s a pretty good spot for stargazing. “Okay, now open your eyes and blink twelve times while looking left and right every other blink. Then look up at the sky.”

Opening his eyes they haven’t gone anywhere spectacular. It’s just the yard dark with shadows cast by the porch light. Sure, the stars are out, but that’s boring even with the extra color. Rather than objecting, as he wants to, he follows his instructions of blinking in the specific rhythm before looking up at the stars.

The sight causes air to catch in his throat and he almost chokes on it.

Usually, the night sky is alive with mostly white stars across a black canvas. Sometimes interrupted by a blue or red star visible without a telescope. Purple and orange can sometimes be seen with assistance but that’s about the extent of colors unless you happen to see the northern lights dancing across the atmosphere.

Now the sky is alive with too many colors to count with none of them having proper names either. It’s a lot like seeing the northern lights, except the number of colors is amplified by ten folds and the stars look like glitter spread across the canvas twinkling and almost humming with energy that can’t be seen with the normal naked eye. With human eyes.

Rainbows, galaxies, and crashing waves don't even come close in comparing to the sight up above. It takes Ford’s breath away and makes his mouth fall open. He ends up closing the normal eye to fully take in the beautiful spectacle above them. This exquisite scene has been right here, above them every night, the whole time? Except people can’t see it, Stan is the only person alive capable of seeing this. And his first thought was the share it with him.

It makes his chest ache but he can’t look away from the sky. He’s stuck in a trance, literally starstruck, and left mute. It’s as overwhelming as it is beautiful.

To Stan the night sky still looks exactly the same as always. In this body he doesn’t have access to the same technological advances allowing Ford to take in the show that makes up the night sky. And that’s fine, because seeing it sometimes reminds him of looking into the fabric of reality. It’s not the same, not even close to the same level of beauty, but its beyond human. That’s enough to make it less fun.

It's spectacular, undeniably, and part of why he wanted the eye to begin with. But there hasn’t been enough time between that night up on the train tracks and the present to enjoy it the same awe inspired way Ford is right now. Stan reaches over to close his mouth so that he doesn’t end up eating any bugs. “I know, beautiful, isn’t it? It’s almost as beautiful as you.” He doesn’t try to hide the stupid grin.

Now Ford finds the strength to look away, turning his head back towards Stan and switching which eye he’s looking with. The yard looks so much darker without the colors up above. “Stan,” It’s weird talking and not hearing his own voice. It cracks speaking but he pushes on, “Thank you, I. It’s...”

Shifting closer on the hood Stan reaches over to cup Ford’s jaw, his own jaw, before closing the distance to pull him into a kiss. All this is made even weirder thinking about how he’s basically kissing himself, but he tries not to focus on that. It doesn’t matter what Ford looks like, it’s still him. Still them. The rest doesn’t matter.

Once again Stan has managed to bring him to tears with another overwhelmingly emotional love declaration. How did he get so damn lucky? It’s clear that Stan would do anything for him, that much is clear, but still after everything he continues to find new ways to bring him a painful amount of joy.

Ford breaks away from the kiss with a sob, clinging to Stan with both hands. “I love you, so damn much Stanley. Thank you, for everything. I can’t believe all you’ve done for me; all you continue to give me despite not deserving it. I-“

Stan shuts Ford up with another kiss, even if it’s mixed with tears, because it’s so much easier to communicate what they feel without words. Actions, holding each other tight, in an endless embrace is a stronger show of love then the millions of words they could attempt to string together.

It’s the act of two halves becoming one, a promise to never be separated again.

 

Chapter 56: New Religion

Notes:

Guys, we are so back. I don't know what the hell that other chapter was, but I've got it again now. Here you go, everyone!
(Also, I appreciate all the comments you guys leave more than you will ever know. XD )

“Stanford, it just isn’t realistic for the boat to be over fifty feet, at most. You two aren’t going to be able to safely handle anything larger. The technology you’re thinking up isn’t feasible until computer technology is further along!” Fids is a little annoyed at this point watching Ford pace back and forth in front of the whiteboards.

Not to say the ideas aren’t remarkable. It would be fantastic and make sailing effortless to have a centralized mechanism, not unlike a super computer, to connect everything. Autopilot, radio frequences, sensors, sails controls, and the antenna to allow for a television on board.

However, the main central processing unit necessary would need too much power, too much space, and the internet connection Ford wants isn’t possible either. That would require a massive satellite dish on the deck that would be completely impractical. Not to mention there would need to be a satellite to obtain the connection from.

It’s not impossible, just impractical.

Ford has already drawn out the detailed schematics for the radar system, navigation, advanced control system, and the hydroelectric engine on the whiteboards hung up around the room. The old dining room table has been moved in here to serve as a desk space for the books, notebooks, and pens they have piled there filled to the brim with details, math equations, and sketches.

Its frustrating being limited by reality.

This boat is supposed to be perfect. An exact split between a pleasure cruiser and a research vessel. A hull strong enough to withstand icebreaking, a system that doesn’t require fuel stops because of the engine, a vessel so grand that it puts every other boat in the marina to shame no matter where they dock.

The technology he remembered, memorized, from dimension B is brilliant but pieces are missing that are stopping them from moving further along in the project.

They’ve made some progress, but the one whiteboard worth of new math equations between them isn’t enough to break past the barrier standing in the way.

It’s not that they’re stupid. The science and math. Computer science and physics. They aren’t advanced enough.

In that other dimension, perhaps they had been living sometime further forward, born ten or twenty years later in time to be able to accomplish these same designs. Ford can’t remember seeing a calendar anywhere and doesn’t know what the date was during his time there.

“It has to be! Otherwise, we don’t have space for everything! It needs to be at least sixty feet to accommodate our list!” On the far end of the room, near the door, is the list of things he and Stan had decided where absolutely necessary.

Their bedroom, the storage room that could also double as a guest room, the bathroom, and lastly the kitchen and living room space. That would make up the main floor with storage filling in the remaining space between rooms. The second floor, the lower lever, would house the engine room near the rear, a study/research room for Ford and in the middle somewhere would be another space exclusively for Stanley.

Being trapped in a box only a little larger than a sardine can would require them to both have their own spaces and that couldn’t be compromised. This was their boat and Ford wouldn’t accept Stan settling for the upper deck. What about in poor weather? If Stan wanted space here at home in the attic is seemed only fair to give him somewhere on the boat.

The logistics are the problem, not their design.

“How on Earth do you expect for us to manage it then, huh? How? What your asking would take us decades to work out all the details for!” Fids has thus far managed to keep from yelling but can’t help it now. “Would you stop clicking your pen! It’s a wonder Stan doesn’t go mad living with you under these conditions!”

Ford stops pacing, glaring at Fids, but stops himself from biting back with a mean retort.

Maybe they should take a break. They’ve been couped up here in the den all morning trying to hash out the details. Now that the portal is deconstructed this is the goal, what they need to work on.

It can’t take a decade.

They lost one of those already, Ford won’t stand wasting another ten years here on land when they could be out at sea together. Exploring, happy, and so very much in love. Yes, technically, they can do all that here, but that’s not the point! It’s not the same.

Instead of yelling, or snapping, Ford puts the pen down back on the table with an annoyed sigh. “You know what, let’s take a break and get more coffee.” Rather than waiting for Fids to agree he just heads out of the room and back down the hallway towards the living room on the way to the kitchen.

Saturday mornings are supposed to be fun.

After sleeping in you make pancakes, bacon, and sit on the couch watching the weird selection of cartoons available here in Gravity Falls. Stan’s gotten halfway there, having finished making breakfast. He doesn’t make it past putting together his own plate though before Ford comes stomping into the kitchen clearly upset.

Instinctively he wants to move over and melt away the anger evidence on his twin’s face, but Fids being in the house puts some serious restrictions on what they can get away with.

Kissing it better is one of those.

“Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?” He muses instead over his own cup of coffee. Stan hadn’t bothered getting dressed much other then throwing on an old t-shirt and boxers to maintain the air of decency around Fiddleford.

“The boat blueprints, actually.” Fids states matter-of-factly, coming into the room after Ford but keeping a good amount of space between them. He goes for the cabinet to get them each a new cup.

“Oh really? Maybe you should eat something then. Pancakes and bacon are on the stove.” He pats Ford on the shoulder on his way out of the room but otherwise continues with his plan for watching cartoons. It doesn’t matter if its childish.

This is his home, the first one he’s had in ages, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t watch something fun one day a week just because he can.

While putting together their cups of coffee Ford is trying not to despair and failing spectacularly.

This is the one thing he can do, or should be able to do, for Stan to make up for everything. To maybe earn a little bit of the love he’s always been so freely given. He’s the genius here, this should be easy! This project is supposed to make up for decades of neglect, stupidity on his part, and poor choices.

Ford knew it wouldn’t be easy but he didn’t think they would get stuck on day one.

Why has everything else, all his other inventions, been so painfully simple but the most important one isn’t? Okay, maybe he can admit that some of his plans are a little ambitious, but Stan deserves that, doesn’t he? Stanley deserves the world.

Perhaps food and some more caffeine will get the creative juices flowing again. After preparing the coffee he reluctantly gets a plate of food from the stove before trudging out of the kitchen and into the living room to eat. They need to get a new dining room table this next week so they don’t have to get crumbs all over the couch.

Its fascinating to watch Stan and Ford interact now.

He never really got to see them both at their worst, before everything with Bill, but now they act like best friends. All the bad blood between them seems to have vanished and been replaced with devotion. Or at least that’s what Ford seems to have settled on.

After all the mistakes Ford made its good to see him making things right. He means well trying to go above and beyond with the boat, but some things are going to have to be toned down. Perhaps they could build another bigger boat later on down the line and start with a smaller version. Something easier for them to handle without all the bells and whistles needed to make up for a two-person crew on a larger craft.

Really the boat should be something one person can handle in the event of emergencies and worst-case scenarios anyway. Instead of a storage room on the main level maybe that space could be reconfigured into a private space for Stan. What do they even have to store out at sea? Do they plan on buying a nicknack at every port they stop at?

The ample cabinet, drawer, and closet spaces already built into the floorplan should allow plenty of space for food, books, and other supplies. Does Stanley plan on engaging in cross continental drug trafficking while they’re making the trip anyway?

Fiddleford is trying not to jump to any wild conclusions but he just doesn’t understand why they need so much space. It must have something to do with Ford being accustomed to his huge house with ample research room. This project should be about compromise, not trying to drive himself mad with a fantasy that can’t be achieved in this decade.

Still a little upset about Ford being snippy, but generally not holding a grudge, he brings his coffee with into the living room following behind the two brothers to sit on the far end of the couch away from Stan with Ford sat in the chair on his own.

Stan hadn’t actually expected dork one and dork two to follow him into the living room. They’re kind of killing the vibe this morning with Ford angrily cutting up his pancakes and Fids scowling over his cup of coffee.

If this is one of Ford’s ‘I’m frustrated and can’t figure something out’ fits then its safe to say they’ve gotten worse since high school.

“I’m probably going to regret asking,” he starts, muting the TV he barely got to turn on before they both trudged in here. “But what exactly is the problem already? I know I’m not a super genius, but shouldn’t this level of frustration taken at least six hours to develop?” They haven’t been up that long, had they?

While cutting up another few bites of pancakes, the smile on the circle seeming to mock him, Ford answered, “We’ve been working since seven, mind you. That’s four hours. And the problem,” He has to stop and put the knife down before he cuts through the plate and into his leg.

“Is that modern technology isn’t advanced enough for the inventions I picked up from Dimension B. I’ve developed a theory that other us must have been from sometime in the future. Maybe in addition to the coin flip different we were born a decade or two later and I failed to notice due to my lack of attention towards the kitchen calendar.” His fork makes a loud scraping sound stabbing into the plate to spear a bite of food.

Fids chimes in over his coffee, “What he means, is that all the new things we would need to invent to create the masterpiece Ford has in mind would take way too long. Years at best, a decade or two at most while time catches up. Solving math equations that don’t exist yet takes a surprising amount of time given the complexity of the project.”

He won’t say it out loud, but the boat Ford wants is almost as advanced at the portal was. Except there isn’t a Bill to give them all the answers this time. They’re alone on this one.

Stan ends up smiling, like an idiot, looking between the two of them. Ford is angry and frustrated and Fids seems almost resigned to his fate but equally as upset underneath it. “Guess this is another problem I gotta fix, huh? I’ll be right back.” After setting his plate on the coffee table, with his own cup, Stan gets up and heads back upstairs to the second floor.

Into his own bedroom, which is barely used for anything other then changing, he goes straight for the closet to pull out the big red box off the shelf at the top back. It requires a stool from the hall closet but its right where it should be underneath the black towel keeping it hidden from sight.

Which books would two nerds need to build a boat?

Math, obviously, but what else?

Inside the red box is the physics binder, astrophysics, biology, chemistry, medicine, and computer science.

Those are the options. All of them contain an astronomical amount of dumb math, but which ones will help the most with building a boat? Probably the physics and computer science ones. The rest are kind of random and will serve better as Christmas presents later as the punches roll.

He pulls out the two binders, the box going back in its hiding spot, and then heads over to the dresser to dig out the gift bag he had bought the other day in town specifically for their birthday. This totally counts as Ford’s real birthday present; he’s just getting it a few days early to prevent a total mental breakdown.

With the two binders loosely wrapped up in tissue paper inside the red gift bag Stan leaves the bedroom and heads back downstairs to the living room.

Ford can’t help being quietly optimistic. For decades, most of their lives, he doubted Stan’s abilities. Recent events have proven he’s smarter than anyone ever thought possible. Sure, he can’t think of a single thing that would solve this particular issue, but that’s the beauty of it.

He doesn’t have to.

Stan always has some insane trick up his sleeve. So, if he says he can fix something, he usually can.

His food gets pushed around the plate, soaking up the syrup and getting cold, the whole five minutes Stan is gone. The plate almost ends up on the floor when he sees him come back with a large red gift bag in hand.

“Ah, ah, ah! Nope, you can open your early birthday present after you finish eating and do the dishes. I cooked, you clean. And you won’t be eating at all for the rest of the day after you open this, so hurry up and get moving.” Stan insists, waving his free hand at Stanford before plopping back down on the couch and setting the bag down by his feet in favor of eating his food before it gets unpleasantly cold.

Fiddleford has never seen Ford follow an order so effectively in his life.

He goes from picking at his food, barely playing with it, to shoveling it into his mouth and seeming to barely chew before disappearing into the kitchen. The sound of running water in the sink becomes audible barely ten seconds after he disappeared from sight!

“What kind of witchcraft is this and can you possibly teach me how to do that?” He asks over his cup of coffee, still staring in the general direction of the kitchen instead of looking at Stanley.

The question almost makes him choke for a second because its so unexpected. It’s a damn riot!

‘Oh sure, all you gotta do is save the universe, earn his unending loyalty by almost dying a dozen times, and then sleep with him a lot. That really gets him wrapped around your finger!’

Stan thinks these things, because how couldn’t he, but none of those words leave his mouth the whole time he chokes on pancakes and air. When he’s done choking, he laughs like a hyena for a long while before shaking his head. “Sorry, I think this is a me exclusive thing. Unless you want to put yourself through hell just to get him to listen.”

He doesn’t get what about his question was that funny. Whatever, it must be a weird twin thing or something, an inside joke he won’t understand.

Now he’s curious about what’s inside the bag, peering over at it from his end of the couch but only able to see tissue paper. “Is this one of those things you put together before, when you were a super genius?” He guesses, finishing his coffee so that Ford can wash the cup before they go back to work.

“Bingo, Specs. Right on the money as always. You know, I’m starting to think you know me a little too well for your own good. I’m pretty sure this gift is going to make him faint or blow his top off.” He’s rarely one to toot his own horn, but past him really overdid it on this project.

In a lot of ways that other him wasn’t exactly him, per say. It’s more like another weirdly him version of Ford, kinda. It gives him a headache thinking about it too much.

Luckily, he made a lot of dishes this morning. It’s a little annoying having to rush eating but its worth it to make Ford have to wash the plate and fork.

“We did take down a God together, I think its fair to assume we became close because of it.” It seems only fair given how much manipulation Stan got away with in the beginning. It fills him with a sense of pride understanding Stan in a way most other people can’t.

Taking Stan’s plate, he brings their new dishes into the kitchen and can’t help but laugh at Ford over at the sink almost done with the pile Stan created in and around the sink while cooking. “You two are ridiculous. Makes me wish I had my own sibling.”

This isn’t the first time the two brothers have made him rethink the decision to only have one child with Emma. Admittedly Tate wasn’t exactly planned, being the reason they got married in the first place right out of college, but he was a blessing nonetheless. How difficult could one more be if it meant they’d have a best friend for life?

It wouldn’t be easy, doing the whole baby thing again, but Stan and Ford wouldn’t be sticking around forever. They hadn’t extended an invitation for him to go with and even if they did it wouldn’t be possible. He has a wife and a son. And one of these days it would be nice to get back into working more on computers instead of crazy stuff like interdimensional portals or boats straight out of the distant future.

Ford has to bite his lip to keep from laughing over the absurdity of their relationship being what tips Fiddleford over towards disliking being an only child. Yeah, sure, Incest is the perfect example of why people should have multiple children.

Instead of saying as such he takes the plate, fork, and cup from him to finish washing the last of the sink to get on with this birthday present. It must be an invention of some kind. Oh, maybe this is that invention Stan mentioned in that tape where he had to step out of the room! Either way its going to be awesome and something he is completely undeserving of. Ugh!

They should invent a more efficient dishwasher to cut out the middle man having to do these damn things. It would save so much more time! Later. This can get added to the list of growing projects and work.

“Oh, believe me, it’s not as fun as it looks.” But he can’t keep the amused tone out of his voice. Ford isn’t convincing Fids, or himself. Anyone really. Even beyond their unique relationship having a sibling is pretty perfect. Who else would have his back so completely? Who else would be worth dying for? Hard to say if that’s the sibling bond talking or the romantic one.

Fids just laughs, shaking his head, before turning to head back into the living room. He steals the chair in favor of having a front row view of the show once Ford comes in to open his gift. Whatever it is.

“By the way, I finished reading through that research paper on those eyedrops? That’s some pretty amazing stuff. You should apply for a patent and then publish it, Stanley.” He’s being completely serious, ignoring how Stan hasn’t even gotten dressed yet.

That suggestion is enough to pull his attention away from the television, which he hadn’t really been paying much attention to anyway, to give Fids a crazy look. “What do I look like, a doctor? I don’t have so much as a high school diploma Fiddleford, who on this planet is going to take anything I publish seriously?”

“It’s not about you having degrees Stan, this invention would be lifechanging for millions of people. And that’s if it isn’t applicable to people born blind, which it might be. It would make all other treatment options irrelevant. Trust me, people won’t care how you came up with it, just that you made it public and changed peoples lives with it.” Giving it more thought, he thinks up a better tactic.

“Plus, can you imagine how much money you could make off of it? Patent it first, publish the paper, and then wait for some big company to pay for the rights to sell it. You’ll get a cut of profits indefinitely, supplementing your income further.” If science and doing good for the world won’t convince Stan, money will.

Ugh. Fids is using his own tactics against him, damn it! Guilting him into doing something for the good of humanity. That’s not what he’s hung up on. The issue is that Stan has no interest as being known as the guy who invented the cure for blindness. Sure, he did do that, but other people don’t need to know that!

It would be good, for a lot of people. It would destroy the glasses industry and who knows what other butterfly effects. And do they really need money? The lottery win is more then enough to have them set for life at this point, adding to the pile isn’t that temping in comparison to becoming a household name. Or at least in the geek science world.

“Fids, I really don’t want to be known for that. I like being a nobody, believe it or not. How annoying would it be to get recognized at every port, or for Ford to live in a shadow I didn’t even make! Bill invented those, more or less, and I don’t want to take the credit. We’re better off holding onto it for now. Hopefully someone else comes up with it first and then we don’t have to deal with it.”

This isn’t something Fids is going to give up on, but he also isn’t going to press more right now. Stan’s concerns are understandable. He’s a world class criminal and now that he’s settled down in one place keeping a low profile is the safest option. But the science is seriously compelling! He won’t give up on convincing Stan to move forward with this so easily.

It gets dropped, for now.

With the dishes finished Ford barely managed to keep from running back out of the kitchen. Instead, he fast walked over and around to sit on the opposite end of the couch from Stanley, itching to grab the bag but knowing it would be rude to snatch it. Your supposed to wait to be handed a gift.

Truth be told Stan has half a mind to give this gift to Ford privately without Fids present. Who knows how Ford is actually going to react once he understands exactly what the binder holds. It’s basically the holy grail of nerd crap bottled up in a bag and gift wrapped. Ford might faint, yell, or maybe he’ll pull him over into a kiss hard enough to rival any other.

That would be bad, given Fids is sitting not even two feet away watching their every move. But, if Stan did give it to him in another room that would definitely, without question, turn into sex. Regardless of Fids being in the house or not. Both options are terrible. Maybe he should have done this earlier this morning when they were still home alone.

To late to go back now.

Stan picks up the bag, turning to face Ford with the middle seat of the couch between them, but doesn’t pass it across right away. “This counts as your birthday gift this coming Tuesday, so don’t expect any other reality altering presents this week, alright? Here.” His confident smile breaks, traces of nerves showing through now.

A small part of himself is worried that it won’t be that good of a gift. Without the memory of what is in these binders he’s putting a lot of trust in himself that the information here is worth a damn.

For all he knows it might be a bunch of dumb crap that anyone with a bachelor degree could work out. Maybe its nothing special at all and just felt that way back then. Stan can’t be sure that Bill actually gave him stuff beyond what Ford already knew, that was just a hunch.

Now he gets to find out and he won’t know what to do if past him was wrong.

The gift bag is heavier than Ford expected but he doesn’t waste time pulling out the tissue paper and pulling out the two red binders onto the couch cushion. One of them says ‘Physics’ on the front and the other ‘Computer Science’ and bother are accompanied by their own symbols. An atom sticker below the physics title and what appears to be a circuit board below the other.

Without opening either of them Ford stares at them both, glancing back and forth, while his brain won’t process what his eyes are showing him.

Joking about Stan writing down infinite knowledge was one thing. Holding it in both hands as physical proof is another. Without opening up the binder his brain has already made the jump.

Fixing their problem. Math. A whole damn binder!

In the middle of dealing with Bill, rebuilding an interdimensional portal, creating inventions for himself and Fiddleford, and dealing with their parents. Stan found time to write down all that crap shoved in his head by Bill so that later he could gift it away on a random Saturday like its nothing.

Half of him wants to refuse the gift because its too much.

Without checking the math, he knows it’ll be perfect. These binders contain equations, theories, and information beyond the likes of which anyone on earth has ever seen. This is the glimpse into the future they’ve been missing to make all the inventions they need fall into place.

It’s too much.

Stan has already given him so much. He risked the world, their dimension, to save him from the many stupid mistakes he made. This kind of love is suffocating, as it’s always been, and he can’t make himself say anything in response to Stan’s nudge.

The other half is overjoyed and feeling like he might explode with excitement.

It doesn’t matter how Stan got the information, although that itself is questionable, because it’s here now, right? They can use it to build their boat, the one Stan deserves, and the number of possibilities is endless with this kind of information. How many inventions will be attributed to this one gift?

It feels fitting that the course of his scientific career be altered and reach a whole new level of successful because of Stan’s devotion.

Without so much as opening one of the binders Ford has started to cry from the overwhelming feelings cropping up inside his chest and the hundreds of thoughts and ideas.

This kind of feels like cheating, taking the easy way out by using information from Bill to solve their problems.

Technically, yes, Stan earned this information fair and square. Bill gave it willingly, but to use it for future scientific discoveries could alter the future, couldn’t it? The information here, once read, will be unforgettable and will color every invention and discovery moving forward.

Does he want that?

If he reads these binders any Nobel prize ever won will have to, in part, be dedicated to Bill.

That thought makes him frown while continuing to spin staring down at the binders.

He’ll be compromised, like it or not, and be unable to properly contribute to the scientific community. It isn’t a question of if he’ll read these binders, but perhaps if he has any grand ideas or wants to accomplish anything on his own, it should be before. Now.

Because after reading this his whole world view will change both for better and worse.

“I think he might be having a stroke?” Fids has leaned over to whisper his concern to Stan while peering over at the cover of both binders. “What did you give him anyway?” He asks quietly, as if afraid speaking too loud will throw Ford into a fit.

Its safe to say Stan is a little concerned he might have broken his brother, considering he’s been staring at the binders for almost five whole minutes now. Ford is crying too, frowning slightly, but otherwise not reacting nearly as expected. “You remember when I asked you what the top of physics was? And what the most advanced form of computer science was? I took that as my starting point and went up from there in both those binders.”

Now Fids is looking at Stanley like he’s grown a second head. That had seemed like little more then an offhanded comment, asking about the top of-

Six subjects. Stan had asked six questions, over the course of several weeks, which means- “You wrote-“

Stan has to slap a hand over his friend’s mouth, “Shhh! You’ll spoil the surprise. We can talk about the implications of what I did later.” Only after he’s sure Fiddleford isn’t going to explode does he pull away and hesitantly move across the couch to poke at Ford’s shoulder. “Uh, Stanford, you alive? You still haven’t checked if the math is any good or not. I mean, I’m pretty sure it is, but you know I can’t remember, and-“

Okay.

So, Stan has given him something impossible, that isn’t new. He just keeps doing that over and over and over and over. This has to be the end of it, right? Stan only had so much time in a day to write crap down, two full binders is already excessive.

Ford has to force himself to take a lot of deep breathes, still crying, to try and calm down again. This gift will get them back on track for their boat, but there are other things that need to get moved up the list of goals first. No problem.

He finally moves, pulling Stanley over into a tight hug made a little awkward by the two binders between them. “You need to stop doing nice things for me.” It takes a lot of physical willpower not to turn and pull Stan into a kiss. Later, after-

Damn it!

They’re babysitting tonight so Fids can do a date night with Emma! Fuck!

Much, much later he’ll make sure to screw Stan stupid for this gift. For now, he keeps his head tucked in against Stan’s shoulder as a form of self-control to keep from mauling him here on the couch in front of Fiddleford.

Stan can’t help but frown, despite returning the hug, because why hasn’t Ford looked at the gift yet? He didn’t faint, hasn’t mauled him, and on all accounts seems to be having a very mid reaction to the gift. “Uh, Ford, do you even know what I just gave you?”

A smile creeps across Ford’s face against Stan’s shirt, “Yes, my point still stands.” His grip is so tight that it very well might leave bruises on the skin later when they eventually part.

Uh huh. Sure. Stan isn’t exactly buying it.

If Ford fully understood the weight of what is currently trapped between them, he would have gotten a bloody nose or thrown himself into reading them immediately instead of hugging him.

This response is a little too calm and entirely unexpected. Or at least it is, until the hug goes on for well over five minutes.

All attempts to pull away are refused with Ford clinging to him more effectively than a koala. It makes him laugh every time he fails to pry Ford off until he eventually gives up, just letting the hug drag on until Ford decides he’s finished.

“You know we can’t stay hugging forever, right Pointdexter? We need to eat, sleep, and after all that coffee one of us is going to need to use the bathroom eventually. Besides, don’t you want to actually read your nerd math?” Stan tries again after what has to of been fifteen minutes of hugging. He can’t help but be a little embarrassed at this point, wondering if Fids thinks their being weird but unable to tell from this angle.

Now Ford finally finds the strength to pull away, moving both hands up to Stan’s shoulders to keep him at arm’s length. “Thank you for this gift. It is incredibly thoughtful and I can’t wait to read it. After Fids and I have accomplished something equally as impressive and Nobel Prize worthy on our own, without any of Bill’s math.”

Pulling his hands away he gathers up both binders in a stack, getting up off the couch. “This will put us more then ahead of schedule on the boat. We’ll resume this in a week or so.” It’s more difficult then usual to leave the room away from Stan, but he forces himself to turn and bring both binders out of the living room and into the den down the hall where they’d been working.

Coming back through the living room he heads for the basement. “Fids! Come on, let’s start with your computer projects!” Ford doesn’t wait for Fids to get up and follow before heading out of sight and down into the basement.

Now Stan turns to look at Fiddleford who looks just as perplexed as he is. Oh good, he’s not the only one thrown for a loop here.

Ford hates working on computers and finds it tedious at best. He has said on multiple occasions that it’s a ‘waste of time and talent’ but now, after being given that gift, he’s taking an interest? “I think you might have broken him.” Fids says honestly, eyes stuck on the doorway Ford disappeared through.

Some of Ford’s reaction makes a little bit more sense. He wants to accomplish something great all on his own before taking in all the endless knowledge Bill had to offer. So future accomplishments aren’t stained with it.

It must have taken a lot of self-control, and shows the amount of pride Ford still has for his own abilities, to refuse help right away. Good. Stan had been starting to worry all this had wiped out Ford’s towering ego. It makes him smile wide being able to see another piece of his brother fall back into place.

“Maybe so, but are you going to waste time sitting around here watching cartoons or go help him build the best computer ever? He could still change his mind you know.” Stan grabs the remote to unmute the TV while watching Fids finally wake up some, bolting out of the room.

What a bunch of dorks.

*

The amount of self-control Ford has to use getting through the rest of the very long day is a true show of self-discipline.

Instead of going back to the den, or tearing into the binders like half of him desperately wants to, he makes himself work on computers with Fiddleford down in the basement all day.

It’s boring.

That hasn’t changed, but it seems to make his friend endlessly happy to have someone to bounce ideas off of for his current projects. It’s good, because for all Fids has put himself through, he deserves to get some joy back. Compared to building an interdimensional portal the work is easy and they push through six whole projects over the course of the afternoon.

Then he is forced to suffer through a whole evening of locking himself in the basement to sort through his own potential projects.

Ford knows he can not be trusted to be around Stanley right this moment. He abandons his brother to watch Tate alone for the evening. It would be highly inappropriate to have sex while there is a child in the house someone is supposed to be supervising.

Since moving to Gravity Falls, he has published countless research papers on his findings and generally hasn’t been seen in the scientific community as an inventor of any sorts. He dabbles, but it’s never been a priority. After the government confiscated the original set of mind- controlling ties it had seemed best to keep all inventions to himself.

Getting the house raided didn’t sound fun.

He’s willing to admit that the science of Oddology, as fascinating a field as it is, won’t be what wins him a Nobel Prize.

There isn’t anything he needs to prove at this point, not really. He’s built an interdimensional portal and their boat will be a scientific marvel beyond anything else the world has ever seen.

But. Being given those binders, the promise of more then he could ever imagine on his own, forces Ford to face facts. If he ever wants to accomplish something big and earn the most prestigious prize in the world of science, it should be now. Before his branches of knowledge are tainted further by the dead demon.

It shouldn’t matter, but to part of him it still does.

It’s funny that when trying to decide what he wants to be known for it doesn’t come down to a skill issue. It’s picking. What, out of all the inventions and concepts he’s discovered on his own, should be the thing that puts him in history books?

There is a lot of options, too many even. He spends the entire evening compiling lists, writing things out on whiteboards, and gathering up notes from around the house. There are dozens of boxes of notes, the ramblings of a lunatic, that are needed if he wants to write down half of his life’s work.

This is the one thing Stan couldn’t organize while he was gone and now six years of it, maybe closer to a decade of mess, is coming back to bite him.

The longer Ford stays locked up down in the basement the more worried Stan gets. Just this morning he was throwing himself into their boat project, but those two binders seem to have sent him spinning in a completely different direction.

It’s a blessing when Fids finally comes back to collect Tate that evening leaving him and Ford alone so he can finally go downstairs and get to the bottom of what exactly is going on.

The lab level appears to be in organized chaos with inventions strewn about across the lab tables, various boxes of notes in half sorted piles across the floor, and Ford at the far end writing something on another whiteboard. Nearby there is also a typewriter with a page half finished like Ford got distracted in the middle of typing something.

Instead of looking at any of the tools, inventions, or math thrown about Stan looks at Ford. He kinda looks like how he did that first day back in January, jumping from the whiteboard back to the desk with the typewriter without noticing he’s no longer alone. He’s also muttering under his breath just quiet enough Stan can’t make any of it out.

Hmm. The goal of giving Ford those binders wasn’t to drive him mad.

Fix one problem, cause another.

“Stanford, what is all this?” He carefully steps over several piles of notes to start making his way across the room without messing up whatever backwards system this all must line up with.

Turning his gaze over towards Stan, away from the typewriter, some pen marks across various part of his face become visible. Ford stands up, immediately, from his chair turning to face him without seeming to hear Stan’s real question. “Did Fids come to collect Tate finally?” He spins around to check the nearby clock, fixing his glasses.

Without looking around, risking remembering something looking at all the math, Stan tries to work out what exactly is going on since Ford clearly isn’t feeling in the mood to answer questions.

After seeing, and processing, what type of knowledge the binders contained Ford had refused to open them.

‘Something equally as impressive and Nobel Prize worthy on our own, without any of Bill’s math.’

 The lab is a mess of various past work and maybe something new on the whiteboard. This mess appears to be an attempt at organizing notes and papers from who knows how long. The binders must have thrown him into some sort of crisis?

Does Ford think he’s not smart enough without Bill? That hadn’t been his intentions with the gift, but maybe-

Stan’s lack of answer makes Ford frown while moving across the room over towards his brother. It’s late enough that Tate should be gone and Stan wouldn’t leave him alone upstairs otherwise, he’s a very responsible caretaker that way. “Stan-“

“You don’t have to use the binders, you know.” He interrupts, shifting between both feet. “Whatever about it upset you, threw you into whatever this is,” He motions around the lab, “I’m sorry, alright? We can just forget about them.” And he means it. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but seeing how its uprooted Ford in some way brings forward old doubts.

Seeing Stan look unsure, like a child about to be punished for an unknown reason, makes his stomach lurch and sink. Instinctively he wants to reassure Stanley that this all has nothing to do with the binders, but that’s not exactly true.

The only reason he’s bothering to sort through any of this old crap is because of this.... What is this, exactly? Loss of identify? Self-doubt?

Before Bill, way back when, all he’d ever wanted was to explore and discover. To sail around the world on an adventure of a lifetime with Stanley.

Instead, he’d landed here in Gravity Falls, channeling that drive into researching and discovering the unique and supernatural oddities of the valley. Inventing when needed, keeping to himself, but not actively searching for a way to prove himself. It had just been for his own enjoyment, mostly.

Then Bill happened and his ideas and goals changed. He wanted to be someone and matter. To do something so great that the name Stanford Pines would make up trivia questions, be referenced in every scientific paper moving forward, and dwell up respect on its own.

Enough to make his own personal oddity of six fingers irrelevant.

Now in the aftermath he can’t determine what is his own desires and what is leftover remnants of Bill stroking the fire, pushing him towards a cliff he didn’t initially want to begin with.

Does he really care? It certainly didn’t matter before….

Ford sighs, bringing up an ink-stained hand to rub at his face and straighten out his wild hair some. “I don’t know what I want.” It feels wrong admitting it out loud, even in the safety of the lab with the person he trusts most in the world.

Pulling a chair out from against one of the lab tables he sits down, wringing his hands, while trying to articulate his own thoughts. It’s hard, but he tries again.

“I didn’t used to care, much, about wanting to do something great. But after my experience with Bill its practically impossible to go back. I want to do something great, like you did. I thought interdimensional travel would be it, my ticket. Now that’s busted, Bill’s gone, and I don’t know where that leaves me with my career.”

“Reading those binders will put me on another level, beyond anything humanity has been capable of previously. From it will come inventions, research papers, and discoveries of which the world has never seen. But just like the portal, it will all be attributed to Bill, traced back to him. If I want to do something, make a name for myself with my own work and knowledge, it has to happen now. Before I read your amazing gift. Because it truly is wonderful, I do love it. It’s just…”

Identity crisis it is then.

Stan grabs his own chair and moves to sit in front of Ford, reaching forward to hold both hands in his own to stop the nervous fidgeting. For now, he forces down his own nerves and self-doubts.

Part of him wonders if Ford really wants to travel with him at all, or if that’s him trying to make up for his past mistakes. That part gets pushed down because focusing on his own issues isn’t going to help right now.

And really, if that is the reason, another piece doesn’t care.

“Stanford. You don’t have to try and cram a lifetime of achievements into some timeline. You shouldn’t let that information coming from Bill get to you. That would be like me refusing to use my lottery winnings because I cheated to get it. We earned all this. The money, a good life, and that knowledge. I did it for you, the least you could do is get some use out of it.”

A deep sigh escapes Ford, shaking his head. “Stanley, it’s not fair. Do you have any idea how using all that information to win awards could affect the timeline? There’s a reason that information doesn’t exist yet, it’s not supposed to. It’s not supposed to be here! So, I can’t use it, any of it. That leaves me here, with what I have and-“

Stan can’t bother holding back a laugh, interrupting. “Life ain’t fair Sixer, why should you give a shit? For all we know, this is the dimension where your supposed to discover all this crap and change the world. That certainly makes sense to me. You always were meant for great things, right?” Another thought occurs to him.

“In dimension B, did you ever figure out if they got anything good out of Bill? Something like this would explain why that Stanford seemed like a super genius, wouldn’t it?” He gives Ford’s hand a squeeze, nudging his leg trying the new angle.

Two months of back and forth arguing between that other Ford and Stan didn’t exactly fit the mold. If their relationship was as perfect, as it seemed, maybe they hadn’t been having a disagreement at all. Stan could have been convincing other Ford to up the ante, needing more information in exchange for building the portal until Bill caught on.

Would that of worked? Was Bill stupid enough to fall for something like that in another dimension? It would certainly explain the lab, the endless information. The brilliance.

It makes sense. The new revelation makes his mouth fall open a little, eyes dancing around the room and the mess before landing on Stanley and sticking there. Everything, everywhere, always comes back to Stanley. In this dimension and others, he is the cause of everything good despite all the bad.

“What do you think I should do then?” Two halves of himself are fighting over how to move forward and it would be easier to have the choice taken away. Who else could he trust? Stan has an excellent, albeit recent, track record of making good choices.

That doesn’t really answer his question, and causes several others, “About what, your future of becoming the world’s most well-known scientist? You gotta be more specific there Pointdexter. I can’t read your mind.”

Ford huffs, barely keeping from rolling his eyes. “About my internal dilemma of making a name for myself before reading those binders. What would you do?” He bites his tongue to stop the questions there, curious.

As if Stan would ever find himself having to decide something like this. Still, he looks around at the mess, the whiteboard, the typewriter, and then back at Stanford giving it some real thought about what the best choice would be moving forward. Something that satisfies both options, a compromise.

“Well. If you’re really that beat up about doing something before reading them, then do that. Write up everything you’ve done up until now, organize it, and publish it first. Then read the binders.” He shrugs, like its that easy.

“Stan, I’m already doing that. What should I do. I need to invent something, put together a perfect paper, or discover something worthwhile. And I can’t publish half of this without risking a government investigation and-“

Letting go of one hand, Stan reaches over to stop Ford’s lips from moving with a chuckle. “No, you don’t. You’ve already invented and discovered things I’m sure would get you nominated for a Nobel Prize. That big brain of yours is getting in the way, telling you its too small when its not. Box it all up, organize it, get patents, and publish everything. Something will stick, because you’re already the smartest man on the planet, Stanford.” He moves his hand over to cup his jaw instead of holding his lips, wearing a wide grin.

The anxiety and worry in his chest settle, melting away under Stan’s careful hand. He still doesn’t believe what he’s accomplished will be enough, but perhaps it does take an outward perspective to truly measure his own accomplishments.

If anyone is bias, its Stanley, but Ford can’t bring himself to care about that right this second.

The adrenaline and emotions that have been consuming him since this morning about not being enough in comparison to those binders’ fades. It doesn’t matter if he isn’t. If everything he ever accomplishes is worthless. Because no matter what Stanley will always be proud, and that’s all that matters in this life.

“I love you, Lee. It’s astounding and impossible to figure I’d ever been able to function without you here with me.” He shifts further forward in the chair, practically onto Stan’s lap so their foreheads are resting together with little space between them.

Stan can’t help but chuckle despite the sincerity of the statement, “Careful Stanford, we all know how worship went the last time you tried it.” He lets go of Ford’s hand to pull him over onto his lap in the chair, wrapping him up in a hug against his chest wearing an amused smile.

For a long minute his brain breaks again, letting Stan move him around into the new position. Then his thoughts snap back together with a proper retort, “You, Stanley Pines, are a true god worth praying to. Benevolent. Kind. Just. Perfect. You are my whole world.”

Intentional or not that kind of praise should not make him flush bright red. He’s a person, a very flawed and broken one at that, not some otherworldly being with infinite powers. Ford is being ridiculous. “You really only know how to love one way, dontcha?” It’s meant to come across as a joke, but Stan is the only one laughing.

Pulling back from Stan’s chest Ford looks at him very seriously. There is, admittedly, something to be said about his obsession, but from the moment he snapped in the kitchen the decision of letting it rein was already made. Now it is much too late to go back.

Instead of coming up with a clever retort of some kind or denying the facts he pulls Stan forward into a heavy and passionate kiss. The one he’d been wanting to give him all day since this morning on the couch. It’s hot and he insists on pressing his tongue in past Stan’s lips, using one hand to lock their jaws in place so he can’t pull away.

An eye roll is Stan’s last attempts at objections before giving up and returning the kiss with closed eyes. Ford is weird, and a bit obsessive, but that’s what happens to genius’, right? They have weird little quirks. Whatever makes Ford happy.

Without pulling away from the kiss he repositions himself kneeling over Stan’s lap, tangling one hand in his long hair while the other keeps his head firmly in place. Truly, he could kiss Stan exploring his mouth for hours. Running his tongue across each cheek, tracing every tooth, filling, and the line of implants along the left end. Swapping spit back and forth, tangling tongues and trading quiet breathy moans.

It doesn’t matter what Stan thinks, he is perfect and Ford will, eventually, make him see.

After the day Sixer has had, Stan doesn’t try to control the kiss despite how it kinda feels like someone is trying to eat his mouth. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling and he keeps busy in other ways. Untucking Ford’s dress shirt and vest so that he can get at the bare skin underneath across his back.

Sex with Stanford is different in ways it hasn’t been with anyone else, ever. Its passionate, hot, and gets him harder than nothing else. But its more too. Like for a little while he isn’t alone anymore and they’re in this together. Its kinda silly, because of course they are. Every moment alone is spent trying to morph into one being despite biology.

But…. well, no one can call it ridiculous as long as he keeps those thoughts to himself.

When they finally do part Ford trails slightly wet kisses down across Stan’s neck before getting up to kneel down between Stan’s parted legs. Using both hands Ford pulls him over to the edge of the chair, mouthing at the fabric shielding the crotch, without immediately going to undo the belt.

“How about,” the words come out between wet kisses, breathing in Stan’s scent like he’s never going to get another chance at air. “You walk me through giving a blowjob, again. Tell me what you want, use my mouth however you like, Lee.” Looking up, without removing his mouth from the denim fabric he can’t help feeling a sense of pride at the flush Stan is sporting.

“Fuck, Sixer…” Having Ford down on his knees like this, looking so damn hungry takes his mind places that fantasies never could. Now this is the kind of worship he might be able to get behind. “Use those perfect hands to get my jeans and boxers out of the way then, sugar lips.” His mouth feels a little dry, voice a little horse, despite not doing anything yet. Ford ruins him without trying.

No time is wasted despite his own personal objections to pulling his mouth away. Making quick work of the belt Ford doesn’t bother shucking Stan’s pants down, freeing his cock between the fabric of his pants and boxers before licking at the head where precum has already started to collect.

The whole scene makes Stan dizzy to look at, his head swimming with lust and words failing him briefly despite instructions being his one job. The lightest lick to the head is enough to make his cock twitch, pulling a quiet groan from his throat. It sounds like a yell in the silent lab. Focus!

“Open up that pretty mouth, lips safeguarding those perfect teeth, and test how much you can fit before it makes you gage. Don’t forget to use that tongue to tease the slit, stimulate the vein along the underside, and apply suction to make a nice hot hole for me baby.” He moves one hand over into Ford’s hair to have something other than the armrest to grip tight.

Bracing one hand along the base and the other along Stan’s thigh Ford follows his directions making sure to pay close attention. Last time he’d been lost in the moment, too wrapped up in his own lust. Not now, this is all about Stanley.

You’d think Ford has done this more than twice from how good he is at following instructions. Stan doesn’t need to close both eyes and imagine who is currently lavishing his cock. It’s a sight to marvel at accompanied by the overwhelming sensations.

The smooth, slightly chapped, lips wrapped tight around each passing inch. The searching mapping tongue probably cataloging every sensitive skin cell along the underside of the head down to the halfway mark where Ford stops, sucking hard enough to claim a weaker man’s soul.

“Alright sweetheart, relax that throat. Swallow when you push the rest of the way down and it should help the rest just slide right in. Breathe through your nose, it ain’t too sexy choking on cock if it makes you hurl.” The chuckle chokes off at the end watching Ford manage the move seamlessly.

It feels like such a privilege to be allowed this, to take all of Ford’s firsts and teach him something for once.

Ford wouldn’t be able to bring himself to correct Stan’s grammar right now even if his mind wasn’t currently occupied. Down at the base the scent of Stanley is so much stronger and he could get addicted if he isn’t careful. Move.

It’s slow, adjusting to all the different things he needs to do at once to provide exactly the right amount of pressure, suction, and tongue to please Stanley. But the more practice he gets, repeating the same rhythm, it gains speed. Ford can’t help but moan around his mouthful, intrigued by the hard twitch and muffled curse it causes.

If Stan was doing this with anyone else, he’d be pretty embarrassed at how quickly Ford manages to make him finish these days. In the past thirty minutes was an average but now they’re lucky to make it ten once the show starts. Boy is this one gorgeous.

Ford’s lips are slick with spit, getting all over his chin and Stan’s jeans, and his face is red too. Eyes heavy with lust looking up at him with an intensity that’s frankly overwhelming. “Shit, Ford…. Christ. So damn good for me baby, fucking perfect.” His hips shift up, trying to follow when Ford’s mouth starts to pull off.

The words come out breathless, not giving himself a chance to catch it, “I think you can fuck my mouth now, if you want. I’ve got the system down enough to keep from choking Lee. Please.” While waiting for his answer his left hand continues to strong the angry spit-covered cock, continuously teasing the head with the extra width of a larger hand.

Stan isn’t completely confident in his own ability to stand up right now, much less fuck Ford’s mouth and throat effectively. Good thing he won’t have to manage it for long given how close he already is, edging ever closer with the constant attention of that damn hand. Makes sense a wider palm would make for better handjobs.

“Okay, scooch back under the lab table for me doll.” Swallowing does nothing to wet his throat and make his voice any smoother. Getting up out of the chair he shifts over to follow Ford the short distance to the station, giving Stan something to brace against.

Only now does Ford touch himself, undoing his pants to palm the aching erection, stroking with a whisper touch. His other hand guides Stan’s head back between his lips, relaxing his throat in preparation.

God, his voice is going to be ruined tomorrow. Good thing it’ll be Sunday.

The first thrust is experimental, half expecting to hear Ford gage, but by now he should have learned not to doubt his brother.

“Mmm, perfect for me Sixer. Damn natural at sucking cock. You love it, don’t you?” Bracing one hand on the table and the other on the far wall he adjusts the stance to allow for faster thrusts, working himself using Ford’s throat.

With his mouth and throat full Ford knows Stan can’t be expecting a response. The words are exclusively for his benefit, he tightens the hold around his erection, jerking off with fast tight strokes.

Each roll of his hips picks up speed, driving Stan closer and closer. His words become mindless, fueled by lust. “Look so damn good a fucked-out mess, spit-soaked lips moaning around my cock like you’ve never eaten before. Oh, don’t worry, I’m gonna make sure you never go hungry again. Fuck! God damn it! Yes, choke on it!”

His throat spasming wasn’t intentional, throwing off the rhythm of breathing. It leaves Ford trying to gasp in air to make up for the gap. He does it again anyway, wanting to make Stan cum. He can smell the sweat, his musk filling the air with every thrust. It feels like he’s drowning, moans spilling out while both lungs burn.

Stan doesn’t last long, vibrations yanking him to the edge and the image of what Ford must look like right now tipping him over. “Oh shit, fuck I’m cuming Sixer!” Jesus, and he isn’t pulling away. “That’s it, swallow it all. Yes! Stanford!” Briefly, the orgasm overtakes him, pistoning his hips even faster while working through it.

Then he comes back to himself, still hazy, and remembers how rough that was.

Legs shaking, he moves back to check on Ford. The mess is spectacular. Spit and cum dripping down off his lips, smearing Ford’s jaw and shirt. Further down his cock is out, cum streaks staining the floor and one hand while he continues to jerk off despite having already finished.

"Lee." The words come out broken and wrecked, accompanied by a tongue, licking up some of the mess.

It’s enough to make his cock twitch in vain. Tonight’s going to be a long night.

Chapter 57: Birthday Curse

Notes:

Hey, sorry about dropping off the planet for two weeks. That was not my intention because I wanted to write this chapter. I experienced a sudden loss in the family in the middle of writing a chapter for my other fic and then took a step back from my current ones to write something sad instead. Here is an extra long chapter for you as an apology! Enjoy!

What a sight to be blessed by.

Not to steal words right out of Ford’s mouth or anything, but there really is something to be said about seeing Ford undressed and soaking wet in the shower. Usually fluffy hair soaking wet with water, body covered in soap, and smiling like an idiot too. What on earth is he smiling at?

“Careful there, if you keep staring like that, we’ll run out of hot water because of a third round.” Not that Ford is complaining much. His voice is entirely too happy and light.

Ahh. Me. Right, the simulation is still going. What an awesome birthday.

Pulling Ford over close, hip to hip, with both arms wrapped back behind his brother’s waist gets them both covered in soap. Eh, they’re trying to get clean anyway. “You really plan on wearing me out today, don’t you? Making up for a decade worth of birthday sex isn’t possible in one day. We’ll have to split it between this year and next.”

A loud laugh escapes Stan’s mouth feeling Ford attempting to rally between them, “Alright, fine. Get over here then.” Shower sex isn’t very practical, considering everything is extra slippery, but he’s anything if not persistent pressing Ford up against the wall using the rubber mat on the floor for traction.

Every moment around Stanley where he isn’t wearing a shirt Ford abuses, running his hands across every patch of skin. Avoiding lingering on any particular scar too long but- For so long as teens he wasn’t allowed this. Looking, sure, but no touching. Its perfect, everything is so damn perfect.

If you ignore the nightmares they’re both still plagued by on occasion. Night life is different from during the day when the sun is up. Sharing a bed helps and so does the dream gun, but more and more often Ford has tried not to use it.

It just isn’t fair to leave Stanley to deal with his nightmares alone. Because Ford knows, without asking, Stan doesn’t rouse him after. He usually just looks tired and is kinda distant in the morning. Frustrating, but still a work in progress. It’s usually gone by the time breakfast is finished anyway.

Admittedly, his own nightmares are much worse and-

A loud knock on the door interrupts them where Stanley has lifted Ford up against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist forcing them to break apart from their kiss.

“Stan? Ford? Whoever is in the bathroom, breakfast is ready! Come downstairs and radio your brother, wherever he is!” Fids is grinning on his side of the door out in the hallway, trying not to get too excited.

The best part about having been given a spare key to the house is that now he can break into the place for a birthday surprise!

It is a little odd though that neither of the brothers are in their bedrooms. Perhaps Ford is downstairs in the basement? Seems weird, given how little the pair separate except for when they have work. Ford had mentioned needing to finish up Stan’s present though?

Technically speaking, he’s supposed to be home watching Tate so the pair is free to celebrate though they never explicitly said they wanted to be alone. Doesn’t Stanley deserve a break from cooking? Ford certainly isn’t going to do it.

Hmm. Well, that’s not good.

That’s all Stan has time to say though before having to quickly slap a hand over Ford’s mouth to prevent him from speaking. He still can’t lie for shit, plus his random absence somewhere in the house is easier to explain. “Sounds good Fids! I’ll radio him as soon as I’m out of the shower! See you down in the kitchen!”

Despite Stan insisting they’ll be downstairs soon he doesn’t move to let Ford down, keeping him trapped against the wall and moving to trail kisses down across his jaw.

“Stan,” Ford is whispering, barely audible over the shower. “Put me down. We can’t screw in the house while Fids is here. And how are we going to explain both of our wet hair?” Giving Fids a key now, before they’ve left on their ship, is turning out to be a huge mistake.

On one hand, yeah. Ford can’t be quiet for shit. And Stan doesn’t really want him to be anyway. Then again, is going downstairs with a stiffy any better?

With an annoyed sigh he sets Ford back down, scowling not unlike the glare Ford is giving the bathroom door. “I’m pretty sure I can distract him while you blow-dry your hair up here. Also, I’d like to take this moment to remind you why it was a brilliant idea we stay in my bed and leave it messy.”

Rinsing off quickly, and getting out to dry off, Ford has to stifle a laugh. “Yes, yes. Its much more believable my bed is made and yours isn’t. Let’s just hope he doesn’t notice how unclean the sheets are.” A mortified expression crosses his face and he quickly turns his attention to drying off with a towel to get dressed.

After a quick peak out into the hall, confirming that Fids did in fact leave, Stan hugs Ford from behind in front of the mirror despite his attempts to get ready. “I should be able to buy you twenty minutes with a project outside, but try to be quick.” He makes sure to leave a big kiss on Ford’s neck, giving him another squeeze, before ducking out of the room in a fresh change of clothes.

Even the concern of being caught showering together isn’t enough to ruin the day.

Sure, its inconvenient having to lie to their friend, but what is the alternative? Fiddleford is a pretty accepting and understanding guy but really, he already puts up with a lot of crap from both of them. Weird incest relationship doesn’t need to get added to the list.

Neither of them will admit it out loud, because it’s a tough pill to swallow, but it would be very difficult to handle losing Fids.

Ford and him have been friends for close to a decade at this point which is a pretty long-term friendship to lose. They nerd out together and work on projects, filling a role that Stan can’t for his brother.

Admittedly since defeating Bill there isn’t a whole lot of hanging out between them, but it wouldn’t take much to change that. There is that weed old him had left behind in the car. It seems more likely Fids would be down for that then Ford.

Before he can think about that much more, planning out a night for Fids to stay over to veg out in the living room, Stan walks into the kitchen and gets slapped with another rush of joy.

It’s stupid how little things do that these days.

Fids had clearly let himself in at some point this morning to make them breakfast. Pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, and omelets visible over on the stove. The new table is all set with a ridiculous number of toppings available and on the back of each of their chairs is a birthday balloon and sash.

“What is this, high school? You going to decorate our lockers next Fids?” The shit eating grin Stan is wearing gives away how much he’s enjoying the effort anyway. This is almost the nicest thing anyone has done for them on their birthday. Almost. Birthday sex still tops though.

“No. This,” Fids finishes pulling down the plates from the cabinet to set on the counter, “is a decade worth of birthday’s that Ford wouldn’t let me celebrate rolled into one.” Turning over to face the doorway Fids is grinning, crossing both arms. “You have any idea the lengths he went to in order to avoid me finding out when his birthday was? And then the threats he’d pull to keep me from so much as buying him a cake? It makes sense now. He clearly didn’t want to celebrate the day without you around. It’s as sad as it is sweet.”

Stan can’t decide if he should look embarrassed or ecstatic. He somehow manages a mix of both with a slight blush and an ear-splitting grin. At least it was mutual, like most things, that neither of them did much celebrating without the other. It just didn’t feel right. Never again.

“Damn right he didn’t. I’m the one who made our birthdays fun Fids. Not Ma, not Pops, and certainly not Mr. Stick-up-his-ass either.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the basement. “So, other then breakfast what else do you got planned? Anything conflicting with mine for the day?”

“Oh, no. I don’t know exactly what you two had planned. I just came by this morning to give you a break from cooking for a change and to drop off my own presents.” Then Fids started over towards the doorway, heading for the basement to go drag Ford upstairs himself.

Only now, having mentioned gifts, does Stan spot the boxes over on one of the counters by the microwave. Just two plane cardboard boxes, approximately the size of a large shoe box, the kind used for winter boots or something.

They really don’t deserve Fids as a friend.

Unfortunately he can't linger on that thought for too long, having to turn and follow Fids, grab him in the entryway to steer him towards the front door instead. “Hang on, while he’s busy with whatever surprise he’s got for me, I’ve been meaning to get your help on another woodworking project.” Without bothering to put on shoes Stan grabs his car keys and heads out onto the porch, pulling Fids along.

Without much choice in the matter Fids begrudgingly follows out onto the porch and over to Stan’s car where he pops the trunk and begins pulling out a few notebooks. Ford had mentioned Stanley working on building himself a desk during their hours locked down in the basement, so perhaps this was related to that?

With the trunk closed again, notebooks on top, he hesitates.

It’s ridiculous, really, because he wasn’t so stupid as to erase all of the math Bill gave him. Currently he still has a better understanding of math, about high school or community college level, then previously. But that doesn’t stop him from being worried his work will be wrong.

Whatever. Fids isn’t going to care, so he presses on with an explanation anyway while opening the first notebook. “Building a desk and some shelves on my own is one thing, but I figured I should consult the local carpenter before trying to build a treehouse. Cutting down that one tree was a lot more then I needed for the desk and shelves, even after a few screw-ups.”

Laying out the first notebook he pushes it over for Fids to look at the crude sketches surrounded by varying measurements. “I’m going to make it on the bigger side, so its not something he outgrows in a few years when he hits a growth spurt. Two levels. The lower one will have an outdoor platform plus access to the ladders and the slide. The actual building will have-“

For such a simple project, compared to the boat Ford has planned, listening and looking over Stanley’s work still gives him a sense of déjà vu sending them back several weeks to before Ford came home. It’s like they’re back down in the basement with Stan laying out the days work for the portal like a project director, like he’s the idiot here.

To be fair, now knowing how much math and science Bill gave Stan, he basically was the idiot for a little while. Stan just held back a lot to avoid making him feel like it.

The math is a little messy but by now Fids is very familiar with Stan’s handwriting. Flipping through the pages he can’t find anything worth correcting other then the design for the roof which will need to be a little thicker to get the insulation needed to keep the room semi warm during the winter.

Who’s to say how long they stand around with Stanley talking, Fids reading and reviewing the pages, before they get through it all. It’s kind of difficult to make himself ask questions, grinning as wide as he is, because the whole project is so unexpected.

Watching Tate is one thing, a temporary arrangement during the summer until school starts back up in the fall, but a treehouse is permeant. It’s giving him a space here, at their house, to play whenever. Fids knew Stanley was a natural when it came to kids, but this is just-

Its almost like now that Stan is settled somewhere, feeling safe, he’s going to great lengths to make it more personal. Nesting, except the kid isn’t his? Perhaps projecting a little too, but given its to Tates benefit how could he object, especially when-

“So, Fids, which tree do you think would work best for a project of this scale? I was thinking that big pine out back that doesn’t have any woodpecker marks on it? Seems the most structurally sound for all the weight I’ll be adding.” Admittedly pine trees aren’t the best option for a tree house, but its not like they have anything else around. It’ll just be annoying to work around the branches.

The question pulls Fids out of his thoughts, looking up from the notebook around the back of the house towards the tree Stan is pointing at. “I think that would work just fine. In the future the height would also leave room for expansions, should you come up with other additions in the future. You should also install a lighting projection system.” Using a blank page of the notebook Fids grabs a pen to sketch it out.

It's little more than a copper wire running the length of the tree meant to redirect any potential strikes down to an anchor on the ground to avoid damaging the tree.

“See, this is why I had to get a genius’ perspective. I never would have thought of that.” He lets Fids finish his drawing and math before opening the trunk to put the notebooks away and check the time. Breakfast is probably cold by now, but Ford’s hair should be dry at least. “Come on, lets go see if the dork is done with whatever his latest pet project is.”

Fiddleford doesn’t know all of his tricks which is honestly for the best. Otherwise, they’d be screwed keeping secrets from him. Or maybe he’s just so completely clueless that he doesn’t suspect anything of that nature?

Part of Stan is sure that Fids wouldn’t be that surprised to find out the truth, but it’s not worth taking the chance in the case he’s wrong.

After rushing through drying his hair, which felt like it took forever, Ford had also hurried through getting dressed before darting downstairs to bring up Stan’s birthday present.

Compared to their recent past there is nothing in this life or the next that would feel like an adequate enough gift, but he tried anyway and came up with several different things that Stanley would probably love. They were certainly practical at least.

Having moved the gifts up into the living room, hidden underneath a sheet, Ford barely had enough time to walk into the kitchen before Stanley and Fiddleford came back inside with perfect timing.

Breakfast, admittedly, goes by in a blur for Stanley. Ford and Fids end up talking about the boat, since its all they ever seem to talk about these days, which doesn’t leave him with much to contribute.

He’s already previously pointed out the things they need for space and there doesn’t seem much of a point making a list of actual crap to keep on board until after the ship starts to take shape. Clothes, books, first aid kits, sturdy dishes and pans, fishing supplies, stargazing crap, life jackets, flashlights, flares, maybe an air horn, etc.

The list goes on and on but it’ll be easier to put together later once the boat is ready and they have to think about where they're going. Ford hadn’t mentioned any sort of real plan about that either. ‘Sailing around the world’ is awesome, but not very descriptive. Are they literally going country by country, continent by continent, port by port exploring foreign lands?

It’s the perfect combination of adventure and home. They’ll have the boat to go back to every night, and each other, but otherwise be constantly seeing new places. Maybe, when he gets around to making that list of crap Ford should get on making, a universal translator would be a good idea. Learning Spanish was difficult enough, from what he remembers.

Thankfully his time in prison, when he learned, is still spotty at best and a description at worst.

“Alright, you two put on your sashes and hats. I guarantee your mother is going to want a picture of you two together before opening my presents.” Having gathered up the dishes Fids takes a second to find Stan’s camera.

“Fids, are you sure these sashes and hats are necessary? They seem a bit childish and ridiculous. We’re nearly thirty, not seven and-“ A sharp elbow to his side by Stan knocks the wind out of him. Ford glares at Stanley but doesn’t comment about how that is definitely going to bruise. Later.

“What did I say about aging us further? We’re twenty-eight, thank you very much. Shut up and put on the hat for a second. You don’t have to wear it all day unless you want to, Mr. Impossible.” Stan takes it upon himself to put the dumb pointy hat on Ford, letting the elastic slap against Ford’s chin on purpose.

After putting on his own hat and corralling Ford into his sash he throws an arm over Ford’s shoulder and grins facing the camera. Technically they already have a picture of them celebrating, but what’s the harm of another? They already have to many gaps in their history to make up for. It’ll be nice to have pictures to look back on fondly when they’re old and crap.

“There? Was that so hard?” Fids is smiling though, ignoring the tight smile Ford is wearing in all the pictures while Stan couldn’t look happier if he tried. “Now you two can open my presents. After I do the dishes, I’ll be out of your hair for whatever else you had planned.” With the table cleared, sink soaking, Fids sets one of each box in front of the pair at the table.

“Fids, you already got us presents several weeks ago. Anything else is excessive, isn’t it?” As if the breakfast buffet and birthday getup wasn’t already ridiculous. Ford can’t help but object. After ten years of forgetting today it feels weird to accept anything. Other then from Stanley of course. Giving gifts is easier than receiving them.

“Stanford, you have not allowed me to celebrate your birthday in almost a decade. Shut up and open the gift before I change my mind.” Sitting across the table Fids crosses his arms, looking at them both waiting expectantly.

“You better do what he says, last time he used that voice he pulled a gun on somebody.” Stan elbows Ford again, lighter this time, before opening his own box and removing the tissue paper on top. Revealing the gift, or he assumes it’s not underneath this thing, doesn’t clarify what exactly it is.

Instead of asking Stan watches Ford open his box and reveal an identical slab of metal at the bottom of his box with two cables neatly organized on top, connected to the lid. Mirroring his brother Stan pulls the slab of metal out of the box and sets it on top. It’s awfully slim, isn’t it?

“Those projects you helped me finish up the other week? These are some test models I finished up. They’re already charged, capable of holding one for four hours, but their mostly suited for desk work. Notes, writing, logging and stuff. I get a lot of use out of mine, figured it might help with organizing your messy system down in the lab. No need for all that paper waste.”

“You might also be able to upload pictures, you’ll just have to watch your storage. I might be able to make some adjustments later though, depending on what kind of advancements those binders hold.” Getting up from his side of the table Fids moves to hover behind both of them to watch as they open and start setting up the operating system.

This laptop doesn’t look anything like a standard computer from Stan’s limited experience. It’s much too small and sleek looking, kinda futuristic? “Having nerd friends is fucking awesome.” Being able to store pictures is appealing enough even if the device is useless otherwise. Stan didn’t realize he’s spoken out loud until Ford started laughing at him.

With only three gigabytes of storage the computer won’t be able to hold very much until its upgraded but it’s the thought that counts, doesn’t it? The laptop does look nice even if its far too limiting. Who wants to have to cut back their word count on a paper because of a space issue? Internet browsing would be a better use, but that requires a connection. That must be what the second cord is for alongside the charging cable?

“Thank you Fiddleford, this is a very nice gift.” His smile is mostly due to Stan’s love of the gift more then his own. Later, after they’ve dug into the binders, this gift will be far more useful. Perhaps all those big dreams Fids has about the world running on these silly devices won’t be so far fetched once they catch a glimpse of the future.

“This cable here doubles as a dial up connection cable and something you can hook up to a printer. Perhaps someone will be able to read your notes if you print them out more often?" Stan laughs, clapping Fids on the shoulder.

“This guy? A fucking riot. Come on, I’ll help you with the dishes so Ford can give me my present sooner. If you gave me a damn computer, I can only imagine what’s up his sleeve.” After going through the process of setting up the device with Fids here to help Stan does just that, joining him at the sink despite his friend’s objections.

“My handwriting isn’t that bad! It’s not my fault you both suck at reading cursive!” The laughter his objections earns only upsets him further so instead Ford leaves the kitchen to go put the two computers away. Stan’s upstairs in his office-

He gets stuck there, standing in the doorway, looking around at the space. Except its not full of empty space anymore.

Along the far wall below the triangle window is a new desk. It’s stained to match the wood trim around the baseboards but otherwise very sturdy. The walls have angled shelves, taking up the space and squaring off the slanted roof to create bookshelves. One wall is fully covered in them, stopping just short of the closet, and the other is bare.

While they’ve been working downstairs Stan has been busy. How did he get this stuff up here on his own? There isn’t any sawdust on the floor or tools strewn around, but he must have made them up here because of the door.

Lee is so damn talented. Anything he sets his mind too, it gets done. One way or another no matter how difficult it is. Making a desk and some shelves isn’t, of course, but that’s not the point. Bill was difficult, impossible, but Stanley bested him anyway. Surviving ten years after being thrown out was hard, but here they are now despite both of their mistakes.

To avoid getting emotional over the day Ford puts the laptop down on the desk and heads back downstairs to put his own away in the lab with his half-sorted boxes of papers. Slowly but surely ten years of work is getting processed, it’ll just take time. For a while he gets drawn into it, since Fids and Stan are busy upstairs anyway, until he hears the familiar sound of the elevator dinging and opening.

“Pointdexter, it would be a damn waste of the day if I let you work away forever down here. Fids is gone, don’t you have a gift to give me or something?” Stan hovers in the doorway of the elevator, holding the door open, waiting for his brother to pause his current task and come back upstairs.

After only a minute of reorganizing Ford abandons the task in favor of joining Stanley. If it wouldn’t delay them viewing the gift it would be the perfect opportunity to pick back up where Fids interrupted. No. No. Focus for another few minutes. “That I do. Three gifts, actually. Though only two of them are specifically for you. The other is something more for the house, but I think you’ll like it anyway.”

First, Ford takes a detour to check that Fids car is gone, then he drags Stanley into the living room to where his gifts are. Two boxes on the coffee table and the sheet covering something on the couch. This is much more exciting than receiving his own gifts. In just a minute here Stanley is going to be grinning wide enough to split skin and-

Three gifts? Looking at the two boxes and the large sheet covering something else. They already exchanged gifts weeks ago, didn’t they? Figures Ford would turn their birthday into a competition after opening the binders. Instead of objecting, despite his own hesitancy, Stan goes to pick up the first present, giving it a shake.

“You’re spoiling me, Sixer.” His tone is light though. At this point reality has become numbing. Ford could probably fucking propose, wear a dress, and throw a musical in his honor and it wouldn’t be that surprising.

The first box he grabs is the largest covered in gold wrapping paper and a neat bow on top in red. What’s the point in wrapping something pretty if someone is just going to tear it apart? Stan does so now, setting the long box on the coffee table before flipping open the lid to reveal the gift inside.

For a long minute he can only stare at the gift, trying to work out what exactly it is like the laptop earlier. It kinda looks like a skateboard except it is missing the wheels and appears to have weird suction cups things on the underside instead. “Alright, I give up. What is it?” Not that he isn’t excited, because whatever this is looks sciencey, he just doesn’t get it and there isn’t an instruction manual anywhere.

Moving to stand behind Stanley where he’s kneeling looking in the box Ford fixes his glasses before launching into his explanation. “This is a hoverboard. It’s essentially a skateboard except it levitates off the ground. Due to the time constraints, I wasn’t able to get more lift then five feet but I figured you wouldn’t want to go much higher anyway. Any further of a fall could result in serious injury and that’s not to mention the power constraints. It’ll work constantly for just over an hour before needing to charge again. I-“

A hoverboard? What is this, the year 2000 or something? “Fucking genius, what did I say? You decided to make me something ridiculous, Sixer, and now you’ve probably invented a technology thirty years too soon! I can’t believe you!” Getting up off the floor Stan cuts him off in the middle of talking with a hard kiss that makes Ford melt.

Back in Jersey Stanley had been very skilled at rollerblading and had a brief stint with a skateboard they found in a dumpster along the beach. When it broke three weeks later, after Stan had already mastered it, Pops had refused to buy him a new one. It had been seen as a waste of time and money.

It was only logical to gift Stan a new one, but way better. Later he could work on a longer charge with a stronger and smaller battery. The important part was finishing the damn project on time.

Ford has to pull away to breath, laughing when Stan moves to his neck instead trying to undo his shirt. “Stan, come on. At least finish opening your other gift, please? This isn’t even the best one!” It physically hurts when they part, but joy replaces it watching Stan tear open the next box. Now this one he’s proud of, more so then the hoverboard.

Getting the second box open, intending on rushing through the presents to unwrap what he really wants, leaves him stumped again. It doesn’t look like there is anything inside the box at all. It leaves Stan more confused than the hoverboard did

At this rate Stanley is going to give him crows feet several decades to early from smiling so damn much. “Turn on up to the sixth color cones. I’ve created a fabric that is invisible unless you have access to your specific gift. It’s essentially a sheet with sleeves, since you’ll be able to see through it with your normal eye.”

Among the dozens of different experiments he had run in Stanley’s body, which he’d still need to finish later, working out a fabric visible to only someone more then human had seemed the fastest solution. Making atoms translucent is almost impossible, unless you can manipulate something most people can’t see anyway.

Stan screws up the setting, overshooting and turning on the seventh color cone, in his rush to see the cloak. It’s floor length, almost enough to trip on as he rushes to look in the hallway mirror, but its pretty fucking cool. The world looks completely normal through his human eye except for his reflection missing.

Other then the footsteps Ford doesn’t actually know where Stanley went but follows out of the living room into the entryway looking around anyway. “Well? What do you think? Does it work to your expectations? I also thought about making people look over you, but I couldn’t accurately test that bracelet in time. Not to mention that would have resulted in it only being effective in crowds, not exactly true invisibility.”

Pulling off the cloak Stan goes over and presses Ford against the nearby wall this time, trapping him in place for another passionate kiss. Screw whatever the third present is! This cloak will make shoplifting a million times either! Not to mention the potential pranks you could pull off with it! “You’re a fucking idiot for thinking you can’t do great things on your own.”

Closing his gaze for so long has reset the eye back to its baseline making the cloak invisible again. How are they even supposed to wash something like that? A sciencey washing machine? That thought makes him pull back a mix between laughing and crying.

Usually, these things don’t get to him, he didn’t think they would today. The regular everyday simulation of whatever the fuck this is just rolls off like a duck and water. Most of the time. Ford is overcompensating the wheel so far left that they might as well not even be on the road anymore! “Fuck, Stanford. I can’t believe you.” His voice is broken, breathing getting sharper and more difficult by the second.

Being trapped against a wall pressed against Stanley is a lot less fun when his brother starts hyperventilating and sobbing. Sometimes, this happens. Ford will do something really sweet to try and convince Stanley how amazing he is and express his love and then in turn it’ll throw Lee into something close to a panic attack. “It’s okay. I love you, Stanley. Happy Birthday.”

With a little push its easy enough to guide Stan back into the living room to sit down in the chair. No matter what words Ford uses or how he tries to sooth Stanley it never does anything. Cuddling, letting the extreme emotions run their course, seems to be the only option.

Maybe these are those moments Stan mentioned about losing touch with reality? That would certainly explain the tears. More likely its that his brother isn’t used to people doing nice loving things for him. It makes Ford sad to think about it too long.

It doesn’t matter. I’m going to make up for all the love Stanley should have been getting all along now. That’s easy since apparently inventing him things drives the point home efficaciously.

Damn. He’d been pretty sure that last breakdown the other day in the car after getting groceries had been the end of this! It’s just a present, a really sweet and thoughtful present that no one else in the world other then Stanford would be able to make!

He’s gotta know I’m going to use this irresponsibly and yet he handed it over anyway with a big evil scientist grin!

Once again Stan finds himself wishing the illusion would end. It’s worse existing in a happy ethereal limbo compared to bleeding out somewhere. At least that has a definitive end date for fucks sake!

The crying goes on so long that Ford has to try and say something again because this is lasting longer then usual. It’s confusing and makes his chest ache hurting Stanley in this way. So happy that it hurts his lover. That’s not how things are supposed to be. It’s unfortunate that Ford can’t bring himself to turn down the wattage. One of these days Stan might go blind.

“Lee, hey, look at me. Please? It’s okay, we’re okay, right? I know this must be a lot, but-“ Being pulled into a kiss is less then pleasant when Stan’s got some snot on his upper lip, but whatever. If it helps him stop crying, Ford will deal. He’s had worse things in his mouth.

It doesn’t matter. This is real, at least right now. Maybe it won’t be in a few minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, or years, but now it is. Ford is right here, being suffocating with his love, and its perfect. For several minutes Stan loses himself in the kiss since it makes his thoughts fade into the background, calming his tears and letting the internal battle settle again.

Pulling back, he keeps his eyes closed, just resting their foreheads together while his breathing evens out. “Sorry, yeah. I’m alright. You’re just going to give me a heart attack one of these days being so sickly sweet to me.” I don’t deserve it.

It’s a relief for Stan to come back around. Perhaps three gifts were a bit much. Good thing this last one is more of something for the house then for Stan specifically. That should help it go down easier? “Well. I can’t have that. We’ll need to get you acclimated to it before we reach heart attack age, hmm?”

Both eyes fly back open with a choked out laugh, finally looking at Ford again for the first time since the hallway. “What, you mean like a fish or something?”

Ford would be mad about Stan laughing at him if it wasn’t for the panic attack he’d just had. Instead, he just puts on a slight scowl and crosses both arms until Stan is finished. “Come on, this last gift will only take a minute. Then we can retire upstairs to mess up my bed this time, hmm?”

With a small push off his lap Ford gets up and moves to hover by the sheet while waiting for Stanley to look, distantly still worried about another freakout. Maybe they should look at this later, tomorrow? Yes, he needs Stan’s approval of the work before tearing out-

To get it over with Stanley grabs the sheet and carefully moves it off to the side. Unlike the first two gifts this one he can recognize easily. Thank goodness, one more science lecture might have destroyed his psyche.

On the couch are a dozen different glass panes meant to make up windows. Except these aren’t regular old clear window panels. These are made of stained glass in varying shades making up different scenes. The first one, a smaller circle, depicts a school of red, orange, and white fish surrounded in blue stained glass.

They all share a nautical theme with each new window panel exposed by shifting the pile around. A lighthouse at sunset. A ship at sea, battling waves. Whales. More fish. Dancing waves rolling over a beach. Its dizzying in a different way then the other two gifts where while also being identical at the same time.

Ford is awful at drawing anything short of realism. But he must have spent precious time down in the basement studying books, staining the glass, and designing each window. These will replace the varying triangular windows around the house, no doubt. Did he always know how to work with stained glass? Did he make those other windows with Bill in mind on his own too?

“Well? Do you like them? It’ll be nice finally replacing the windows with Bill’s imagine on them and I thought you might like these? It would have been better to wait until after our sailing trips, using sand from our travels to blow the glass. But this way it won’t be as big of a deal if they ever get broken. Stanley? Do you need to sit down?”

Without waiting for an answer Ford directs him right back into the chair after setting down the current piece of glass Stanley was examining. The largest window, intended for Stan’s office upstairs after they cut out the small triangle one on the wall. A large sailboat with a backdrop of the ocean, a shore, and the night sky twinkling behind it.

It takes several minutes of sitting, staring at the window panels, before Stan can make his mouth move and form actual words despite the concerned look Ford is giving him. This is so silly. Ridiculous! It’s just a present for fucks sake! Except it isn’t.

“Do me a favor? Don’t get me something this nice for Christmas. I absolutely can’t maul you like I’m about to upstairs in front of our parents. That would be really bad and until you and Fids fix the memory gun its not something they’d soon forget.” His feet are less then steady getting up out of the chair but his hand is, grabbing Ford’s to drag him out of the living room towards the stairs.

“I’ll be sure to give you the present in private. You can’t honestly be asking me to prevent a mauling. Not when it’s one of my favorite activities, Lee.” Ford lets out a groan of annoyance when the phone in the kitchen starts ringing before they’ve made it two steps up in the entryway.

They only manage to get halfway up the stairs, since Stan has no intentions of delaying any longer, before the sound of their mother on the phone carries up after them on the messaging machine.

“Happy birthday Stanley and Stanford! I hope your both up already, its almost time for you to open my gift! Stanley, you better not of forgotten! Please, give me a call back. I’m curious what kind of protection spell that women put on it. I love you, talk to you soon! Bye.” Click.

Ford is the one to stop their assent, pulling Stanley to a halt after the message finished. His tone is on edge and prodding. “Stan. What is she talking about?” During their parents stay their mother hadn’t given them a birthday gift as far as he knew. Ford had assumed cooking and orchestrating everything was the gift or that it had slipped her mind.

What the hell did she mean, a spell?!

No one should be surprised that today would be the day the world decides to cock block the hell out of them. At this rate, and going off of Ford’s tone, they might have to make up the difference next year.

Honestly? He had completely forgotten about the weird cryptic gift. Stan had meant to hand it over a day or so ago to give Ford time to study it before the deadline. Now that time has- What time is it?

A glance at his watch earns Ford a curse as a response momentarily. “Damn it. Come on, it’s in my bedroom. Apparently Mom got us some ‘demonic protection’ jewelry from some fortune telling shop while we where fishing. It’s probably not a real spell, but we’re supposed to open it sometime in the next hour. Mom’s punctual, I’ll give her that. I forgot, alright?”

If the gift had been picked up anywhere else, other then in Oregon, Ford probably would have brushed it off as tourist nonsense. However, his years here in the valley had taught him not to overestimate supposed ‘witches’ or ‘wizards’ because often, they’re real. That’s bad, in this case.

“You’re telling me you knew Mom bought us a gift that might have magical properties and you kept it from me for three weeks!” Pulling his hand away Ford stomps back down the stairs towards the kitchen. He has questions and mom is the only one who can answer them in a timely fashion. “Go get it then! I’m going to call her back and get more details!”

Is the time limit a curse? What happens if they don’t open the gift? Or, what happens if they do?

Knowing better then to protest Stan continues on up the stairs to collect the gift. Perhaps if the gift isn’t magical the day could still be saved?

Wishful thinking.

Although, if this is inside his head maybe the outcome can be influenced?

Optimism is a load of crap.

After barely one ring the line is picked up back in Jersey and Ford doesn’t allow their mother a second to say so much as hello. “Where exactly did you get our gift from? Tell me everything. What the shop owner looked like, what you said, the exact words they described the supposed ‘spell’ with. This is very important, especially if they put a time limit on opening it! Did you even stop to consider that failure to be punctual might result in us being cursed? You can’t trust anyone out here Mom!” Amazingly he keeps his voice from yelling, but it is bordering on hysterical while pulling out a notepad to take notes with.

“Have you ever heard of hello, honey?” Her voice sounds a little tired and irritated but she carries on anyway. “It was this tiny shop in a back alley behind that pizza shop on main. I stumbled across it by complete accident taking a shortcut. It was basically a hole in the wall, but really all the best places are, aren’t they? Anyway, this place was wonderful! Exactly the kind of place your father would hate, mind you and-“

“Mom, please. Get to the point? We’re kind of on a time crunch because,” Stan comes back into the room, setting the two boxes on the counter for Ford to look at, ignoring the glare he’s being given. “Someone didn’t tell me until you called!”

“Right, right. I really don’t think it’s that serious though honey. Sure, they put on a great show, but I don’t think it was real or anything. Just superstition and-“

Looking at the two boxes does not calm his own anxiety in the slightest. Looking over the runes and writing the language doesn’t look familiar. “Stan? Do me a favor and check if they have any weird energy. It’s the least you could do.” He says this with the phone angles away so mom doesn’t hear.

“The place had a lot of pink and purple hues. Potions, herbs, charms, a whole glass case of jewelry. The shop keeper must have been back in a session because it took a minute for her to come help us. I explained, vaguely, how you two had been dealing with demonic possession and evil gods. How trouble seemed to find you a lot and I wanted something to keep you both safe. She- Have you opened them? I don’t want to spoil the surprise if you haven’t but-“

Ford kind of wants to kill their mother right now. Usually, her ability to talk mindlessly for hours is a gift and tolerable. Right now, putting on a show isn’t helping! Just the opposite, in fact!

“Mom!” He yells now, tapping his pen against the paper between taking notes. “Focus! What did the shop keeper look like? She drew these runes and lines in front of you? Tell me about the incantation she said, please?”

Stanley had been able to live under the guise of innocence when first given the boxes. He didn’t have his cool new eye back then. Now? There’s no good way to explain the weird pine tree and cotton candy color radiating from both boxes. It doesn’t look like a bad kind of energy, but it certainly doesn’t look like just any piece of jewelry. “Ford-“

“She looked normal, I guess? White with brown eyes and pink dyed hair. It was curly but I didn’t smell any hairspray. I don’t know how she got it to stick up so much, I should have asked. She didn’t draw the boxes in front of me either. After I selected the gifts, with her expertise, she boxed them up in the back while Emma and I browsed. I might still have the instructions she gave me, but I’d have to look. The gist was to open them within an hour of the time you were born today. Oh, and your supposed to open them together, for some reason? It makes sense, you are twins after all-“

Clearly there is almost no useful information to be learned from their mother over the phone. If someone had given him the boxes sooner, allowed time for study and research, then they would have a better idea what the hell this is. As it stands it sounds like they either open them, despite the potential consequences, or not, and live with those consequences.

It’s a lose lose situation.

“What do they look like Stanley? Do they produce any sort of weird energy? Be specific, I’m not above switching bodies so that I can try and predict what the effects of this clearly cursed gift will have.” Ford doesn’t bother trying to hide his deductions from their mother by turning the phone away.

Intentional or not, this is her fault. No, actually. This was fully intentional. If its not one thing, it has to be another!

“It’s not cursed!” Caryn objects over the line before Stan can get a word in edgewise. “I’m telling you, it’s a blessing meant to keep you safe!”

“Oh really? A blessing? Tell me then, how much did it cost? It looks expensive, but I’m guessing you got it for free, didn’t you? Because that’s what magical creatures do! They give cursed things away for free and trick you! There is always a cost and when we open it Stan and I are going to have to pay it!”

Stan takes the phone out of Ford’s hands by force. Yeah he has a good point, but he doesn’t need to yell at Mom over it. “I’ll call you back after he’s calmed down. Sorry Ma.” He mutters before hanging up and turning his anger back towards Ford.

“What the hell Ford! You can’t just yell at her like that. She didn’t know, and yeah, I fucked up. I should have told you sooner. I’ve just been a little busy lately, you happen to be very distracting!” It’s not a very good excuse, but its still the truth. After shoving the boxes in the bedside table, they got forgotten about. They never sleep in his room for fucks sake!

“Just tell me what the damn color is, it has one, doesn’t it? Some weird energy I can’t see? Spit it out.” What kind of creature takes on a human form with pink hair? Could it be a fairy of some kind? An elf? Or maybe a young witch? They are usually ugly, but perhaps-

After a few more seconds of glaring at Ford on Mom’s behalf he looks back over at the box again, crossing both arms. “It looks like pine trees and cotton candy. Sugary, sappy, and flammable. Overall, it doesn’t look dangerous, but what would I know. You’re the expert here.” The last part is said sarcastically but he manages to dodge the shove aimed at his shoulder by Ford because of it.

Of course the energy doesn’t make any sense. Describing things beyond the human comprehension is like that. Maybe it’s about time he takes Stan up on the offer of having an eye swapped out, just so they don’t have to swap bodies every time something like this happens.

“Oh, so you think its safe to open it then? What if it kills one of us, huh? What then?” That would be pretty extreme for a Fae creature to jump straight to murder without having a personal vendetta against them but-

That makes his blood run cold looking at the boxes.

“Stanley. What if this is Bill?” Turning his gaze away from the boxes to Stan he can’t help but worry. How could they not. It’s too coincidental, isn’t it? Bill dies and less then a week later some weird supernatural creature is giving them a ‘gift’ of some kind and-

“Shut up.” Stan objects, picking up one of the boxes and looking over the runes and drawings written in gold. “This isn’t Bill. No way. I told you, he’s dead! What is it going to take for you to believe me!” It’s frustrating knowing something so completely only for everyone else to call bullshit. Bill being dead might be the only thing Stan is truly sure of at all.

But no one else trusts his word, like usual.

“Stan! Put the box down! You don’t know what’s going to happen when you open it! We’re better off just throwing them in the bottomless pit!” Ford hisses out, trying to grab the box even when Stan holds it out of his grasp.

“Oh, fuck no, we aren’t doing that! You’ll go fucking bonkers not knowing, moron!” Before Ford can grab the box, or before Stan can change his mind, he bolts into the entryway while tugging the ribbon off. The effect is instant, causing a wave of that weird energy to radiate from the box. But that’s it, nothing else happens.

Other then Ford running into his back and knocking them both into the ground anyway.

“Stanley! Are you insane! Put it down!” Ford attempts, really tries, to wrestle the box away from his brother driven by fear. Maybe he needs to start a workout routine, because he fails miserably and ends up trapped with Stan sitting on top of him, locking his legs and arms in place using his weight.

This is not how he likes being pinned!

“Would you shut up? Nothing bad happened Stanford.” With Ford trapped Stan is able to toss the gold ribbon aside and lift off the lid. The color gets brighter looking at the bracelet inside. It’s a small silver chain with several charms along it. Two koi fish, one gold and the other silver, make up the first one. A boat, gold. A pine tree, mixed.

Several other charms that he don’t recognize make up the rest. A weird award of sorts? What looks like a funny gun?

Admittedly the next symbol isn’t something you should be able to buy without it being custom. It looks like their house. That’s creepy, but otherwise the chain doesn’t seem bad? It hasn’t killed either of them at least, that’s good?

“See! I’m fine! We’re fine!” Picking the bracelet up he holds it out in front of Ford’s face to look at. “Will you stop fighting me already? This has nothing to do with Bill!” He can’t help being mad when Ford is being stupid, again.

Looking up from the floor he’s been forced to face at the jewelry held in front of him does calm the panic a pinch. “Just because you’ve opened it doesn’t mean you should put it on. Odds are if you do it’ll take full effect, whatever it is and-“

Yanking the chain back away from Ford’s face Stan shifts around and awkwardly manages to get the funny clasp open and then closed to put it on already. He doesn’t announce what he’s going, because Ford must be able to hear based on his objections, but they go ignored. Either it’ll kill him or something. Or, more likely, nothing will happen. Then Ford will stop being such a spaz-

Ford’s heart practically stops hearing the bracelet click into place, followed immediately by Stan going lax above him. Adrenaline, and Stan losing strength, allows him to get out from under his brother. It seems Stan has passed out, but nothing more. He’s still breathing, pulse level, and eyes are responsive to light too.

“What did I tell you!” He’s yelling at someone who’s asleep and can’t hear, but it still needs to be said. “Idiot! You absolute idiot!” Trying to remove the bracelet works, kinda. But in the time it takes to turn, chuck it into the kitchen away, and look back. The bracelet has reappeared back on Stanley’s wrist.

Fuck. That’s not good. That means whatever did this has some serious power behind it. “I’m going to kill you after I deal with this!” First things first Ford takes the time to move Stanley into the kitchen, leaving him on the floor with a pillow.

How is he supposed to deal with this? There is the library, but they probably won’t have what he needs to read the ruins. Deciphering Bill’s code took a trip to California for fucks sake.

A quick run through what he does know about supernatural curses doesn’t drag anything helpful up either. He could drive back to the ‘shop’ Mom got it from, but that would take hours. What if it kills Stan while he’s away? Even then there isn’t a guarantee it would still be there. In fact, it’s likely to have disappeared.

Scanning over the charms provides nothing helpful and neither are the notes he took while on the phone.

That just leaves his own gift wrapped up in the silver ribbon and drawn on ruins. Opening the box didn’t do anything, but what if opening both of them is enough to affect them-

‘Open it together’

Mom had explicitly mentioned opening them together. How much time do they have? A glance at the clock gives ten more minutes within the hour window.

“Stanley, I’m killing you later if we aren’t dead already.” Using the remaining time Ford writes up a hasty letter with notes for Fiddleford and leaves him an ominous voicemail. ‘If I don’t call you back within six hours please come by the house and check on us’ Doesn’t instill confidence that this is a good idea.

Putting on his bracelet is quite possible the worst idea here.

It’s what Stanley would have done without a second thought, in retrospect, no matter how dumb. Maybe not opening and putting on the dumb curse is what would kill Stanley? There is no solid right answer here.

Whatever the hell this is, they’re supposed to deal with together. Even if it kills both of them, at least they won’t be separated again. Never again.

Opening the silver ribbon doesn’t do anything. Opening the box and showing the silver bracelet doesn’t either.

These charms are different and the same too, mirrored in silver. Same two koi fish, a pine tree, their house, a boat, and the weird morphed award. The others are strange. A portal that looks different from the one in the basement. A dragon head? The others are little more than clumps of metal, not yet shaped like the second half of Stan’s. It’s weird.

Instead of delaying Ford gets settled on the ground next to Stanley before anxiously clipping the bracelet on and losing consciousness, together again.

Chapter 58: God's Gift

Stanley Pines may be an idiot more often than the average joe but he’s grown into being willing to admit pretty openly when he’s wrong.

This is one of those times.

He didn’t expect nothing to happen, per say. It was clearly supernatural or magical. He just didn’t expect anything bad to happen. This isn’t too bad, all things considered.

Waking up the only thing Stanley can see is the night sky, kinda. Instead of the normal stars visible from Earth these appear to be positioned from some other part of space. Sitting up, after realizing that, is almost enough to make him sick.

He’s literally hovering in the middle of space somewhere.

No planets or nearby stars in sight, only distant ones like he’s been dropped right in the middle of space nowhere. Instead of floating, like one would expect in space, there does appear to be a small clear platform keeping him in one spot along with a weird sense of gravity. Not to mention he hasn’t, you know, suffocated already.

This isn’t real.

It’s just some weird hallucination or dream happening inside his head or being projected on the entryway back home. Despite all of his own objections during the fight with Ford, something like this does make him wonder about Bill, a little.

If he can’t be sure about reality, which he isn’t, how can he go around claiming that Bill is in fact dead? Maybe Ford is acting as his subconscious somehow, trying to warn him that he’s being messed with. Could all this be a really long round of torture meant to end more horrifically then all the others? Maybe Ford is going to die at the end of all this after he has finally gotten used to all this sappy stuff?

That sounds like something the demon would do even if it’s a little more complicated than his usual angle. Blood, guts, gore, and the occasional brief attempts at psychological torture is standard. This is longer than Bill could stomach. By now he would have given in and ruined the pretty picture, right?

Instead of lying around, spiraling, he gets up to try and do something productive. Going insane isn’t how you get out of a nightmare. Or whatever this is. You play along, typically.

After a little bit of investigating he finds that the platform has an edge. He discovers this by almost falling off it and momentarily losing the ability to breathe. Okay, so no jumping off to see what happens. Fake suffocating is just as unpleasant as real suffocating.

While pacing the length of the platform he bruises his mental shin on an invisible bench that must have appeared after Stan had found all of the boarders of the platform.

What the fuck is this? A waiting room?

Despite how weird this is, and the temptation to jump off to see if he actually would suffocate or just reappear back on the platform, Stan sits on the stupid bench instead with arms crossed waiting to see what happens. It is a pretty location to wait at least if only that. More stars are visible then you can see on Earth and using his bionic eye-

The whole place is thrumming with that same weird pine tree and cotton candy color. Okay, well that color probably isn’t associated with Bill at least, so that’s good? Instead of wondering, about things he can’t figure out yet, he turns off the additional color cones and just enjoys the peace of the area. Space doesn’t have much for an up or down direction but he still tries to keep his gaze off the invisible bench and invisible floor to avoid feeling nauseous.

Sure, Bill mostly got rid of his fear of heights, but not entirely. Being dangled in the middle of existence isn’t more fun then from a cliff. Just prettier. “So, how long am I going to have to sit here and wait? If you plan on killing me, I’d appreciate if you could at least get it over with already.”

If he dies here at least Ford won’t get the chance to say ‘I told you so’ after all this.

What if that’s what this is? What if, hypothetically, he’s dead? This isn’t exactly magical clouds and flying fat babies with wings but it’s close enough, isn’t it? Maybe the clock finally ran out wherever he was dying and this is the afterlife waiting to be escorted off to hell or whatever happens next?

That would explain why Ford was so damn insistent they not open the boxes. His subconscious didn’t want this to happen and for that made up world to end either.

This still doesn’t explain when he died though. Sure, that other world was fake, but when did it switch? What terrible moment did his broken mind fill in the gaps with something sweeter?

When did bad stuff stop happening? When he came home from California and everything slotted together. So, it was a car crash that killed him then. He always figured the odds were leaning in that direction considering the amount of time spent in the car, still sucks though.

Poor Ford. He’d be getting the call sometime soon and depending on how bad it was he might have to identify the body. That’s terrible. God I’m a terrible brother. Incest feelings aside it’s clear Ford loved him anyway which makes him extra awful. This whole time he’s been dying and his sick head’s first thought was ‘oh, what if we screw out brother a bunch before standing before God for judgment’ afterwards? Fucking brilliant.

The list of regrets from this life is a mile long but hopefully, if his guess about when he died is right, at least Ford will be okay. This new version being borderline codependent doesn’t fit his brother. He’ll be fine on his own again now that Bill is taken care of. There has to be some sick lesson in all this for Stanford to learn ‘Don’t take your loved ones for granted’ or maybe ‘Don’t fuck interdimensional demons and try to destroy the world’ both are solid life lessons.

He fixed most of the terrible things he did and overall left behind a positive impression in this last week which is good. Other then maybe wishing for some kids someday, making people happy (and maybe getting some joy for himself) was all he really wanted. At least he got a family in his final week.

On to whatever’s next. It’ll be okay.

Just when Stan had stopped internally panicking, coming to terms with his current reality, the universe throws him for another loop. It only takes one blink.

One second, the area is quiet and peaceful, and the next, Ford is here lying on the weird floor in the same spot he woke up in, just a foot and a half over.

The shift is instant and if this wasn’t so terrifying Ford would have to admit that it’s a pretty cool…whatever? It’s not teleportation, because Stanley’s body didn’t disappear. That must make this a mental plane of sorts? Are they in a mindscape? This is the kind of thing he’s only been privy too with Bill though which could mean-

Before Ford can do much more then sit up and glance around, Stanley is back up on his feet yelling at the space around them.

“Are you fucking serious right now!” So far, he’s been very level headed about the very broken grasp he’s had on reality. Waiting, mostly, for the shoe to drop. “Just when I’m sure, just when I think I’ve got it sorted, you throw me this?! Come on already! Just kill me, I’m sick and tired of these stupid games!” Avoiding the bench, he’d been previously sitting on, Stan starts to pace back and forth the length of the small space, ranting.

“One minute I’m in heaven, the next you throw me into limbo dead waiting room, and now he’s back?! What the hell is going on!?” Amazingly he doesn’t start crying again, because he feels like he’s done enough of that, but he does start to have a bit of a hard time breathing. “Make up your damn mind already? Am I dead? Is this hell? You win Bill! You fucking win, I’ve lost my damn marbles, and I give up, just get it over with already!”

This is the last thing Ford expected to happen when putting on the bracelet. Death? Probably. Seeing Stanley again? Likely. Not this though.

Standing up it seems that his brother might be in the middle of having a mental break of sorts. What the hell happened in the ten minutes it took to put on his own gift? This space doesn’t look like Bill’s mindscape. It’s much too simple and lacking all the math equations they shared. It’s weird and looking around doesn’t offer anymore answers then back in the kitchen.

In the middle of pacing Ford steps in front of Stan to stop him, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a hard shake. “Would you get ahold of yourself, you idiot!?” He can’t help but glare either, because this is Stan’s fault, he’s the one who put on the stupid bracelet in the first place. “I can’t believe you! What did I say, I told you something bad would happen! You never listen to me!”

This illusion of his brother is really realistic and just as much of a stupid idiot asshole too.

“What does it matter Stanford!? I’m dead, we’re dead, I guess? You’re inside my head so that makes us both idiots and both fucked! Don’t you get it, this isn’t real. Or that, wasn’t real. Maybe this is the first real thing I’ve experienced in weeks! I don’t know!?” Pulling away Stan moves to sit on the edge of the bench again with his head in both hands. It’s dizzying looking through the floor so he closes both eyes too.

Biting back the temptation to yell at Stanley some more, because this is a very serious situation they’ve found themselves in, Ford steps back mentally to try and understand what he’s missing.

Did something happen here while Stanley was alone? It seems unlikely considering there is nothing around for lightyears. He isn’t dead, they aren’t, probably? They could be, considering their current predicament, but probably not? They certainly aren’t ghosts at least, just asleep inside a mindscape of sorts. Most likely.

So why is Stanley in hysterics, insisting they must be dead and that this isn’t-

That this isn’t real. Stanley must be having one of those episodes where reality doesn’t feel real. Fair enough, considering where they are, but it would be almost impossible for him to have worse timing! While dealing with a supernatural creature is not a good time to be doing this.

Instead of yelling more Ford sits down on the weird invisible bench. “Stanley? It’s okay. I mean, its not. That was very stupid of you, but this is real. Kinda. I theorize we’re in some sort of mindscape at the moment. But your alive, I’m alive, and this is real. We’re real, Stanley. Please, look at me.” Getting Stanley to shift back and look at him takes a minute.

Ford must be a hallucination at this point, following him into the afterlife as a form of comfort even now. Isn’t that sweet and fucked up? Instead of fighting it, as he’d like too, Stan lets himself be pulled into a hug. What’s the point? Nothing makes sense, everything is impossible, and there isn’t a single thing he can do about it until its over. Hopefully that will be soon.

“Sure. This is real, I’ve been to the moon, and we’ve actually had sex.” He’s muttering mostly to himself, considering Ford isn’t real. It was nice living in bliss while it lasted at least. Now there isn’t any good excuse to keep hiding. Not when God or whatever is probably going to crop up any second.

Now Ford pulls back from the hug, forcing Stan to look at him wearing a deep frown. “Stanley. What are you talking about? I can’t speak for you having been to the moon, which I seriously doubt, but our intimate encounters are definitely real. I would know, given I’m the one of sound mind.”

Here it comes. Now that he’s broken the illusion further the spooky shit is going to come next. Whatever, they’re already in limbo, it couldn’t possibly get worse. Or no worse than he’s already dealt with in the past at least. “Listen. Your just another part of the simulation. I’ll admit, it’s a pretty good act. You play a really realistic Stanford Pines. If your part of an illusion by Bill, he did a great job.” He says that part looking around the area, like he expects the triangle to show up.

“I’m dead, Ford. Because there isn’t any other explanation for all this good crap happening. I probably crashed my car, that’s my running theory, coming back from California or maybe on the way there. This,” motioning around at space again, “is a purgatory. I’m waiting around for God to reincarnate me, send me to hell, or something. I appreciate the comfort while I wait, but-“

The more Stanley talks the more dread settles in his own chest and the tighter his grip gets on Stan’s shoulders.

All of that is absolutely ridiculous. Of course, they’re both real, obviously. Ford is sure of that, because he is apparently the only one between them who hasn’t lost their damn mind. This must be a lingering or direct cause from the memory gun. Stanley’s mind is so fractured that its impossible for him to comprehend that things are okay.

Instead, he’s built up this weird lie that he’s been in heaven or living in some fantasy on the edge of reality close to dying somewhere and now-

They’re in space, in what could be misinterpreted as an otherworldly location, waiting for something to happen. No wonder Stanley is having a breakdown. This must look like a judgment of sorts which would make him, me, a hallucination.

The concept is so ridiculous, feeling so impossible that it didn’t come out before now, that Ford can’t do much more then stare at his brother. Stanley has gone crazy and its entirely his fault. And this isn’t something he can fix either. Why would anyone believe their own mind inside something like that? Fuck.

Stan stops talking seeing the very weird expression on Ford’s face. It looks like a weird mix between despair, guilt, and pity rolled into one. It pulls a long sigh from him, “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I can go back to playing house again. It certainly was nice, not even close to the worst simulation I’ve been in. The best, actually. Just stop looking at me like I’m crazy. I’m not, alright? I know enough about my life and simulations to know when I’m in one.”

The humor of the situation isn’t lost and it pulls a broken laugh that turns into a quiet sob. Playing house. Is that all this has been all along? Stanley was so sure this wasn’t real and- Was that what those panic attacks where? Momentarily lapses in playing along? Breakdowns over his own death and the unstable reality he felt he was trapped in?

When Ford starts crying, pulling away, Stan follows. How couldn’t he? Real or not he doesn’t want Ford to feel bad about all this. It’s not his fault. He’s the one who decided to kill Bill instead of just closing the portal. They could have, easily, but no. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too.

“Hey, don’t do that. Look, it’s not really playing house, alright? Just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it, right? Feels kinda dumb comforting a weird version of myself, but I’d do anything for you, Stanford. Even talk to myself and whatever.” He pulls Ford over into a hug on the bench. This has gotta be one of the weirdest things he’s ever done. Comforting his own hallucination after they found out they aren’t real. Crazy shit.

Instead of returning the hug Ford physically pushes Stan away, letting some of his anger come to the surface while standing up. “This is ridiculous! Your absolutely insane, Stanley! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? How long have you been convinced I’m not real? The whole time, since coming back?” He continues to stand firm that this is real. It has to be and one of them needs to be sure. Otherwise, this would be some real advanced trickery by Bill. A real long con meant to drive them both nuts or to end tragically.

This is real. Stanley is real. They are real. I am real.

The other alternatives are too horrible to consider. This is the good place. They won, they get to be happy now. Right? Granted, it doesn’t feel deserved at all. It has kind of been too good to be true pretty much since Bill’s death. Stanley getting his memory back. Their parents being here and fixing those relationships. Them, being in love like idiots.

When put like that, it does sound kind of fake.

“Umm, because I figured you’d freak out or maybe decide to kill me? That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s not like you could do anything to prove I’m wrong. Everything you know I know. I’d say the line got kind of blurry around the time I found out you loved me back. I can’t say for sure if that was in the car with the memory gun or if I crashed on my way home though. I didn’t put the pieces together until after we slept together. I mean, come on. Killing Bill doesn’t make me that righteous. I’m not that lucky.”

Beyond pacing back and forth, not knowing what else to do here, Ford can only glare at Stanley.

The whole time, since the damn beginning, Stan has been convinced this wasn’t real. That he’s so broken and unredeemable despite everything that Ford couldn’t possibly love him. Being dropped in a simulation or dead felt more likely.

How can he fix it? Maybe now isn’t the time to be thinking about fixing Stan’s mental state considering their current situation, but he can’t help it. Nothing is happening right now, so Stan is the more immediate issue.

“I would never kill you. I only want to help you. When we get home, I’m going to have to call Fiddleford and discuss this with him. Perhaps he will have a better idea of how to help you understand this is real.” That begs the question. How the hell does he explain this without telling Fids about their relationship? Later, he’ll work that out later.

It’s a relief to watch Ford, or fake Ford, settle into pacing back and forth with his thinking face on. Better then crying or yelling at least. How long are they going to be stuck here anyway? Sure, God is probably a busy guy, but seriously, what gives?

Instead of sitting around any longer, waiting, he gets up and walks to the far edge. “HEY! God! I’m waiting for you, anytime you feel ready to talk to me I’d appreciate it! I love Ford, but he’s probably going to start quizzing me soon and I would rather you send me to hell before that happens!” It’s like shouting out into a void for all the good his words do. This is so fucking stupid.

“Stanley! This isn’t God we’re meeting and you aren’t dead! Stop messing around and sit still!” Perhaps he should be using his brainpower to be getting them out of whatever this is. Putting on the bracelet was a huge mistake in retrospect. Stan wasn’t in any danger here, or it doesn’t seem like it and-

Identical to how Ford appeared, and how he must have appeared, the weird God they are meeting appears in a blink. Seeing a big blob of pink out of the corner of his eyes makes Stan whip around, too fast, and stumble backwards at the sight before them.

Hovering outside their small shelf in space, far too close, is a weird pink lizard. Ford probably know what kind it is, because he’s a nerd, but Stan’s brain doesn’t provide a helpful description. He’s too caught up on the size of it. It’s approximately the size of a school bus with weird frilly things around its head with black beady eyes.

And a tongue sticking out a little bit. It doesn’t look like a god or very threatening at all. Flipping on his eye though almost blinds Stan, causing him to cover the bionic eye because of the various energies and colors radiating off the damn thing. “Fuck…”

Ford stops pacing the moment the creature comes into sight. It’s a very large Axolotl! Or that’s the appearance this thing is choosing to use at the very least. The cuteness its exhibiting could be a trick, but it already has them where it wants them, why wouldn’t it show its true form?

Pink.

The color of the women who sold Mom these bracelets was dyed pink. The color of the weird energy was similar to cotton candy. Like clouds? Firey clouds? The hundreds of questions pull him out of shock before Stanley, driving his voice to work again while unable to keep excitement out of his voice. “Stanley! Look, its an Axolotl! What do you think it wants with us!”

Stan can’t help but looked at Ford like he’s the one who lost his mind now. One, because he knows what the thing is called (his brain isn’t supposed to know that) and two, because it almost sounds like he’s excited to be here. That’s a pretty twisted realization to have. Part of himself, projected onto Ford’s hallucination, wants to die.

“Would you shut up? I’m the real one, your just inside my head. Let me do the talking.” The size of the Axolotl is menacing all on its own but Stan gets up and walks over to the front of the platform facing it anyway.

If this is the mindscape, or some version of it, wouldn’t it be okay to kill Stan just this once for being such an insufferable shit? No. No. Don’t do that, he’s crazy. It’s not his fault.

“I’m the one who isn’t clinically insane, if anyone should be talking to this creature its me!” He follows right behind Stan, giving him a push to the side so they are both standing next to each other as close as they can get without falling out into open space.

“Oh sure! Now that I’m proven right, that it doesn’t want to cause us harm now you want to investigate! Typical!” Stan is honestly half tempted to shove Ford out into the suffocation zone. If it didn’t remind him too much of the basement and the portal, he might. But he doesn’t, instead opting to glare at Ford between glances at the huge lizard.

Before Ford can come up with a bite back retort, growing more and more frustrated by the second, another voice chimes in interrupting their banter.

“Please, be quiet. I didn’t not book you an appointment to spend the hour listening to you both argue.” The voice is soft and calm. It sounds like a mother’s voice, calming a fussy child. Not their mother, of course, because Caryn has been smoking too long for it to be even close to this sweet. Ford can’t help but wonder if the irritation evaporating is a magical effect from the creature or- Focus!

“An appointment? What are you talking about and who are you? Why did you want to speak with us?” The calming atmosphere caused by the salamander’s presence keeps Ford’s voice even.

Both? Wait a minute, this weird thing can see Ford? That has more of an effect on Stan’s sour and angry mood then whatever magic the thing is influencing them with. Would God humor him about the hallucination? Perhaps, but it’s still weird….

Moving forward, closer to them both, the Axolotl shifts so its about two car lengths in front of where they stand. Its mouth doesn’t move when it speaks, making its already massive size more unsettling, in Stan’s opinion.

“You are Stanley and Stanford Pines, of dimension 546'\, correct? You sent Bill along for reincarnation much sooner then most other dimensions manage. It’s very impressive, but that was not without its own cost, I see.” It looks, turning its head, towards Stanley while speaking.

Each new word only draws up more questions without fully answering the ones he’s already asked. Is that the number coordinating with their home dimension? At least this thing is aware of Stan’s less then capable faculties. What does it want? This is all very fascinating, but-

“I suppose that could be our home dimension’s name. I’m not familiar with it. Is it safe to assume you are a being from a separate one then? What does this have to do with Bill, do you know him? Did he wrong you?” Being visited by one otherworldly being has left Ford naturally skeptical, but because of the lack of hostility slightly optimistic. Perhaps they’ll be able to answer this things questions and go home.

Having the weird lizard looking at him is not helping with the paranoia but Stan tries to keep cool with his arms crossed. “Reincarnation, you’re going to tell me that prick is going to come back to Earth? Tell me which animal I have to hunt down and kill. That scum doesn’t deserve a second chance!”

Briefly the Axolotl looks between both of them, sighing to itself visibly before continuing.

“You know Bill Cypher as a chaos God, of sorts. Even Gods have to answer to someone when death comes knocking. I am that being, a step above him if that makes it easier to conceptualize. And to calm your worries Bill will not be coming back anytime soon and not with anything close to his past level of power. I understand it would be difficult to imagine him coming back at all, even as a moth, or a dog, perhaps a worm.” The thing actually smiles, although it already looks like its mouth is stuck in a constant puppy grin. It gets more obvious, like it made a joke.

Ford’s mind is reeling, eyes glued to the creature before them, at this new information. Defeat a God, be visited by another? For a congratulations? That’s kind of what this sounds like given the complements they’ve received. Stan has received. He’s the mastermind behind this, the reason Bill is gone. These unexpected consequences make him feel faint.

“So, you’re here to tell us his fate then?” Stan tries to guess, taking a step back and glancing at Ford. “You obviously didn’t trick our mother into summoning you just to say hi.” The platform shifts forward some and the bench becomes visible directly behind them filled with wispy clouds.

“Please, sit down Stanford. I understand this is overwhelming. The last God paying you a mental visit didn’t exactly go well. Is this scene appropriate? Usually, I’d host guests in the sky, but with your fear of height I thought this office might be less intimidating. I also didn’t want you to think yourself condemned more then you’ve already convinced yourself, Stanley.” The floor becomes more visible, made out of a fluffy cloudlike material similar to the bench.

Ford does sit down, because otherwise he might faint. The bench is more comfortable than it was previously despite their small space looking out of place among the stars around them in the distance. What does it even mean to faint inside the mindscape? Would he wake up, or maybe-

“Calm down. You are correct. I did not bring you here to go into details about Bill. That isn’t something you need to worry about anymore. I bring you here for two things. The first is to explain the gift I’ve given you to wear and the second is to offer another, if you choose to accept it.” Slowly, so as not to startle either of them, the space morphs into open sky above and the area nearby into solid clouds to stand on hiding their height from view.

Stanley finally sits down on the bench near Ford. Not because this is dizzying, but because it all sounds a little too good to be true. This isn’t how being judged by God was supposed to go, for one, but why is this thing giving them a gift to begin with? It’s fishy in a way he didn’t see back in reality. How could he have? Once someone starts talking, that’s when the catch comes into play.

“What is the gift for? Because Stanley defeated Bill? Gods don’t typically give away gifts for killing people, not even horrible ones. What’s the catch here?” Ford finds his voice again, shifting closer to Stan on the bench while questioning the Axolotl.

Settling onto a pile of clouds the Axolotl responds quickly, expecting the question.

“Bills tend to be very unpredictable. They cause trouble and break rules. My concern is that a new one might show up to bother you again. Those two bracelets will ensure you are safe. Consider it a cloaking device, hiding your dimension from Gods other then I. While Bill is outside of your dimension, until he does reincarnate, they will continue to function. I would like you to hold onto them, for safe keeping.”

Without a solid understanding of the multiverse Ford hadn’t taken the time to consider they would have to deal with another different Bill. If he could visit other dimensions, serving his role there, who’s to say they couldn’t be put through turmoil all over again?

“You still haven’t explained the catch.” Stan beats Ford to the punch, hesitantly reaching a hand over to hold one of Ford’s across the bench. “What do you get out of protecting our dimension? Why does it matter to you?”

“Because, Stanley. Dealing with one Bill is difficult enough. I do not want to have to handle another. If a different Bill finds you, he’ll end up dead, won’t he? Which means more work for me. It is easier for everyone this way.” For the first time since speaking the Axolotl sounds a little flat, its voice not having the same calming ring to it.

That makes him laugh despite how serious the creature sounds. All this, the bracelet, the cryptic meeting, and the gifts just to get out of doing its job? Maybe this thing isn’t so bad, as far as Gods go, after all.

It takes real restraint to stifle a smile so instead Ford squeezes Stan’s hand, ignoring how his brother is doubling over with laughter. “That’s it? These bracelets cloak our dimension for a specific time period to save you from work? What other benefits do they have?” The two bracelets don’t show up on their mental forms here, their wrists empty. “And what if we refused?” He makes sure to add.

Only after Stanley has stopped laughing does it answer. “You could refuse, if you want. I will not make you accept despite my own wishes. However, I would not be able to help you again in the future. I’m very busy.” Once again it shifts forward, closer to the bench they sit on so its almost directly in front of them. “On top of hiding your dimension they will also keep you safe. Not immortal but luckier than usual.”

Having gotten past the concern of this thing having ill intentions Stan can’t help but be curious about the prospects. Sure, making a deal with Bill didn’t go well, but he was evil. Is there such thing as a good God? Maybe. This thing could be? It seems like it. Whatever, its not like this is real anyway-

“Stanley.” The Axolotl turns to look directly at him instead of hovering in front of them both. “That brings me to my other reason for our appointment. My second gift. Your mind has become fractures and unstable beyond what a human could patch. Any attempts made by you, Ford, would only cause more harm. But that does not mean its unfixable. Just tricky.”

Letting Bill into his mind was mistake enough. He is absolutely not about to let another supposed God screw around his already mixed-up brain soup! “Oh no, you aren’t touching me. No way, no how. My mind is already screwed from the last God I let poke around in here!” It doesn’t matter if this thing ‘might’ be good. Still no!

Now Ford turns away from the looming creature to face Stanley. His fears are not unfounded, but… Would it work? On one hand, letting any God into your head is a terrible idea. Just look how Bill turned out. But what’s the alternative? Stan continues living believing this isn’t real? Not knowing how good their life is now?

If this Axolotl values them so highly, or at least their dimension, is it so far fetched that this could be a good thing? Perhaps not. On the bright side, Stanley has more then taught him how to convince someone into doing anything. Especially him. That’s easy.

Sorry if this goes bad, but your too crazy to make this decision for yourself. I hope its not wrong.

“Stanley,” He makes him turn to look at him, “Do you have any idea what the statistical odds of not one but two Gods trying to kill us is? If it wanted us dead, it would have done it by now. I’m sure with the jewelry we are wearing it could fry our mental faculties within seconds. Could it really hurt to let it try? I’d like you to be able to be happy, to know I’m real. Please?”

Stan knew it was a mistake to turn and look at Ford from the moment the hand grabbed his chin. Ford is basically his conscience, or at least an inner voice, trying to influence his decisions. The only problem with that is its shape. He has never been able to refuse Stanford anything, ever.

The worst part is that the logic is there too. Kinda.

This could still be a weird sort of judgement, or a really bad LSD trip. Maybe Fids put something in their breakfast this morning. No. No. He wouldn’t do that, not without telling them anyway.

If it’ll make Ford happy, how could he say no? Damn it.

“You know its not fair that you’ll abuse this power you have over me to get your way on the important things. I should be allowed to say no to dying if I want.” Whatever. He’s done worse things for love. Much worse. “Fine, fine. If you want me to let the weird lizard thing scramble some eggs inside my head with a whisk then I’ll do it. But I get to say I told you so when I come out a vegetable.”

“I assure you that this will not result in you becoming a stalk of lettuce or a carrot. I’m incapable of that level of power without being physically summoned to your home dimension.” The Axolotl chimes in, shifting around in the clouds so that its upright with the lower half of its body hidden in the clouds and its weird hands hovering level with them.

Hmm. This is a pretty big decision. What if Stan’s mind turns out in worse shape or if he forgets things again on accident. Maybe-

“Stanford. You need to have faith. If you’d like I will explain my work every step of the way and allow you to watch. Stanley will be fine, better then very soon. I promise. I know that doesn’t mean much due to past experience, but there is little else I can give as reassurance.”

He had momentarily forgot that this whole time the Axolotl has been reading their minds alongside the conversation. The voice soothes his worry, magic probably, more than its words do. Stanley is the most important thing in his world, it isn’t easy to put his life in someone’s hands. Or, weird fingers in this case.

“Relax Sixer, what’s the worse that could happen?” Stanley pushes himself up, giving Ford’s hand a squeeze, before letting go. Standing on clouds is kind of nauseating but he ignores it in favor of looking at the lizard.

You could die leaving me alone, again.

“Come lay down in the clouds. Do you have any other questions beforehand? You will be unconscious for the remainder of our time together and we will not be able to speak again later.” The Axolotl has momentarily turned it full attention back to Stanley, leaving Ford to stew on the bench.

Walking across the weird floor is easier if he doesn’t look down at it while moving away from the bench. “You aren’t going to unlock all those math memories and make me a nerd again, are you? Or get rid of my weird incest feelings? I need those.” He’s mostly humoring this thing, and Ford, at the moment. Making a joke of it.

“Without physically being in your dimension I can’t fully remove the various experimental adjustments Bill implemented inside your head. I can however separate it in a unique way. The memories will be there, but you won’t have access to them. Otherwise, I won’t remove anything that would affect your sense of self. Solidifying that again will be unpleasant, as a warning.”

Watching all this happen doesn’t feel right, but at least Stanley is asking the important questions. He won’t be changed any, just becoming normal again. Getting up off the bench Ford begins to pace, watching Stan move away to stand closer to the Axolotl in the clouds.

“So, I’m not going to remember math, I’ll know what’s real again, and nothing bad is going to happen. Sounds like a con, but what do I know about those?” He hesitates anyway, looking down at the clouds before back over at Ford. “What about the trauma then, I’m still going to have to unpack all that after this, right?”

“With your sense of self restored you will be more then capable of recovery. You won’t be alone, which is half of the battle in this case. Be patient, kind with yourself, and don’t hold onto anger over things. The past can’t be changed, but the future always can be.” While speaking it shifts, its eyes glowing a light pink color, its head tilted a little to the left.

Do all Gods speak like a fortune cookie or just the ones they keep running into? It’s probably a ‘being of higher knowledge and power’ thing. “Alright, whatever. Get on with it already.”

Despite the pit of anxiety settled in his chest Ford manages to refrain from changing his mind. Crossing the short distance Stan had moved away he pulls him into a tight hug. “I’ll see you back in the kitchen soon, okay?” It’s a relief to have the hug returned. They both need this.

Stan takes it so far as to kiss Ford, after pulling back, right in front of the lizard God. It doesn’t seem to have any more of an issue then Bill did. There are probably worse things from its perspective. “Go on now and wait on the bench. I’ll try not to be late for dinner.”

With a sad laugh Ford moves away, back over to the bench where he continues to stand watching Stan lay down on the floor. This better be the last goodbye with a weird broken version of his brother Ford has to live through. It’s too painful and Stanley deserves better.

“Don’t treat this as a farewell, I’m not merging your souls or anything. This is far easier.” Nothing dramatic happens for a long minute. Its eyes glow a little brighter but it’s the Axolotl’s tail that comes around and gentle presses the pink light to Stan’s forehead. It’s then that the whole world shifts.

Unlike the slow transition from space to clouds this is much more jarring. They go from hovering in the clouds to looking down from them over a weird maze in a field of flowers. There is a small hole among the clouds that Ford can look down through but the Axolotl is hovering around over the maze, moving things with the weird pink energy.

“The concept of the human mind is a difficult concept to grasp. Consider this Stan’s mindscape, laid out cohesively to give full access. The walls of hedge represent structure, you can see many of them are burned by that nasty gun your friend invented. These frames, hanging from the hedges, hold the memories and information. Emotions represented and fluctuating with the color of the frames.”

The voice of the creature is still up here, among the clouds with him, yet Ford can see the Axolotl continuing to move around below. Hovering and flouting, occasionally triggering regrowth in specific parts of the maze. Adjusting frames, rearranging some things.

It’s brilliant watching the God work, mending damage now visible from the memory gun through a metaphor.

This could be what Stan’s mindscape looks like, but his brother isn’t a gardener or a farmer, so it seems unlikely. Some parts of the maze are being moved, but not destroyed, creating a whole second but significantly smaller section of hedges off in an empty space. That must be the memories Stan doesn’t want, the information written in those binders and-

“These vines and flowers are the tricky part. They are core pieces, stationed around important memories and moments. They must be arranged in a specific way. Currently they mirror your own far more than they should. Bill has done many awful things in his life, which isn’t my place to share, but the state of this place is one of the worst.” For a while silence follows while the God rearranges the place correctly.

Hedges regrown. Flowers adjusted and soil packed back into place using the weird pink magic. Frames shifted, straightened, and the occasional cracks patched. A handful of the frames are burned beyond repair but they get moved over to the second maze anyway beyond a hard pink boarder along the edge of the field.

Time passes differently in the mindscape, but it still feels like a long time before the Axolotl seems to have finished. It swims up through the air, settling in the clouds near Ford while the hole showing the area below grows smaller.

“That’s it? Just some moving plants in a garden and he’ll be okay again?” The whole process seemed tedious but simple. Why isn’t this the kind of thing he would have been able to do? All he would have needed is to enter Stan’s mindscape with the right spells and-

“For your benefit I’ve simplified the process. It would take you two lifetimes to develop the exact type of magic on Earth to accomplish the same result. Not to mention you would have needed to know the right pattern, Stanford. I am able to look back at Stanley before Bill tinkered and before the first use of the memory gun. That isn’t something humans can do, not in your time.”

Looking through the clouds down at the metaphor used to conceptualize the repairs Ford can’t help but smile despite not knowing for sure if it will have worked as intended. Only waking up will do that.

“Thank you for helping him.” Its important to get that out before his mind runs away with itself. The clouds showing the scene below close completely, Stan’s mindscape disappearing from view.

Settling into the clouds the Axolotl is only half visible with its head and back above but legs, tail, and arms hidden below. “You are both welcome. I shouldn’t say, but this dimension is one of my favorites. I’m glad you two saved it. Do you have other questions before you wake up?”

What are the important things he needs to know before waking up? Being offered the ability to ask a million questions to a God with all the answers, more then Bill had, is overwhelming. Okay, not any question. Just relevant ones…

“What if you were wrong and Stan isn’t right when he wakes up? How will I fix it then?” Its redundant to ask since he’s already made the gamble. He just can’t leave it open ended, without a solution in a worse case scenario.

“Do you remember Frillium, who you let go in the creek? Tomorrow morning you’ll find him hanging out in the shallows. Keep him this time and it will not be difficult to reach me in a state of true emergency.”

Huh. So, this being was the reason Bill had been so opposed to the pet Fiddleford brought home. It was the likeness to a God above that scared him so much. Perhaps Bill had been afraid of being found out of his plans? Ford is beyond trying to ask why the Axolotl didn’t intervein or stop Bill sooner. The reasoning of Gods is often nonsense or ‘I couldn’t’ most of the time.

“Did Bill cause any complications inside my own mind during my time in the Nightmare Realm that I don’t remember?” The memories he does have are bad enough, but he needs to know if Stanley isn’t the only insane one between them. The lapse in silence from the God isn’t reassuring.

“You two are such complicated humans. The short answer is yes, but not in a negative way you’d wish to have changed. Bill was fond of you, more so than most Gods are capable of. Very complicated….” Its frills moved about, disturbing the clouds, before settling again along the sides of its head.

“What is that supposed to mean!? You can’t just tell me something vague and not explain further, what did he do to me!?” He manages to bite his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, to avoid further shouting. It’s out of place in the peaceful scene of the pink and orange clouds.

“I’m afraid I am not the right person to explain this to you. The answer will come to you eventually, be patient.” After only a brief pause it catches on to Ford’s next train of thought. “No. I can not answer anymore questions then I already have about Bill. In a minute you’ll wake up back home ahead of Stanley. Move him somewhere quiet and dim but not too dark. This process won’t be pretty but it will work out in the end.”

How much would Stanley have to process waking up? If he’s been in denial since coming back from California that’s about two weeks of sappiness, love, and pain to be thrown into all at once. One more difficult thing and then they’ll be done. Things will be okay again, this time with Stanley fully present and aware. No longer crazy. Or more then usually anyway.

“I’m afraid you do not have any other questions I can answer at this moment in time. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Rather than trying to ask any of the questions he still has, since this thing knows and has refused to answer them, Ford listens. As interesting as this experience has been, it is still unsettling. Laying his head down on the clouds where previously he’d been able to see the field below, Ford closes his eyes to leave this mindscape behind.

Chapter 59: Yes Stan

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you feel like you’re falling indefinitely? Like you’ve been thrown off a cliff freefalling waiting for the moment where you eventually hit the ground. That’s kind of what this is like, except a million times worse.

You also feel like throwing up the whole way down, like your stomach is cramping, throat burning, and you might puke up a damn lung.

Oh, but that’s not all. It also feels like you’ve already hit the ground, shattering into a million human chunks with blood staining the soil and your corpse beyond recognition.

It hurts. Everything is being pulled apart and strung out. Muscles ache and stretch, blood boils and freezes, like every nerve is alive trying to send every signal its ever known at the same time. That’s a lot for twenty-eight years.

The experience kind of reminds him of a bad drug trip he had living in Texas on something that was supposed to be Molly but surely wasn’t. No drug Stanley has ever taken, which is a lot, felt like this.

And it keeps going too. You’d think something like this would have an end, but it doesn’t seem too. Yet, he also can’t bring himself to regret agreeing or letting Ford decide this for him. Even six months ago, when they hated each other, he probably would have let Ford do this. It’s his biggest fundamental flaw, Incest feeling aside.

Not all of it is bad. Most of it, yeah, but not every part. On top of the intense sensory overload that no other human should ever have to experience are memories. His memories, obviously, because this is all happening inside his own head.

Kind of like his hypothesis about a fresh tape going, now it seems to be running it back. Right from the earliest memories his hippocampus held onto all the way up until now. A lot of it is awful, because most of his life was. Some of its good though. It feels like he’s dying making it nice to see everything one more time before its over.

Except when it ends, when all the emotions halt, nerves stop firing, memories run out, and the real ground slams into place- He wakes up in their bedroom, laying in bed half under a blanket.

His breathing is surprisingly level considering his mind was essentially a bird feather being blown through a hurricane for who knows how long. The room is quiet and dim with the only light coming from the lamp on the bedside table. Stan can’t bring himself to move, much less look away from the ceiling.

Keeping perfectly still does nothing to calm the nausea he’s experiencing and he wonders if Ford is in the room to keep him from choking on his own vomit or not. There isn’t the sound of rustling papers, pages turning in a book, or scribbling pens. He also can’t make out the sound of anyone breathing other then his own booming lungs.

That’s weird. Ford should be here, nearby, for when he wakes up, right? He’ll want to gloat about how the bracelets where dangerous and say ‘I told you so’ a million times and-

In the middle of that thought another one tumbles out into the open, one powerful enough to force himself upright to finally look at something worthwhile beyond the off overhead light.

This is real.

Not some illusion, not some drawn out end game torture method by Bill, and not heaven either. Or not the kind that comes after you die at least. Heaven on Earth, maybe, but not the kind he first thought it was.

Looking around the room, ignoring the urge to throw up, doesn’t reveal Ford anywhere nearby. The other bed is covered in one of those stands you’d used to eat in bed, several books, and piles of papers so that the space has been turned into a makeshift office up here. There’s a coaster on the bedside table, but its empty. Kitchen then.

Not only is looking around dizzying, but it also feels….Real. Like, before whatever that lizard did, everything was behind a static veil or maybe a couple inches further away then before so he couldn’t really see it right or feel it. The closest thing he’s experienced similar was disassociating while high. It’s not the same but close enough.

Sitting up took more energy than it should so he ends up leaning back against the headboard instead of standing like he wanted too. His head hurts, and he must close both eyes to avoid worsening it.

They’re really doing this.

Bill is dead and they’re free. The world didn’t end and he didn’t get himself killed despite the ample opportunities. Not only are they free, they’re safe.

A shake of his wrist, without looking, confirms that the bracelet is still there. It pulls a stuttered breath from him and its through shear force of will that destabilizing the equilibrium he has doesn’t send Stan into a sobbing fit.

All that hard work paid off.

It’s almost impossible to believe despite living it and reexperiencing it mere moments ago. Was it moments? Minutes? Hours? How long has he been asleep, exactly?

Forcing his eyes back open he’s able to check on their beside clock, making him blink. If it wasn’t for the AM symbol on the side next to the eleven-thirty he would have assumed it had been about twelve hours. It was almost a full day.

No wonder the other bed looks a mess of paperwork and Ford isn’t around. He must be making another pot of coffee or using the bathroom. What an idiot for staying awake this long. Has he learned nothing? It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Why would I?

Several long minutes later, when Ford hasn’t come back into the bedroom, Stan gathers the strength to get up out of bed. Bile wells up but he manages to swallow it back down. It’s while standing next to the bedside table that Stan notices a glass of water and some pain meds.

The momentum to leave the room gets lost and he ends up sitting on the edge of the bed instead. Ford has been nice since coming home. What the hell happened on the other side of that portal?

What did that other Stanley in dimension B say to convince Ford to stop being such a tight ass prick? His brother isn’t usually the kind to forgive and forget so easily considering he held a grudge for ten years one time. Taking the pills and drinking the whole glass allows a funny warm feeling to settle in his chest.

Head throbbing, chest warm, but otherwise feeling exhausted isn’t too bad. Could be worse, right?

Stanley tries again to get up and this time he manages to move away from the bed towards the door. He knows he’ll get scolded for moving around so soon after this, but he needs to find Ford. What kind of partner wanders off just before the love of their life wakes up from a coma?

Stumbling out into the hallway, and bumping into a wall, that thought makes him laugh a little in the otherwise quiet house.

First, he checks the bathroom, and uses it, before carrying on through the house in his unsteady search. The kitchen has a half-brewed pot of coffee inside but it’s the living room that Stanley finds the most interesting. It’s different.

Built into a wall where there used to be a closet is now a very large tank of water. The faint hum of electricity can be heard through the cabinet door outside the setup. It’s a fish tank and it's not empty.

Inside is another version of the lizard God they met. That’s weird enough, but it seems to have a weird light pink glow to it, especially when Stan moves his bracelet up to the glass near it. “What, did Ford find a way to keep you as a fucking pet or something?” Oh, that’s rich.

Almost die being friends with one God, kidnap and keep the next one!

Aren’t you supposed to run a tank like this for a while before putting a thing inside? Stan would open the closet its situated in to check out the equipment but doesn’t want to accidently release a God in case Ford really did capture it.

He falls into a giggle fit that requires him to sit down on the couch. The presents from the day before have been moved, somewhere, and from his spot Stan has a good eye on the water lizard. What did Ford call it? All the memories are here, finally, but the word is lost. The normal kind of lost, thank God.

At some point he must have drifted off because one moment he’s watching the thing swim around in the water and the next Ford is right in front of him, peeling his eyelid back to shine a flashlight into it. Stan has half a mind to punch him. It’s tempting.

It’s his brother’s appearance that stops him more then anything. Ford looks exhausted. His eye bags are back and he hasn’t showered either. He’s in the same clothes as the day before except covered in a light dusting of sawdust and ink along one sleeve.

Worst of all, Ford looks terrified. Okay, maybe just really worried, but still. That’s his fault, again. I really need to stop scaring him all the time.

“Stanley? Are you awake? Do you know what day it is or where you are?” Ford keeps his voice even while tucking the flashlight back inside his pocket.

He had expected Stan to be out for a while, several hours at least, but not this long. Every hour that passed only made his worry worse and made him dread the potential outcome. Would Stanley wake up screaming? Would he forget the last several weeks, all of the time from before the first use of the memory gun?

Gods should be required to take a course in specification before making deals with mortals.

Keeping busy and not just hovering around Stanley was the only thing he could do. Drinking coffee, working on papers, and when it became early enough, he reluctantly left the bedroom to go retrieve the Axolotl from the river.

It was exactly where he had released it, hanging around near some rocks, and hadn’t put up a fight being moved into a small tank for transport either. Frilliam had seemed almost happy to be back in captivity, swimming around and bumping into corners the whole walk back.

The pink glow it developed being transferred into its larger tank, bumping into Ford’s bracelet on the way into the water, only raised more questions. How did it survive the winter? It was awfully small and in unfamiliar environments in the creek. It should be dead, but it wasn’t?

Briefly the whole tank had glowed bright pink, blinding in the same way looking directly at the sun was, before fading away. A few quick tests indicated that the PH had been adjusted and the temperature perfected by the glow. The filtration system and heater set up inside the water seemed unnecessary in hindsight.

If this creature was being possessed by a God, why would it need much of anything other then a safe space? It might not need to eat either, but it wasn’t worth testing in case it died and their link to the God went with it, however unlikely that seemed.

The break was nice setting up the tank and forgetting about Stanley for a while.

Finding him in the living room, having somehow made it downstairs on his own, during a moment between installing the new windows was jarring.

He didn’t appear to have cried since waking up, or changed, or showered, anything really. Just made his way downstairs. Ford should have stayed in the room instead of selfishly distracting himself and-

“No, I’m asleep. Can’t you tell? Oh, and my name is Harold now.” Despite the look of horror it pulls onto Ford’s face Stan can’t help but fall into a fit of laughter, laying back on the couch to dodge Ford’s attempts to swat him over the shoulder.

“You aren’t funny Stanley! Be serious for once, will you?” Walking around the couch Ford sits on the edge of it, hovering as close as possible without being on top of Stan.

“I’m joking, Sixer. When are you going to learn how to take one? Yes, I’m Stanley Pines. More so then ever before.” Both of his hands are tucked away with his arms crossed. He has no reason to be nervous, but he is anyway. Nervous and still out of it. Dizzy too. With a headache.

Ford can’t stop trying to analyze him, looking him over despite not seeing any visible differences. “What’s the last thing you remember?” His voice feels small.

“I remember having a mental breakdown thinking I was dead because you loving me seemed like a fantasy. I remember you tricking a giant lizard into playing Jenga with my subconscious to fix my mess, if that’s what your worried about. And I remember-“

Stan’s word’s get interrupted by a surprised kiss and it makes him freeze for a second. They’ve kissed before, hundreds of times at this point, but now he knows its real. Those are really Ford’s slightly chapped coffee stained lips against his, not just some hallucination or trick.

Ford pulls away after a moment, leaving one hand resting on Stan’s shoulder when the other doesn’t respond to the kiss. An expression of awe and surprise decorated Stan’s features. “You remember that, don’t you?”

It takes a minute, or several, (who’s counting) before he can form a proper response. It’s ridiculous! It’s just a kiss for fucks sake! A kiss with Stanford Pines, he has to remind himself. “Oh yeah, I remember all of that. It just feels…Fuzzy? No, that’s not it. It’s clear, but far away. Like looking through glass with a glare?” None of that makes any sense.

Most of the tension relaxes out of Ford’s shoulders despite keeping a strong hold on Stan’s. “How do you feel? Any pain? You probably need to eat something, here-“

When Ford starts to get up Stan finally uncrosses his arms and uses one of them to grab Ford’s hand, pulling him back down into his spot. “Stop being a mother hen and just sit with me for a minute, will you?” Emboldened by something he pulls Ford further onto the couch to sit on his lap, back against his chest.

“My head is killing me, moving makes me feel like puking, and I’m exhausted. But otherwise, I’m fine, better then in fact.” It’s simple holding Ford against his chest in a hug but makes that warm feeling grow. It wouldn’t take much to fall asleep like this.

Hugging is getting Stanley covered in sawdust from where he’s been resizing and putting in the windows with a buzz saw for the last two hours, but Ford doesn’t object. They’ll both need to shower later anyway.

“You really should eat something with those pain meds though, or you’ll get acid reflux.” Ford insists after a minute of hugging Stanley back against his chest.

“No one finds a nag sexy Ford, shut up or tell me about how you managed to jar that lizard over there already.” To keep himself awake he looks over in the direction of the tank again.

“Oh, that’s not a God. At least I don’t think so? Before the portal accident Fids got me an Axolotl from somewhere, his name is Frilliam, but I disposed of him in the creek when…Bill didn’t like him.” Ford can appreciate the ability to hide his face against Stan’s chest.

“After you went to sleep in that other world, or whatever happened, I asked how we could get ahold of the Axolotl if necessary. It told me to go back to the creek and find my old pet, who I retrieved this morning. It’s amazing he survived the winter, much less long enough for me to collect him.”

Ford may be smart, but that story makes a lot more sense than his brother managing to trap a God without more then a pen and maybe a screwdriver in his pockets. “So, we have a pet now, a weird potentially immortal pet we’ll have to pass down to our grandchildren someday.”

Pulling back to look at Stanley he can’t help but scoff. “I hardly believe he’ll live that long. Axolotl’s live ten or fifteen years in captivity, max.”

Stan smiles, nice and wide, more at the argument then his own points. “Ford, he glows pink near our bracelets, he’ll live at least our lifespan. You wanna test it by putting him in a pot of boiling water?”

He blinks. Again. Mouth open, staring at Stanley like he’s lost his mind.

“I’m kidding! God, you really can’t take a joke, can you?” Sure, his sense of humor might have gotten a little more morbid in the last ten years, but its still not that different then it used to be. Still awful.

“You aren’t funny. Threatening to boil my pet, a God, isn’t funny Stanley!” Ford gives his hand a squeeze before pulling away to get up off the couch with a huff, marching out of the living room and into the kitchen.

“It’s a little funny!” He calls across the hall, chuckling to himself before getting up to follow. It goes about as well as the stairs did with him narrowly missing death about three times along the way from the couch into a kitchen chair. He has to lay down over both arms after finishing the journey.

Its endearing that Stanley followed him across the hall so Ford can’t bring himself to be mad. He would have happily brought the food into the living room, too late now. “I plan on running some tests on him and our bracelets at a later time, but neither of those things are my priority at the moment.”

Watching Ford put together a plate of leftover breakfast from the day before reminds him it’s been a full day since he’s eaten anything. “Hmm…You’ve got a boat to finish.”

“I was talking about you, Stanley. You appear to be sufficiently dazed and partly incapacitated rendering you in need of constant care. It’s a good thing I finished the third window before you woke up, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“Bah, you’ve done enough taking care of me.” Sitting upright is hard, but not impossible. Easy once accomplished. “Where’s that ‘I told you so’ I’ve been expecting? I wouldn’t even need help if I hadn’t been so stupid and-“

After setting down the plate Ford puts a hand over his mouth to shut Stan up. “I love you, Stanley. That’s what you do when you love someone, you take care of them. Later, after you’ve settled back into your skull, we can have a conversation about how reckless you were, but as it stands things seem to have worked out. You feel real now, right?”

Stan removes the hand, holding it on the table instead of letting go. Something as simple as hand holding makes it feel like a frog is stuck in his throat. “Yes. Unwell, but real.” Having Ford’s other hand cup his jaw almost stops both lungs from taking in air.

“Then I’m glad I was able to manipulate you for both of our benefits.” Given the poor reaction to the last kiss, he tried to give Stanley, he instead pulls him into a tight hug. It does an efficient job of hiding the few tears shed out of relief.

“Thank you, Stanford.” Hugging shouldn’t take this much work, but he still feels exhausted. More so since traversing much of the house in search of Ford. They stay like that until the microwave beeps, pulling them apart.

Another layer of guilt sheds itself pressed in against Stan’s neck. Now things are really perfect, or will be once Stan has recovered from another round of brain mashing. With Fids gone for the day they’ll be able to lay around in bed the rest of the afternoon and evening recovering.

“If I asked you a pretty big favor, could you do something for me?” Stan waits until Ford comes back with both plates to sit down before asking.

This will be Ford’s third plate of leftover breakfast since waking up in the kitchen yesterday, but he doesn’t complain. He should try learning to cook again, perhaps Stan could give him lessons? Without being prompted Ford cuts up Stan’s pancakes before switching their plates back, pausing. “What kind of favor?”

“I know you Stanford, and you aren’t the lovey dovey kind of guy. The gifts, the hovering, the sex, all of it. Granted, I’ve never seen how you act in love before, but that sketchbook seems more your style, and.” Talking and eating isn’t going to work, so Stan puts the fork down.

“My point is…stop doing stuff out of guilt and don’t give me that look either. Part of it is, I know it. Before I could ignore it but not anymore. I won’t stand for you being anything less then yourself with me. So. Cut the crap.”

This conversation is going to give him a headache, it seems ridiculous for Stanley to try and do this now. “You say that as though I couldn’t possibly want to do those things despite my own guilt, which I do. You can’t expect me to simply stop loving you, that would be a ridiculous favor to ask!”

“I ain’t saying that, boy you suck at listening. Just- Every time you want to do something for me, I’m asking you to stop and think about why. If the reason is to make yourself feel better and sooth your own ego by making me smile, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

Ford can’t help but frown looking across the table, stomping down his own frustration. He isn’t sure he could accurately tell, not all the time. Sex is easy, at least. That’s a mutually enjoyable experience, a rarity free of much thought beyond ‘Stan is hot’ and a lot of other synonyms.

He does want Stanley to be happy, but- “The gravity of what you did for me makes separating any genuine affection short of sex, which is already a mostly mindless act, almost impossible Stanley. I can’t just turn it off, as you’d like. It’s simply going to be there for an undeterminable amount of time.”

Figures it couldn’t be that easy. Nothing for them ever is. It pulls a quiet sigh from Stan, “Can you at least tone it down some then? Try some things out that make you happy to love me instead of it exclusively benefitting me?”

This is a very weird conversation. “That would be selfish of me, which I’ve since promised to stop doing. Last time it almost destroyed the universe and-“

Laughter cuts Ford off, “You wouldn’t be Stanford Pines if you weren’t at least a little selfish. God knows I do it all the damn time, just look around.” Both arms come up, making a general motion to the kitchen and house.

The thread is lost, food long forgotten, as he tries to follow it again. “What are you talking about? You’re the least selfish person I know.”

Now its Stan’s turn to blink at Ford like he’s lost it. “Did you invent a stupid pill and swallow it while I was sleeping or something? I paid off your mortgage, so I could guilt you into letting me live here with you. I deleted my memories so that I wouldn’t have to remember my shitty life instead of closing the portal like we were supposed to, risking Bill winning. I’m not perfect, far from it.”

No, that’s not what happened. Stanley paid off the mortgage for his benefit, hadn’t he? Even if this was the case, what about the savings account accruing interest? Stanley gave up part of the lottery winnings for him. Money. Something Stanley values above most other things, given away and-

“You were supposed to close the portal instead?” Now that was an insanely risky move, one that almost did destroy the whole universe. The up side was that Bill was dead, universe saved. Ford had never considered Stanley got something out of it beyond doing the right thing.

He had wanted to forget? “If you never wanted to remember, why did you prepare at all? Why make those tapes and journals and-“

“Because, like most things, the exception to my selfishness is you, Ford. On the big things, anyway.” Stan looks down at the table instead of across it. “My backup plan, if you threw me out, didn’t involve remembering.”

“I never would have done that Stanley, even if you hadn’t paid off my house or if you hadn’t lost your memory. I wanted you here, I missed you.” Reaching the short distance Ford entangles their fingers off to the side.

Damn it. Stan really thought he could get through this conversation, or maybe indefinitely moving forward, without crying. A few small ones slip out, but he ignores them. “Good to hear, Sixer. It’s good to be home.” He squeezes Ford’s hand, tightening the hold.

“You still haven’t agreed though. Think you could stand to be a little more selfish? Otherwise, it’s going to be weird dating a yes man all the time.” Stan has to bring some humor back into this conversation or it’ll kill him.

Logically he should say no but-

Huh.

Ford sits back in his chair, staring at Stanley from across the table for several silent minutes. It had mostly been a joke the other day in the basement, or thought it was, but this really was like a new form of worship. Losing himself in loving Stanley as he’d done with Bill.

That’s not healthy.

How healthy should an incestuous relationship be? Better then one with a demon, at least.

“If I agree, can we eat, shower, and get you back in bed? It’s a miracle you didn’t hurt yourself getting up unsupervised.” He’ll need to think about this and chew on it for a while, probably ask Stanley more questions about specifics as well, later.

With an eyeroll and a huff Stan pulls his hand away, picking his fork back up. “I suppose I could allow that, if you’ll stop acting like a fall down the stairs would kill me. I’m not that old yet!”

Chapter 60: Night Sprite

“Come on Fordsey! You know this one, don’t make me repeat myself or I’ll break two for the price of one!” Bill’s laughter fills the room from where he’s sitting in a chair casually sipping tea as if Ford hasn’t had 96 out of 208 bones in his body broken.

This is by far one of the least amusing games Bill has come up with. Usually, it’s simply a steady stream of torture clearly preplanned and orchestrated without him even being present. Ford isn’t that lucky today.

Trivia questions should not be the deciding factor on if another bone is shattered to pieces. Maybe the next one will his skull, ending this stupid-

Another painful shock runs through the chains still in place around his wrists, ankles, and neck. It doesn’t make sense that he hasn’t gotten used to it by now, but nothing does here. Once again, he throws up from pain onto the floor, spit dribbling down across his chest in an effort to catch his breath once it's over.

“I don’t know what 1982 film starred Arnold Schwarzenegger! How should I know, I hardly had time to keep up with modern films!” It’s a stupid question, like most of them. He’s sure Bill is making them impossible on purpose solely for the joy of hurting him.

Bill sighs over what has to be his third cup of tea, “The answer is Conan the Barbarian! You saw it on a movie poster out grocery shopping on December 30^th, 1981. It hardly matters that it only released a few weeks ago in your dimension.”

“Wait-“ That is the closest this whole time he’s been to having some idea of what time it is or what day since falling through the portal. It’s taken away by the snap of a finger and another broken bone, the sixth phalange on his right finger this time.

In comparison to the five ribs and four vertebras that have been shattered below the skin it shouldn’t matter but it still pulls a loud yell that he cuts off by biting into his tongue, again. Blood is a constant taste here, more frequent than water.

“Next! What music artist divorced Sean Penn in 1989?”

This is only a pinch less humiliating, albeit more painful, than being forced to have a tooth pulled out with every wrong move in chess. Since arriving he hasn’t seen anything close to a win. It was stupid, in retrospect, to think he was actually beating Bill at chess all this time. Playing against an equal for fucks sake, how-

“Sean Penn, Fordsey! Focus here. Unless you want another bath?”

Who even is that? An actor? Probably, that and music seems to be the name of this terrible game. How does Bill expect him to predict something like that in the future? Without knowing who the guy is there are to many variables on top of the amount of pain he’s in.

He doesn’t, however, want another bath.

During one of the various dimensions he’d spent with Stanley the death of choice had been drowning in a river, after a lot of waterboarding. It didn’t instill much of a fear in swimming, though he was never a fan to begin with, but it has on several occasions caused panic attacks. Specifically, around Bill.

The feeling of drowning and being electrocuted simultaneously is not a repeatable experience.

“How the hell should I know? Is it Bonnie Tyler?” Fresh pain down the upper thigh of his right leg comes next, signaling the shattering of the femur. It’s worse having Bill go one bone at a time, little by little, allowing time for him to adjust to each new level of pain only for it to get worse after each impossible question.

“No, no, she dies before Robert at 78! They live happily ever after. The answer I was looking for was Madonna!” An unfamiliar tune begins playing from the walls nearby without any visible speakers. “You know, that’s one thing I’m going to miss about Earth, you humans are really good at making music! Could a few more subliminal messages and a little more mind control, but no one’s perfect!”

Ford is left to ruminate in this pain for a lot longer than usual, the length of a song known as ‘Material Girl’ by a singer that will never see the light of day. Her rise to stardom must occur later in the decade, something he’ll never see.

Its beginning to look like he’ll never see the outside of this room in this life.

When he can finally manage to raise his head again it’s unsurprising to find Bill has moved from his chair over in front of him. It still causes Ford to flinch.

“You know this doesn’t have to be so hard, it could be like old time with a little karaoke? You just have to say the magic word Sixer! I’ll even let you pick the song, it’ll be fun!”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what happens if he says no. He’ll probably be getting another bath, no matter how much he cooperates with these ridiculous games. This, however, is not something he’s willing to tolerate. They aren’t friends here. Not anymore.

Bill is a kidnapper, more or less, and him a prisoner forced to be here against his will. Being kept until the portal is done and then…. He rarely has time to think about what happens next. Better not to.

“Fun? Says the guy who thinks torture is the angle to win me back! There isn’t a fat chance in Hell I’ll-“

All at once the remaining 110 bones all shatter at once.

Because of the optical bones this obscures his vision, causing more blood to be added to the mix. It blocks his airway, mangling his ruined jaw and-

Essentially, it feels like being turned into a pile of mush comprised of ground up bones, blood, skin, and organs.

 

 

Ford wakes up covered in sweat, thrumming with fantom pains all over while throwing himself up out of bed and onto both feet. The feeling of chains, electricity, and overwhelming pain makes breathing impossible.

Chest tight, air coming too fast and too slow at once, he stumbles back against to the nearby wall unable to see their bedroom. Eyes open is the only tactic he has to calm down, to avoid seeing Bill again behind his lids.

Running both hands back across the wall, feeling the paint next to the window, helps with grounding himself. Smooth plaster with a nice layer of paint. Not bricks.

His mouth doesn’t taste like blood either. Remnants of toothpaste and mouthwash remained, mixed with the beginning of morning breath. It’s gross, but not bad.

The need to blink wins out, finally allowing tears to fall down both cheeks with a broken sob. Falling down against the wall, leaning over both knees, he loses it. That wasn’t even close to the worst dreams he’d had, reliving memories since the surgery in the basement, but still awful.

All of its awful.

It wasn’t a memory of the bath or chess. That counts for something.

Down on the floor he can use both hands to feel the hardwood floor and his own clothes. The rug. His pajama pants, a nightshirt, socks. A far cry from what he wore in the nightmare realm.

Using an exercise from one of the books Stan insisted he read about panic attacks manages to calm his breathing down into longer gasps instead of broken hiccups between sobs. Later, when he’s more coherent, Ford will remind himself to thank him for the push.

The thought of Stanley draws him out of these things faster than any other grounding technic and pulls his gaze up from the floor towards their beds. Both are empty. Where is he?

On two unsteady feet Ford forces himself up, his breathing calming further, to head out of their bedroom. Fresh panic rises the longer Stanley is out of sight. What could he be out of bed for? The bathroom? A drink of water? Did he have his own nightmare and retreat to the kitchen to call Pops again?

Those nights are the worst. Waking up, bed empty, to find Stanley asleep downstairs on the couch with the dead phone in hand.

Despite having repaired that relationship, as much as you can in a week, Ford can’t help but get angry over Stanley finding shelter through sharing with their father. It’s compulsive, obsessive, to want their trauma to remain between them. It also goes against that deal Stan made with Filbrick. There isn’t any wining with himself.

After checking the bathroom, empty, he pulls on a robe and heads downstairs to look for Lee. The kitchen is empty too, without so much as a glass in the sink from having a drink. It’s a common trend after nights on the phone with Pops. Ford sees no reason to say anything as long as it doesn’t escalate into day drinking or going through liquor concerningly fast.

One or two drinks a couple times a week isn’t going to kill Stanley.

The living room is empty too and he’s practically running through the house searching various rooms. First floor, empty. Second floor, empty. The attic is also empty, but that’s where he spots Stanley from. Outside, in the yard out back, someone is standing near the firepit they used for their birthday with a small fire going inside it.

This time of night, quarter past two in the morning, it couldn’t be anyone else having the urge to start a campfire out back. Running through the house Ford forgets the need for shoes, bolting off the porch and out back before stumbling to a stop near him.

He’s still dressed in pajamas too with a pair of pants hanging over each hip but nothing else despite the slight chill of the night. The dew in the grass hasn’t settled and won’t for hours, but the ground is cold too from the recent rain. “What on Earth are you doing out here?”

Without waiting for an answer Ford closes the remaining distance, to out of it to notice the look of surprise the hug around Stan’s waist causes.

Ford isn’t supposed to be awake, supposed to see this. Over on the ground near the fire is the empty black box that was his backup plan. Almost all of it has gone into the fire except for the two big yellow envelopes. Damn it.

“Hey, it’s alright. You have another nightmare?” Wrapping Ford up in a hug is easy, running a hand across his back to soothe the new round of sobs that follow.

How is he supposed to hide this crap while Ford is here? Fresh out of the nightmare realm is not a good time to be discussing the negative box, or at all. The best option is to grab the last two things and dump them in the fire before Ford can ask. After he stops crying.

He’s barely had two hours to adjust since waking up earlier. It’s weird existing after being fought against so completely for months and months. If it wasn’t for the Axolotl, he wouldn’t be here at all and- Focus!

It’s hard to keep his mind trained on Ford but he tries. Returning the hug, rubbing his back, stroking his hair. Just being here until he calms down again. “Sorry I wasn’t in bed but I’m right here now. Your okay, at home with me. Not there.”

It does the trick of calming him down, like usual. Nightmares about the other realm are the half not involving Stanley, making him the best comfort when coming back. Feeling Stan, breathing in his scent, and being held remind him of reality instead of the awful past.

All and all, tonight wasn’t too bad. Could have been worse, nobody got punched this time.

Once he’s calmed down Ford pulls back to look at Stanley in the light of the fire. Whatever woke him up doesn’t look like a nightmare. No redness in his face or strained slapped on smiles around his mouth either. He just looks….uneasy? A little worried maybe?

“Stanley, what are you doing up this late if you didn’t have a nightmare.” For the first time since coming outside he really looks over at the fire and the grass around them, frown deepening seeing the box.

Why does Ford have to be so observant? It’s as much of a blessing as it is a curse for his twin. Triplet? What is the term for a third party of a trio where two of the people reside in the same vessel? No, still twins. One of them just has a split personality disorder now. Kinda.

Before Ford can pull away to look at what’s inside the box Stan tightens the hug, pulling him close again with a sigh. “Something you were never supposed to see. That,” He says motioning to the box, “is the negative box. It’s my plan for if you threw me out after I lost my memory. I didn’t have time to destroy it until now.”

Ford was supposed to stay asleep through the time it would take to burn the tapes and papers.

It can’t have been more than ten minutes since waking up out of the nightmare which certainly isn’t enough time to gain all his normal faculties again. It doesn’t seem like it, given how ridiculous that sounds. “You’ve had three weeks and you’re only just burning it now?” Some anger leaks into his voice, taking half a step back.

“For that first week, our parents were here and after that, I was under the impression this wasn’t real. Why waste time I could be sleeping with you to burn something going up in smoke anyway? I’ve really only had three days of solid mental clarity, during which you barely let me out of bed during the first two. Hence-“ He makes a general motion towards the fire, letting out an exasperated sigh.

The intention wasn’t to get Stan in trouble with Ford, quite the opposite in fact. Better to burn it now than have someone stumble across it later. That would be terrible.

The anger is short lived because logically it does make sense. Still hurts to think about. For the last three weeks a plan for an awful world was sitting somewhere inside their house. It’s nauseating….but he’s also curious.

“I might regret asking, but what was it? You didn’t plan on remembering everything if I refused, so what else did that leave you?” Stepping back in, not looking at the box, Ford goes back to being pressed against Stan’s chest in the hug.

It wouldn’t be difficult to lie about the truth usually, if he was Stanley. However, lying is not a skill Ford possesses, meaning he isn’t very good at it either. Drat. “I outlined a loose business plan related for a mechanic shop I would have started up in Seattle as a cover for a long-term goal of building an interplanetary spaceship.”

Maybe Ford should stay leaning back far enough to look at Stanley from now on to avoid getting whiplash with every new development throughout the conversation. “You planned on building a spaceship. To leave Earth, if I threw you out.” It sounds ridiculous, but Stanley isn’t laughing.

Why isn’t he laughing? This is exactly the kind of thing he’d used to make a joke and ease the tension. That’s not what’s happening here.

“More or less, yes. Ideally, I would have met and settled with a partner to bring with me on the adventure to avoid going mad. There have to be aliens out there, but I wouldn’t know until I left and it doesn’t take much isolation to accomplish such a feat.”

This time when Ford pulls away, taking several steps back, Stan goes over to the box to pick up the last two envelopes and drop them into the small fire. It roars upwards with new life, burning the paper leaving only the hot metal tabs the longer they are submerged.

The panic of earlier from finding the bed empty, Stanley missing, is creeping back into his chest. He can’t place what exactly, but something is very wrong at the moment. Stan hasn’t made a single joke and his words are slightly off. They’re pointed and lacking the usual cushion he’d use for this conversation.

“If yellows the color of Christmas, then what’s the color of July Forth?” They’d come up with this other day in bed over further discuss of that other dimension. It’s a trick that would work for anything, except someone from there. Could that be what this is? No, definitely not, but maybe-

Not Stan can only sigh, tearing up the black box with both hands and added the cardboard to the fire while being careful not to burn himself. “I assume that’s code of some sort? A way to identify a body snatcher? Must have come up with that after the Axolotl messed around in my head, because I don’t know the right answer. Do me a favor and don’t freak-“

How did Stanley stay so calm in dimension B? His partner of a decade, and brother, just disappeared one afternoon but he had treated it like any other day, at least at first. No threats to kill him, or even asked for Ford to get out of the body. Not even ‘Where is the real Ford’ despite it being a genuine possibility a shapeshifter or changeling could have kidnapped him or something!

He is not as calm as Stan was and feels like throwing something at whatever this is. How didn’t he see it until now? The stance is wrong, his face is too guarded, and his eyes look funny too. Not dead, but not as expressive either. Muted. Too bad he’s not wearing shoes. The only nearby weapon is the firepit which he can’t use in case this is Stan’s body. Fuck!

Later they’ll need to come up with better protocols for this kind of thing. When did it happen? They were asleep just a few hours ago!

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in Stanley’s body.” His voice is mostly level but with an edge of anger overpowering the anxiety and fear clouding his chest.

This is a literal nightmare. One he can’t wake up from to fix.

He holds up both hands and purposefully stays on the other side of the fire. Ford probably won’t hurt him, but it's better to be safe. Building a good relationship with the guy’s body your borrowing doesn’t start with third-degree burns.

“That’s a good question, but I think all of this will go over easier if we head inside for me to explain my running theory, before I say anything else. You’ve had quite a night and I don’t want to upset you anymore then-“

“If you didn’t want to upset me then why the hell are you here! Who are you and why don’t you just go away then because I don’t want you here?! I want Stanley!” He’s almost screaming now with his words echoing out into the nearby woods.

Things feel like it’s about to get violent, very quickly. Before the cardboard has fully burned, he goes over to grab a nearby bucket to put out the fire with before heading back towards the front of the house to go inside. Nothing else gets said, because until he explains nothing else will calm Ford down. This isn’t exactly how he wanted their introductions to go.

Ford has no choice but to follow Not Stan inside through the house and down into the lab level. It finds a whiteboard that’s empty and props it up on the stand before grabbing a marker. How does this thing know its way around the house? Maybe it is another Stanley from a different dimension, but that would mean Bill. No, that’s impossible. They’re safe, more so than ever, because of their bracelets. Stanley’s body is still wearing his, so-

“Alright, I’m going to fill you in on my running theory but keep in mind I mean neither of you any harm. I think you should sit down for this in case it makes you lightheaded, we don’t want-Put that down! Do you plan on accidentally killing Stanley!”

In the time it took him to set up the whiteboard Ford had found a laser gun and now has it currently aimed at this thing’s chest. It has a good point, but Ford doesn’t put down the gun either. “Talk already!”

Ford is lucky working under pressure is one of the traits that carried over. So did the ability to sneer though, so he does so now despite it visibly making Ford hold the gun tighter. “Fine! It’s our funeral, you idiot!”

Not Stan turns back to the whiteboard, muttering to himself, while drawing a few things and writing some stuff down across the top half of it. It’s annoying that the gun is still there when he turns back around.

“You remember that running gag about Bill trying to make Stanley into you? That included changing fundamental parts of who he was as well as adding some stuff. Your grammar rules, eccentricities, habits. Those got mixed in and without completely removing the original framework it didn’t do what Bill wanted. All it did was drive Stanley mad.”

“Why do you think he first started using the memory gun to manage? Bill would slot something in and Stanley would delete it as soon as he recognized the shift. It was very difficult to live through and I doubt he’d ever tell you this. It’s wasn’t relevant until now and-“

Ford finally lowers the gun a little, aiming it at Not Stan’s leg instead, while frowning. “Your talking like you remember that, like your him with his memories and-“

“I’m getting to that!” Not Stan yells, huffing and glaring Ford’s way briefly before shaking it off his face with a sigh. “Just listen, we’ll get there. A few days ago, the Axolotl rearranged everything and patched stuff up how it should be, right? You got to watch? At any point did it separate a part of his consciousness into a different area? It would have been a visual, something you could comprehend as physical matter being moved. A separate room? Garage off the house? Bunker-“

“It was a hedge maze. The larger one and a separate much smaller area off behind a pink barrier.” Ford is starting to have an idea of what and who this person is and-

He puts down the gun on the lab table and grabs a chair to sit down in as suggested earlier.

“See! I knew it! Brilliant. You know, that God still could have ulterior motives, but this really is fascinating! I mean, seriously, how does it work? Is this something we could detangle from Stan’s head to allow me my own body or-“

This must be what it's like watching him have a breakthrough for Stanley with the rambling and the enjoying something arguably terrible. No wonder he tunes it out. Ford tries to pay attention now, snapping his fingers as Stan does sometimes to get him back to the point.

It works, pulling Not Stan back away from the whiteboard he’d started to write on to drag a chair over to sit with Ford. He keeps some distance between them for Ford’s sake. “Right, yes. Sorry, I’m getting a little ahead of myself being optimistic. Essentially, based off what I know and what you’ve told me, I’m a split personality of sorts. Kinda. It’s admittedly more complicated than that.”

He brings up a hand to rub at the back of his neck and then moves it to fix glasses that Stan isn’t wearing. The hand falls awkwardly back into his lap, fidgeting. “I’m a collection of everything Bill gave Stanley trying to make him into you. Knowledge, traits, and habits. But I also have access to all of Stanley’s previous memories from up until the Axolotl split me off. I know who you are, who Stan is, and putting the rest together was just logical. What else could I be? I don’t have a large enough sense of self without Stanley’s subconscious filling in the gaps of what Bill didn’t try and replace which-“

Do I really talk this much? How is it possible Stanley doesn’t find me annoying for going on like this all the time? Maybe he does but loves me enough not to say anything.

The entire rant, however helpful it is, leaves him sort of stunned.

‘Separate it in a unique way’

By splitting off a weird mixed version of Stanley and myself into…what?

Someone who can only come around at night while Stan is asleep? What’s the point of that? Why give it a consciousness at all instead of locking this stuff up in a box?

And yet. It is interesting. How does it work? Will this happen every time Stanley is asleep? Is it only on specific days? Is it in correlation to the type of dream he’s having?

Ford takes a moment to get hung up on the irony of the God once again not explaining itself properly, which makes this a little funny, before continuing past it.

“So, you have access to all that information from those binders? You’re the person who made that bionic eye and dream gun?” The idea of building a spaceship to get off Earth doesn’t sound as farfetched now having realized who he’s sitting with. Much of the fear melts away, pooling closer to intrigue.

For the first time in the two hours Not Stan has been alive he wears a wide Stanley grin. “That I am, pretty neat, wasn’t it? I know the eye was unnecessary and all but you can’t claim it wasn’t cool as hell. And that dream gun? It drove me nuts for weeks! You two really should have kept better records on the early days of the memory gun!”

Moving his chair a little closer to where Stanley is sitting, Ford peers over at the whiteboards handwriting. It’s impossible to read.

Reading the notes on the bionic eye Ford had gotten used to reading his brother's handwriting. This, isn’t.

It is messy, beyond reading like Stan’s usually is, but in addition, it also seems to be written in cursive making it seriously difficult to make out. “I hope you weren’t expecting me to understand that. You should work on your penmanship.”

Turning away from Ford in the spiny chair Not Stan looks back at the board. “Ahh, no. I was merely writing out some tests I’m going to need to run to determine the cause of my appearance. This is the third night since the Axolotl which makes it seem unlikely I’ll be around every night. Perhaps it only occurs due to a specific rhythm of REM sleep? It will require further testing and the cataloging of data to find the cause.”

Now is really not the time for him to be enjoying Stanley rattling off science jargon. None of this is even anything particularly scientific! Just some tests, which they haven’t discussed the specifics of! This isn’t Stanley. Technically this is some weird third person made up by select parts of them both caused by two different Gods medaling in his head. Just typical!

“Before I woke up what exactly was your plan then?” Not Stan seems a bit distracted. Perhaps this guy has Stan’s face and voice, but the reaction is still wrong.

Would something like this count as an affair? Probably, it is a separate being of sorts. Even if it still acts like Stanley sometimes.

“I was hoping to put together something to take some brain scans or at least draw up the plans for it and hide them in Stan’s bedroom. Then I was going to leave an admittedly ominous letter trying to explain my situation to both of you on the nightstand. This is better, in a way, because you can convince him I’m real.” A rambling letter in barely readable handwriting might not have gone over well.

“I was being optimistic earlier suggesting separating myself. If I’m comprised of the pieces I believe from both of you I highly doubt I could accomplish it without putting Stanley at risk. Obviously, I wouldn’t do that to him, myself, and certainly not you. It would be easier to work out a living arrangement or all-around solution for you two.”

This is the not-fun part of what Not Stan has hypothesized already. He will not get emotional or try to trick Ford when what he’s about to say makes sense, like everything else.

“When I’m not awake, its essentially like I don’t exist. If I don’t have access to Stanley’s waking memories since the split, he won’t have mine. In the long term, if we can’t find a solution to separate me, I assume you’ll both want to suffocate me. Ugly words, but you get my point.”

“Depending on the trigger I might hinder Stanley’s sleep patterns or generally make him more exhausted the following days. This could be a nightly thing, weekly, or every other month. Who knows. Either way, I’m the odd one out here and-“

This train of thought isn’t the kind of idea either of them would have. Stanley would never bring up the idea of hiding his own consciousness for the benefit- Or maybe he would.

Whoever this is, they’ll need to come up with a name, seems to be significantly more Stanley. They share the same memories with some added input from Bill thrown into the mix as structure. Does that mean the emotions are felt as well? The same love?

These feel like philosophical questions that Ford just can’t answer. He doesn’t actually want to know, because it will complicate things further. How much information should he gather now before talking with Stanley?

“Would you shut up? We aren’t killing you or putting you in hibernation barely one evening into your existence. Stanley and I will need to discuss this, but your as much him as awake Stanley, just more annoying. That’s the me part, I assume?” It’s weird being the one having to make a joke to break the tension.

Not Stan looks at Ford for a long minute, trying to determine if he did somehow trick Ford into letting him live. Perhaps he can’t lie but deception of all kinds aren’t off the table after all. Except he doesn’t want to trick Ford.

He manages a feeble chuckle without any real heart in it. “I suppose it could be, though I don’t think you're annoying. Most of the time anyway. You are definitely capable of being a massive dick though. This is not one of those times.”

“Ugh, don’t say backward compliments like that. You are starting to sound like Dad. Actually, we should probably come up with a name for you other than ‘Not Stan’ at some point. Do you have one in mind?”

This is perhaps the only thing he hadn’t considered since waking up in bed. It’s very simple but also very complicated. He can’t steal anything that Stanley would want for a potential kid's name in the future because that would ruin it. Especially if they are stuck together for a long time.

He does have access to the list of names Stanley has used in the past for his cons across the country, but none of those really fit either. Stanley fits this guy’s face and from his perspective feels the least weird to be referred to as.

“I would need more time to think about it to come up with something fitting while also being entirely new.” Too bad he doesn’t have a reference for what kinds of names Ford would pick for a kid. Maybe he’d be able to combine one from each to make something interesting and unique while fitting good enough. That’s what his name has to be, good enough.

Who said it had to be new? The longer Ford talks with this weird mixed version of them the odder things get. Both of them have a spine which means this guy should too, right? “Sorry if this is a personal question, but is there a reason you’re not being more abrasive? What all did Bill do to Stanley, or try to do?” Getting answers from this guy, for the sake of science, might be the only way he ever finds out the worst of it.

Getting back up from his chair Not Stan goes back to the whiteboard and starts making a new list down in the bottom right, trying to make his handwriting neater. “I’m afraid one of the attempted changes to Stanley was making him more pliable. That’s the kind of thing Bill was experimenting with, among other things. I don't think he wanted to ruin it for Stanley specifically, Bill enjoyed those fights. Maybe he was testing it on me before implementing it on you, or something. I assume the Axolotl let it remain because it makes me less dangerous. Easier to live as an extra if you don’t have any fight to put up.”

It's heartbreaking to learn that Bill had attempted to change such a fundamental building block of who Stanley is. Thank God it didn’t work. That Bill scrapped the idea for both of them, inevitably. The list being written on the whiteboard is rather long so Ford gets out of the chair to go look. At least it’s a little easier to read.

‘Lack of spine, advanced knowledge, natural crafting skills, grammar, inability to lie and possibly cons in general, pen clicking, hand wringing, Ford’s posture, rambling speech?’

“I’m sure I can come up with more for the list but it's surprisingly difficult to pin things down.” After writing the list Not Stan sits back down in his chair, rubbing the space between both eyes. It’s a lot to process a new existence, however interesting, in such a short amount of time.

Looking away from the list back towards Stan it's clear this new person is tired. He didn’t ask to exist. It was the Axolotl that created him against all of their wishes. Perhaps they could get ahold of it upstairs? Unlikely it would consider something it planned to be a problem worth an appointment. They’re only supposed to reach out in an emergency.

All things considered. This isn’t.

Weird, for sure, and confusing, but not necessarily bad. This being has all of Stan’s memories up to a recent point and cares for them as Stanley would, meaning they’re safe from potential harm. The Axolotl was thorough on that front. It’s sad seeing any version of Stanley look so….unsure. And scared.

Worry of being hurt is long gone by now so Ford moves over to stand near Not Stan, putting a hand on his shoulder while trying not to startle him. “We’ll figure this out, just relax for a minute. We aren’t going to kill you. I doubt we could and I don’t want to at any rate.”

He hadn’t realized his shoulders were so tense until after Ford had placed a hand there, highlighting how worried he’d gotten in the ten minutes since being interrupted outside. Apparently, he’s a worrier on top of everything else. How can’t he be? This is a very difficult problem and one that hinders his ability to exist as well which-

“How about LeeFord for a name? It’s something familiar but a little different. A namesake from two out of your four parents, huh?” That’s what this is, a kid. Sure, he has a lifetime of memories like Stanley but without his own independent experiences, it doesn’t come with a real personality. That takes time to develop.

Their life is so weird.

Not Stan startles some at the name suggestion but considers it while looking down at his bracelet and fidgeting with it some. It’s extra colorful right now compared to how it looked when first taken out of the box. Does the Axolotl provide some sort of power to keep him separate and existing? What if it stopped, what would-

He shakes his head, looking back up at Ford whose gaze is focused on the whiteboard. Watching him mutter to himself produces a small chuckle, “I suppose that could work. I like it.” It’s better than any of the other names he’s thought of. “Though it's weird to think I’m basically a demigod by those rules. Strung together by Bill inside a mortal body and patched into a semi-formed consciousness by another.”

This is all too much. LeeFord gets up out of his chair to head back towards the elevator, waiting for Ford to follow. “Stanford, you should head back to bed. I hardly do my best work being watched and Stanley will not be happy about you staying up all night, again.”

All his staring at the whiteboard hasn’t made the messy cursive any easier to read. He’ll need to work on getting familiar with it later. Turning back towards the elevator door Ford frowns, “I hardly think he’d be upset about me babysitting someone inside his body until morning.” Why does this guy look so uneasy around him? That’s not like Stanley at all.

Other then threatening to kill him before the explanation he hasn’t done anything threatening. The opposite, in fact. Ford has been trying to soothe LeeFord but perhaps he will always have a feeling of uneasy because of how he was created? Impossible to say yet.

“Fine, then I’m going back to bed. You still haven’t looked at the binders and any work I’d like to get started on would go against those wishes.” Without waiting for a response from Ford he turns and walks into the elevator, pressing the button to close the door to head upstairs.

By the time Ford has crossed the lab to follow LeeFord upstairs the doors to the elevator have closed, leaving him to quickly take the stairs up to the first floor to keep up. He still falls behind, making his way up to their bedroom just in time to watch a blanket be pulled over Stan’s body in his bed.

Ford is at a loss trying to understand the sudden shift towards avoiding him by going back to sleep. Will that work? Hesitantly, he sits on the edge of the bed. “LeeFord, you don’t have to go to bed. If you’d rather not work on a project, we do have several televisions you could watch. Why….what did I do to upset you?” Stanley is the one good with kids, not him.

He doesn’t turn Ford’s way and instead says mostly hidden under the blanket with his eyes closed. “I want to be alone to process my existence after attempting to be destroyed for months and you simply aren’t letting me because on a subconscious level you still view me as a threat. That’s understandable, given everything. It still frustrates me and the most reasonable way to deal with it is by going to bed.”

The barely held together voice is not lost to Ford and makes him feel worse and confused. That’s Stan’s voice, but this isn’t him. It’s someone else, mostly him, on the verge of crying. And, that’s his fault in part, somehow. “How about you go grab some notebooks out of the lab and get set up in Stan’s room? I could lock you in there for the night and then we can both be happy. I’ll know you aren’t going anywhere and you can be alone.”

It isn’t free rein of the lab or house by any means, but its better then being watched like a hawk the rest of the evening while trying to work or read. This is just the first night and things are going to be weird today. That’s all this is. It’ll get easier next time after they’ve established a system and everyone is convinced he isn’t going to cause harm.

“Fine, alright…” Pushing the blankets off he sits up, flinching against coming face to face with Ford and almost falling out of bed trying to shift back. He wasn’t expecting Ford to be so close. “Don’t do that. It’s difficult enough loving you but being unable to do anything about it as a separate entity from my memories.”

Just like the rush upstairs LeeFord gets up and rushes back out of the room back down to the lab to gather some things before Ford can respond.

The Axolotl couldn’t have left LeeFord with nothing because that would have caused too much confusion, but is it much better being fully aware of everything, feeling everything, while being aware he’s the wrong guy? He’s Stanley, but not. Different and separate. No wonder he’s so jumpy and trying to self-isolate.

It must be something Bill tried to plant in Stanley’s head now showing up in this other consciousness. Even in death, the demon continues to find ways to haunt them. Stupid Gods.

While waiting for him to come back Ford finds the key to Stanley’s bedroom and makes sure to grab the radio off of the bedside charger so he can be contacted through methods other than yelling.

LeeFord comes back upstairs with a small box of various notebooks from a closet, pens, and some sticky notes as well which he brings into the bedroom to get set up on the floor near the TV in the room. He hardly pays Ford any attention when he comes across the hall into the room. You can’t feel things if you get lost in math equations.

Ford is still worried and a bit surprised at the number of notebooks in the box. How many are left downstairs? But he doesn’t comment for now. They’ll have to buy more later, if he even goes through all of those. When Stan is destressed the best thing to do is stay with him, but the opposite seems to be the case here. That doesn’t make it easy.

“Here is a radio if you need me across the hall….see you later? Next time we manage to replicate the exact conditions wake me up if I’m sleeping.” He hovers behind one of the chairs watching Not Stan turn on the TV on a low volume before starting to scribble away on one of the pages with little more than a wave.

After walking out of the room and locking the door Ford remains standing in the hallway for a long time.

This person has all of Stanley’s memories up until a few days ago. All the trauma and emotions that goes with that. But parts of what makes Stan himself are cut out with new pieces from a different puzzle slotted into place. Pieces of Ford, or what Bill thought was him. And, new stuff too. Like the lack of drive.

Maybe that was something the Axolotl added to keep him from being a problem because clearly LeeFord isn’t. Not a dangerous one at least, only a morally complicated one. He doesn’t have any ill intentions and mostly seems to just want to exist. A normal desire for any living being.

He goes back to bed but leaves the hallway door open so he can keep an eye on the bedroom across the hall. No way is he getting to sleep anytime soon.

Chapter 61: Negotiations

In bed is hardly the weirdest place Stanley has ever woken up. Not even close to the worst, but something is still clearly wrong from the moment he opened both eyes.

Instead of laying in one of the two beds in their bedroom, he’s across the hall in what is basically a glorified closet/storage room for his crap that just so happens to have a bed inside. His cheeks are also wet with tears like he finished crying shortly before waking up. Did he have a nightmare?

But no, that’s not the case. Because not only is his face tear stained but he’s also been tucked into bed! The blankets around him all nudged in against both sides and only his arms free without screwing it up.

Subtracting the horror of being possessed by Bill, this is what it feels like to wake up from one of those nights. Somewhere weird with his body and environment just out of whack enough to be noticeable.

Was he possessed last night?

Laying in bed, tucked in, staring up at the ceiling in the early morning light from the window Stan chews on that idea. No. It’s more likely he developed the habit of sleepwalking, isn’t it?

Although. Just a few days ago they did let another God into his head. It’s not that far-fetched that it had alter motives somehow. At least nothing is damaged, right? It only takes a minute to shift around, undoing the tucking job of the blankets, to confirm he’s fine.

A worse thought occurs to him.

What about Ford? Is he okay?

Stan clumsily gets up and finds that his hand hurts. What, was he jerking off in his sleep? No, there’s ink on his hand like he was using a pen. The ache is caused from writing cramps. He forgets about that for now and heads over to the door, trying it only to find its locked.

Instead of pounding on the door he makes quick work of picking the lock instead using his kit from the drawer. It’s annoying, because his hand hurts, but after a minute he gets it open. “Stanford!” He ducks across into their bedroom and is relieved to find him laid out on their bed.

The shout of his name startles him more than seeing Stanley does. The door was locked, how did he-

Right. Stanley can pick locks. Hmm. LeeFord made the choice to stay inside the bedroom then, for his peace of mind. Despite this being a very weird situation to find themselves in Ford is going to stand by the fact that it's not bad. It could be much worse.

A lot of the worry about Ford being injured or killed while he was asleep disappeared seeing him sat up on the bed. “Christ Sixer, what the hell happened for me to end up across the hall?” Now that he’s allowed Stan detests waking up alone. There has been too much of that before now in his life.

“He didn’t leave you a letter then.” Sitting up Ford shifts over some so Stanley can join him sitting on the bed. “Figures another version of you would make this as complicated as possible.” It's comforting to be pulled over onto Stan’s lap into a tight hug. He doesn’t need to say their phrase to know this is the right man.

An annoyed groan gets let out from where Stan has situated himself against the headboard just far enough back to see Ford. “Letter?” He hadn’t bothered looking around the room in detail but nothing had seemed out of place at a glance. “Another me? You should really get talking. Situations like that make me feel like I was possessed again.”

At some point, Ford had fallen asleep without coming up with a good way to break this news to Stanley. Best to just get it over with. “I suppose in a way it's like you were. When the Axolotl was patching up your mindscape it had to put all the changes Bill tried to make somewhere. The information and traits he was trying to integrate into your head?”

Ford can’t help scowling a little, “The stuff you apparently kept deleting with the memory gun, that ring a bell?” Stanley is very lucky that a God was willing to help with his recovery otherwise who knows what would have happened long term from all those constant uses.

Stanley feels caught stealing out of the cookie jar. No one was ever supposed to know about that or at least not the extent it got to. It was easier blanketing everything as one big wipe at the end or a calculated handful. “How the fuck do you know about that?” Anger and confusion leak into his voice.

“Because he told me!” Ford takes a moment to gather himself, sighing, before pressing on quickly before this turns into a fight. What’s done is done. “There appears to be a split personality inside your head consisting of those other traits. It happens to have access to your memories, experiences, and emotions up until when your mind was repaired. Something about yesterday’s sleep routine must have allowed it to wake up for the first time.”

“We’ll need to run some more tests of course. Maybe it happens on specific days, a certain time of night if your unconscious, or it could- Perhaps it is a sort of defense mechanism! It could be triggered by nightmares, thus preventing you from experiencing them! Tell me, how do you feel? Do you have a headache, any dreams? What did you do different from the last two nights previously?”

His mind tuned Ford out right around the part about running tests. A deep feeling of dread settling in his stomach. Figures trusting a God, even one who seemed to have good intentions, would backfire. Moving forward they really need to stop trusting them under any circumstances.

Without responding to Ford’s questions, he gets back up out of bed to head back across the hall to take a good look around the bedroom to see what exactly this ‘other him’ got up to last night. It takes a little bit of digging to come up with anything.

The room looks fine but tucked underneath the bed is a box that wasn’t there before. Pulling it out and opening up the first notebook really only tells Stan that this guy is a nerd. It’s a bunch of math and messy notes filling up the pages with the occasional sketch of things he doesn’t recognize. “Figures he’s a nerd like you.” Stan mutters, looking back over towards Ford in the doorway.

If this other guy had access to most of his memories then-

Maybe he over reacted a little thinking some damage might happen to Ford. No version of himself would do something like that.

Does he love Ford too then?

That thought is enough to make him slump back against the bed from where he’d been kneeling. Definitely.

Great. Just great. Not only is there another person inside my own head but now I need to grapple with the possibility that I’ll be competing for Ford with them. That’s a larger threat than them hurting somebody. “What else did you figure out about him then? Before you locked him up in here?” It’s too early for all this.

Later today Ford will have to put together a list of things Stan did before bed and a timeline of how exactly he went to sleep, but not now. All and all Stanley seems to be taking the news a little too well. “He’s not dangerous, for one. With all your previous memories he knows who we both are and was able to work out what he was before I woke up and ran into him.”

He resists the urge to cross the room and look at what’s inside the notebooks. “He burned the negative box you were meaning to get around to destroying. I also helped him pick a name so we don’t go calling him ‘Not Stan’ all the time. It’s LeeFord.”

Getting up off the floor Stan closes up the box, tucking it back under the bed, before sitting on the edge of it. “Really? You two couldn’t think up a better name then that? If he’s half me, why didn’t he pick something cool at least? Like Rex or Victor or Sam if he wanted something more mainstream?” Stan is pretty sure that ‘LeeFord’ isn’t even a real first name. Maybe a last name, but-

“He seems to have a difficult time making decisions on his own. Either Bill left an experiment of you being a pushover inside your head or the Axolotl decided to make him pathetic on purpose. Either way, I’m not sure he could have picked something himself.” Instead of hanging around Ford turns to head downstairs to make some coffee since he was up most of the night.

Stanley gets up to follow after giving a quick glance around the room to make sure nothing else is out of place. “That doesn’t sound much like me at all.” But unfortunately, he can remember that particular experiment. Other then the water tower it was the second closes he’d been to blowing his cover.

Instead of following Ford into the kitchen he goes into the living room to turn on the light for the new fish tank so he can look at the Axolotl. Stupid giant lizard. Why did it feel the need to create a sentient being out of scraps? Is it a God thing? Does the universe hate him? What’s the point? “How do I talk to him, you vindictive oversized worm?” He tapes the glass aggressively. “Hey! I’m talking to you, answer me!”

After starting the coffee pot Ford comes to stand in the doorway of the living room, watching Stanley argue with the Salamander without much success. “You’ll probably have to write letters. There is a barrier between your conscious minds preventing memories from being exchanged between you two. Don’t bother trying to get its attention. This was intentional so its not going to consider this an emergency. You’ll only upset Frilliam.”

The Axolotl in the tank does swim over towards Stanley but its eyes are still as empty as always lacking a real understanding of what’s going on. Stan turns his glare from the tank over towards Ford, “How are you so calm about this? What, did he come onto you last night or something? Start whispering math equations in your ear?” Frustration and anger fuel his words, but part of him is genuinely worried. They can only exist at different times, meaning he can’t kick this guy’s ass for flirting with Ford.

A flush floods Ford’s face despite his own wishes, “No! Don’t be ridiculous, he’s practically a kid Stanley! Sure, he has your life experience, but he’s only been alive for at most seven hours total. That’s not even mentioning he’s not you. Half you, quarter me, another part something else entirely. I’ll admit I was fooled initially, coming out of a nightmare, but hugging hardly constitutes cheating or I’d lay you over the coals about Fids.”

Part of his heart sinks seeing Ford blush because of the question. Nothing happened last night, but what about next time? There isn’t anything other then Ford’s usually flexible morals stopping them. He aims his glare back at the tank to avoid burning a hole in Ford’s chest with his eyes. Letters aren’t going to be enough to communicate these feelings effectively.

The anger and fear are a stark contrast to the peaceful fish tank with Frilliam swimming around occasionally bumping into the sides before turning and swimming the other way. “So, the main issue is his age then, huh?” It’s muttered, because he knows its his insecurities picking a fight that doesn’t need to be had.

With a sigh Ford crosses the room to knee next to Stanley in front of the tank, pulling him into a tight side hug. “No. The issue is he isn’t you. I love you, Stanley. Period. That’s it. If this does become a nightly thing, I imagine he’ll have to be the one comforting me through nightmares, but friends will be the extent of that relationship. Do you hear me?”

This plus the hug does make him feel a little bit better but Stan would still rather be able to deck the guy preemptively so he doesn’t get any funny ideas. “Careful, I can be quite the seductress when I want to be.” A tiny smile sneaks in hearing Ford laugh and he finally returns the hug. They stay there, watching the Axolotl swim around, until the coffee maker beeps in the other room.

Left alone in front of the tank again Stanley tries to think up something else to say that might get the answer they need. “Come on, fish. Your clever, help me out here, will you?” He’s leaning up close to the glass again, watching with the bionic eye for any sort of color change. Maybe they shouldn’t be asking for more help from the God that caused the problem.

How do you communicate with someone trapped inside the-

Stanley falls backward flat on his ass in a rush to get up and head for the basement. A few minutes later he comes back up with one of Ford’s journals wearing an ear-splitting grin. “I think I know how we can talk to him without having to exchange pen pal letters.”

In the time Stanley was gone Ford had managed to get out the fixings for cereal and made both their cups of coffee, setting them on the table. He waits to pour milk into his bowl seeing the journal though. “Oh really? Something magic, I assume?”

Flipping through the pages Stan lands on the one with that incantation to go inside someone’s mind and pushes it across the table. “Why don’t we just pay him a visit inside my mindscape? I might not be able to cross whatever is keeping us separate, but maybe you could? At least enough to get him to come up to the fence, right?”

If the Axolotl gave him something to exist within inside Stanley’s mindscape, then it’s possible this might work. “It can’t hurt to try, if you’re comfortable with me being literally inside your head that is. It’s possible your consciousness might not be able to directly communicate much less exist at once though, like a Jekyll and Hyde situation without the evil part.”

“We can’t be sure he isn’t evil yet. You happen to be a terrible judge of character, especially of otherworldly beings.” Stan points out, snickering when it earns him a kick under the table while grabbing the milk. “Just eat your breakfast, then we can go see about paying him a visit.”

The annoyance from Stan’s jab is tolerable and preferred compared to the jealousy he was wearing in front of the fish tank. “What, you think he’s planning on building an atomic bomb in those notebooks under your bed or something? Ending the world doesn’t exactly benefit him.”

Stan almost chokes on his hot coffee, spitting some of it back out into the cup and burning his throat a little trying to swallow it. Good question. What would another me do if they had all the math in the world to work with? If, hypothetically, its not something evil? “Probably not. If I could do anything I’d do something for us.”

Thinking about it, while eating their breakfast, opens up a wide variety of possibilities. Maybe those notebooks contain notes related to their boat. Or it could be some fancy technical upgrades to the house. If he’s a little more selfish he could be trying to work out how to separate himself, if that’s even possible.

Breakfast is a quicker affair than usual and unlike before having his mind scrambled Stanley doesn’t offer to do the dishes. He lets Ford do them while setting up what they need in the living room. Some candles and two chairs from the kitchen aren’t much of a list and doesn’t take that long.

Meeting with this other entity is more important than Ford seeing the state of his mindscape but Stan can’t help wondering what it looks like now compared to the last time he visited it. After the Axolotl messed around in there, he should have made it a priority to check on it sooner. Too late now.

Having Stanley back, fully back, has been as nice as it has been annoying. Before all of his annoying quirks had been muffled or straight-up missing, but now they’re back. Clothes left on the floor instead of put in the hamper. No more offering to do dishes. That one’s fair, because Stanley usually cooks anyway. Still annoying.

He also gets jumpy sometimes for seemingly no reason.

Especially with things having to do with intimacy. They haven’t had sex since the morning of their birthday. It’s fine, of course, because Stanley is still adjusting. Ford can be patient and wait until Stan is ready again. Hopefully, it’ll be soon.

It’s difficult not to take it personally since they haven’t discussed the sudden and distinct lack of a sex life. They should be over the inability to have a simple conversation but it hasn’t gotten to that point yet. Stanley just needs time, or at least that’s what Ford has convinced himself. In every other way, he seems enthusiastic with cuddling, hugging, and kissing. They’re okay.

After putting the last dishes aside to dry Ford joins Stanley in the living room with the curtains drawn and the candles situated around the two chairs. It’s a little unsettling to look at. How many times did Stanley set something like this up to visit his own mindscape while dealing with Bill?

“Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s get this over with so I can decide if we need to find a way to get rid of this thing or not.” Just because it might not be evil doesn’t mean they have to let it exist either. Especially not if it's going to try and seduce Ford. That’s not going to fly.

“I don’t think we can get rid of it, and you're being rather mean to someone who is essentially you. He’s the version of you who invented the eye and the dream gun, cut him some slack.” Ford does move to sit in one of the chairs though while Stanley starts lighting the candles.

“Hey, I may not understand the math of those memories but I still have them. I remember doing it, so don’t go giving him all the credit just because he’s got the stuff in your binders.” It only takes a minute to finish the candles. He passes the journal over to Ford after sitting down in the other chair. “I already tried to destroy this guy once, Ford. I’ll figure it out again. Or at least figure out what the trigger is to make him disappear.”

They should hurry up and do this, before the candles start getting wax everywhere, but Stan’s words make Ford pause. “That’s why he was so skittish last night, wasn’t it? He’s afraid of you because you’re the one who used the memory gun on the part that make up him.” Maybe he never intended on leaving a letter at all. How long could he have managed to do stuff at night without either of them noticing? If it wasn’t for nightmares who knows.

“Listen, I let you get away with a lot while my mind was messed up. I’m good now and I get to pick what does and doesn’t happen inside my own body. Capeesh? Don’t you think I’ve had enough of being out of control?” He brings up a hand to jostle the journal again, trying to get them back on track.  

Looking at this from Stanley’s perspective it must be scary having what feels like another Bill. Except this time without the ability to communicate with it much less predict its intentions.

How would I feel in this same position? About the same, if not more aggressive. It's conflicting being able to empathize with both Stan and LeeFord at the same time.

“Alright, fair enough. Let’s see if we can find him in there.” Keeping the journal in one hand while holding one of Stanley’s up against his skull with the other Ford begins to read the incantation. Biting his tongue until after seems like the best bet.

His mindscape almost couldn’t look more different than it used to. Instead of waking up in his car outside the old pawn shop in Jersey, he’s out in the front yard of their house. The world is still mostly gray but with hints of color now. New grass growing across the lawn and the wood on the house has a muted brown color to it like it has been stained recently.

You don’t need a bionic eye to see the thrumming of a shimmering pink layer occasionally. Like a ripple of wind passing over the area made of specs the size of glitter. Remnants of the Axolotl’s work? It’s a far cry from the sad mindscape he’d had situated in Jersey. Fitting that his mind reflects his real home despite all the bad memories here. It’s nice.

Waking up inside Stan’s mind it gets harder to keep his mouth shut by the second. Why is everything so grey and sad-looking? The sky, the trees, almost everything. The grass and the building itself have a little color, but that doesn’t bode well for Stanley’s emotional state.

Until now Ford wasn’t even aware someone’s mindscape could be so….depressing. He has to remind himself that a lifetime of pain doesn’t disappear overnight. Nothing appears damaged or falling apart which means Stan’s mind is sound. Fresh growing grass is a sign of progress.

He can’t let himself get hung up on how small of a difference it makes in the grand scheme of things. “Well. Let’s see if we can find him then, come on.” Still holding Stanley’s hand, he starts towards the front porch only to be pulled back.

“Slow your roll, Sixer. That’s my mindscape, he’s not going to be inside. It’ll be somewhere else around here.” Nice try Ford, you aren’t getting a look at any of my memories. Looking around the yard doesn’t give them any hints of where another consciousness could be. There aren’t any weird sheds, garages, or cars. Actually, only Ford’s car is in the driveway, Stan’s is missing.

The most colorful thing in the area is the pink wind thrumming around. Is that an effect of the bracelet or the recent construction done by the Axolotl? Ford lets Stanley lead the way, since this is his head, away from the house and down the driveway. Near the end of it where it joins up with the road is the Stanmobile parked off to the side.

Its color is a muted red, more maroon than its usual cherry coat making it sad like the rest of the world. Ford makes a mental note for later to build a garage to keep Stanley’s car inside while they’re away on their boat. It might rust long-term if it stays out in the yard without anyone looking after it.

Stanley finally lets go of Ford’s hand in favor of walking around the car to inspect it. In the back seat is a version of himself lying down fast asleep. He can’t remember ever sleeping in this spot so they couldn’t have accidently stumbled into an old memory. This must be the edge of his mind because everything beyond here gets blurry to look at the further away it gets.

“Do you think this is him?” The Stan curled up on the back seat doesn’t look any different but that’s on purpose. Maybe the appearance in the mindscape will change the more distinct of an individual he becomes? Wouldn’t that be interesting? 

“Could be, I don’t remember sleeping in my car at the end of the road.” Stan decides to try the door of the car but gets stopped by a strong zap to his hand when he touches the handle. The entire car shimmers with a bright layer of pink on it for a few seconds before fading back to normal like nothing happened. “I’d say that’s about as much a confirmation as we’ll get. This must be him.”

Ford manages to keep himself from doing more then slightly flinching watching Stanley be zapped by the car. That’s why he’s here in the first place, to open the door. Looking around at how sad everything is gives him the strength to try, feeling beyond relieved when he doesn’t get shocked too.

The door is locked though, not allowing him to open any of the four doors. Next Ford tries knocking on the window a bunch to wake up LeeFord. He doesn’t expect it to do anything since Stanley is here, logically they aren’t supposed to both be conscious at once-

It works, causing LeeFord to shift around on the back seat before sitting upright very suddenly, almost hitting his head on the ceiling. “Fuck.” He cursed quietly, looking out the window at both of them in surprise.

Alright, Ford might have been right about one thing. He does kinda look like a kid. Lacking the ability to fully control his expression or hide how he’s feeling, exactly like Stan before he grew up and learned how to act. This guy can’t do that for shit.

“LeeFord? Stanley wants to talk with you, could you open the door or roll down the window a little?” Given the fact that Stan has tried to kill this guy a lot it would be stupid to suggest he get out of the car even if its probably impossible for any real damage to be done in here.

For a minute all LeeFord does is look around a lot, inspecting the car and the world outside it like he hasn’t seen it before. Then he cracks the window barely half an inch so they can talk through it without risking them trying to open the door somehow. “This must be our mindscape, isn’t it? Fascinating…we aren’t in Jersey anymore.” He says this while looking out the back in the direction of the house before turning back towards Stan and Ford.

He may look scared, but Stanley would recognize that expression of wonder and interest anywhere. That’s Ford right there being all scientific and crap. “It would seem so, genius. What kind of guy with an IQ like Ford picks a name as stupid as LeeFord anyway?”

“Stanley!” Ford hisses, glaring at him. “That’s how you’re going to introduce yourself, by insulting him? Please, be serious for a minute.” He crosses both arms, turning his gaze back to the car.

“It kind of sounds like an old Scandinavian name, something a Viking would go by. I personally think it’s neat. I didn’t want to directly steal any of the names you like in the event that children aren’t completely ruled out of your future.” LeeFord explains through the window sitting in the middle of the back seat and fidgeting with his hands. Here in the mindscape one of them has six fingers while the other has five.

Because of the risk of getting shocked if he touches the car, Stan can only move so close to look through the window. Further insults about the name die hearing the explanation and spotting the additional digit on one of the hands.

Yeah, this guy certainly isn’t going to go around destroying the world or killing them if he’s thoughtful enough to avoid using those names despite knowing them. Some of the anger and worry he’s been carrying dissipates, replaced by curiosity.

So. This is how he would have turned out if he hadn’t gone around using the memory gun all the time. He’s a reflection of what could have been otherwise. Smart, like Ford, but broken and missing a lot of what makes up Stanley Pines. He’s still thoughtful though, that hasn’t changed.

Damn it. It’s hard to stay mad at something that you can see yourself in. Both of them, in different ways. “Thank you, I suppose.” The words feel weird to say having come in here prepared for a wildly different outcome.

Now that’s a thought Ford hasn’t considered for a while. Children. Now that things have been dealt with, Stanley has his memory back, it isn’t completely impossible. Not now, because they’ll be sailing relatively soon, but they aren’t that old. Maybe it is something they could revisit in a few years or whenever they’ve gotten sick of life at sea? It’s touching to know Stanley has considered it too despite having to find out through LeeFord.

That’s another reason Ford likes him. There isn’t a filter which means he can know things about Stanley that would usually remain behind a wall.

“What brings you here, exactly? I was under the impression that I didn’t physically exist anywhere except at night. It’s interesting to find I might be able to have a physical lodging here at least. Though I’ll have to do something about it being my, sorry, our car.” His shoulders relax seeing that Stanley isn’t glaring at him anymore.

“I just wanted to have a little chat is all.” Stan looks up from the car over at Ford, “Alright, scram, Sixer. Me and Not Me are going to talk, man to man. Go on back to the house and hang out on the porch until I’m done.” He makes a shooing motion with one of his crossed arms.

“We.” Comes from inside the car before LeeFord can bring a hand up to cover his mouth accompanied by a slight flush when his comment makes Ford laugh while walking away back towards the house. “Stay inside the car and you’ll be safe from Stan’s wrath!” He calls back before walking out of sight around the slight bend of the road.

Stan doesn’t know how to feel about having his grammar corrected by someone other then Ford. That’s already annoying enough. He has to remind himself that, technically, that was Ford. Or the part of LeeFord that is his brother at least. Is it this situation or having them being in here causing the start of a headache?

After Ford is well out of sight and ear shot Stan shifts a little closer to the window. “What’s your game then, huh? It doesn’t really matter why the Axolotl made you, I need to know what your goal is, personally. What do you want and what kind of problems are you going to cause if I let you keep existing?” He doesn’t sound as angry as earlier in front of the fish tank, but this is still serious.

With Ford gone, no longer here to mediate, LeeFord tenses up again but doesn’t panic either. He’d had a whole evening to think about these things and ruminate on what Stanley would feel about all this too in preparations for a very angry letter the next time he woke up. This is easier, like running into Ford.

“Primarily it makes the most sense to separate, if possible, but I was able to determine last night through some calculations that won’t be possible. Not without help we can’t access. Some things are even beyond my capabilities. That means we’re stuck with each other. I already told Ford that you don’t have to allow me to exist. I’m well aware of the hatred you harbor for me.”

“Fortunately for you, we are able to coexist now. Forced to. In the event that you do allow me to exist, I’m not going to be a nuisance. I’m content reading, working on projects, and generally staying confined to the house doing low energy things to avoid wearing out our body when your supposed to be sleeping.” Despite the stressfulness of the conversation, he holds eye contact with Stan to show he isn’t lying.

None of that is exactly what he was asking. Sure, its good information to have, but not nearly the most pressing matter. With all the same memories this guy knows that, or should if he’s so smart. “What about Stanford? You’ve got it all now, you plan on swindling me out of the one good thing I’ve got? I earned that, damn it.”

A small sigh escapes LeeFord, turning to look through the back of the car towards the shack briefly despite being unable to see Ford from here. “We are different people from a very recent point going forward and I’m aware that you are the individual he’s exclusive with despite my most recent memories. I-“ This is harder to talk about than the other stuff.

“You must understand how difficult it will be, inevitably, to maintain the kind of professionalism you're asking of me. For lack of a better word. It was impossible to hide these feelings in high school, how do you expect me to refrain now? It-“

Stanley shocks himself on the car trying to slam one hand down on the roof, producing a quiet yelp and hiss. Instead, he points a finger towards the crack in the window staying outside the barrier, “I don’t give a shit. I will not have you swooping in throwing around math equations and tricking him. If you're as much me as I remember Bill messing with then I know you could. I’m not buying this whole ‘pathetic Stan’ act you’ve got going. You're young, not clueless.”

LeeFord doesn’t say anything else for a while, looking through the window at Stanley while thinking really hard either about what was said or what he’ll say next. “Fine. I’m confident enough that I could exist exclusively without much human interaction. I’ll refrain but you need to get him to leave me alone if he notices I’m awake. That would mean he’ll be dealing with nightmares, alone.”

It makes Stan laugh a dry and angry chuckle glaring through the window. If the barrier wasn’t in the way LeeFord would have a black eye by now. It’s exactly what Stan wants, more or less, but it comes at a cost that Ford would be paying.

Is he selfish enough to do that? Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before something happens. Not that he doesn’t trust Ford, but- LeeFord is part him, meaning he’s capable of being sneaky. Ford might not even know it happens, if he was willing to stoop that low. Stan doesn’t know and can’t chance it.

“That’s not going to fly, genius, think of something else. You’ve got all the IQ, right? Use it for something useful at least.” Stan ignored the glare that earns him through the window.

His voice is irritated now. “Well, what would you suggest? It’s not like he’d leave me for you. As I develop, I’m going to branch off considerably from our personality given the structural differences. You’ve got day shift, which makes you the primary pilot. It hardly seems difficult to fathom sharing-“

Trying to reach through the window works for about five seconds before the electricity running up his arm and the pain forces Stanley to pull the hand out. With the hand that wasn’t shocked he tries to soothe it despite the skin now being damaged. “Oh, like hell-“

“Listen!” LeeFord insists, “He’ll be asleep most of the time anyway. It’s not like you’d prefer me to go out at night and project my feelings onto a different sexual partner like we used to. That would cause the hassle of you needing to get tested regularly and who knows what kind of objections Ford would have to it.”

Sometimes the things that happen here in Gravity Falls, to them, seem so ridiculous Stan can’t believe it. Who would have thought another version of himself would be trying to negotiate sex with Ford? Certainly not him.

“Weren’t you just saying you could live with ‘limited human contact’ a minute ago? Where does sleeping around during your limited time of control fit into that?” Without being able to punch LeeFord he settles for pacing back and forth near the car to let out some of the built-up energy.

“I was being facetious, Stan. We’re having a hypothetical conversation here. I know my advances would be unwelcome because I’m not you. I lose by default. Besides, I’m part Ford too. Big ego or not I doubt selfcest is something he’d entertain. Especially if it would upset you, which it clearly does.” This conversation isn’t going anywhere, but he can’t do anything else in the mindscape until Stan and Ford leave either.

Stan continues to pace back and forth for a while, leaving a nice track of his path in the dirt, while thinking. Anger, jealousy, and frustration have all come back in full force since having his mind repaired. He used to be better at thinking things through logically. Guess that went to this guy. Stupid Axolotl. Couldn’t even leave any of the good parts, huh?

LeeFord watches, without saying anything more, from inside the car waiting for Stan to respond. Goading him into one isn’t going to result in anything positive so he’s patient letting him process everything. Stan is capable of working this out, it’ll just take longer than it did for him.

Leaning against a tree across from the car he tries to think about it without looking through the lens of his own emotions. It’s a hard task.

This guy, him, minus some caveats, is the same. Smarter and a worse liar, like Ford. But from LeeFord’s perspective, he’s been in love with Stanford his whole life to. He remembers the last few weeks of everything being perfect, only to wake up last night and-

What? Realize he was wrong? The extra, now confirmed stuck. That can’t be easy.

What would happen if this guy got depressed, or more depressed than he might already be based on the grey interior of the car and muted exterior? What happens if one of them dies? Do they both go with one of them being none the wiser? Like dying in your sleep without realizing it?

LeeFord is being really nice about all this. If Stan was in his shoes, he’d be kicking up a storm making threats, demands, and generally causing a real stink to make sure he got something worthwhile out of this terrible situation. Time for himself, space in the house, and definitely time with Ford. Even if not romantic, he’d be willing to bargain for less then if that’s all he could manage.

After calming down and doing a lot of thinking Stan moves away from the tree back over near the car to try again. “If I put down a hard no you aren’t going to try and trick him, are you?” His voice is significantly calmer than it was before, less accusatory.

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t do that to Ford. And it doesn’t do either of us any good picking fights with the person you’re sharing a body with. We need to try and have a sense of diplomacy.”

As time goes on this guy better not turn into someone evil. Otherwise, this won’t work. Right now? It might. “I can’t have you becoming depressed and killing us. Right now, I need to think a little harder about the Ford issue. Let’s put a pin in it. What else do you want?”

That makes LeeFord smile, shifting half a seat closer to the door. “Eventually it would be nice to have an addition put on the basement so I can have my own office and lab. For now, I’m content using one of the stations downstairs and storing my written work in your bedroom until Ford reads the binders. And, if you are comfortable with it, I’d be happy to help with the boat. It would speed up the production date by at least two years having a third mechanic.”

Now this is the kind of thing that might make having another person around a good thing. It makes Stanley grin back through the window. “Nerd. I’ll talk to Ford about the lab station and I’ll see about finding a journal to keep on the bedside table we can communicate through without Ford having to wake you up every time. And, so long as you don’t outshine Fids and Ford, I guess you could help with the boat.”

“Of course not. It’s primarily their project. I merely want to speed up the process. Being in the house affects me more then it does you. It’s unsettling.” It’s a blessing that this weird predicament doesn’t allow for him to have real nightmares with Stanley being awake during the day.

“I guess the Axolotl stuck you with a lot of the shitty bits, didn’t it? Sorry about that, you can blame Ford for your existence. I was pretty happy living as a crazy lunatic as long as we got to bang sometimes.” There isn’t much else he can say for comfort.

“Like most terrible things I’d rather pin them on Bill. He’s the root cause. Ford and the Axolotl are the reason I exist, can’t be mad about that, despite how difficult it will be. It's not as hard as it used to be and I’m not alone anymore either.” He looks around the backseat of the car before back at Stan.

“Hard to be lonely sharing a brain.” Stanley laughs, knocking on his own skull. “By the way, while we’re still kind of on the topic of projects. You’ve heard of Summerween, right? I was going to go out and buy some costumes and surprise Ford, but I bet between the two of us we could come up with something way cooler. Think you’d be down to help with the science bits?”

What day is today? Saturday? That gives them till Tuesday. “I suppose I could do that. You’ll have to go into town for materials, but what did you have in mind?”

Ford refrained from going inside Stanley’s mindscape. Or inside his house of memories, whatever the shack is supposed to represent here on the mental plane.

For a while he sits around on the porch with crossed arms and one foot bouncing. When that gets boring, he walks around the yard cataloging the amount of green grass vs what’s still grey. The glass windows he’s replaced in reality are the most colorful part of the whole world. At least not everything is colorless.

Those windows must mean more to Stanley than he let on when initially receiving them.

“Stanford! You better not have wandered inside otherwise I’m never going to find you in that mess!” Stanley shouts around the side of the house, checking the yard and finding Ford around back near the firepit having finished talking with LeeFord.

“I’m right here. Just cataloging the colorful aspects of your mind to come up with a visual percentage to indicate your mental state and its progressive recovery.” He waves in Stan’s general direction, continuing around the other side of the house to continue his research.

Figures Ford would turn this into a field trip. It takes a minute to walk around back and catch up with him on the other side, taking Ford’s hand to prevent him from wandering off again. “Relax Pointdexter, I’m fine. My head isn’t going to become a mosaic overnight after years of awfulness. Let’s go home, I’ve finished my chat.” Stan pulls him back towards the front yard despite not knowing how exactly to get out of here.

“Really? I didn’t hear any loud shouting or yelling from over there. How did it go?” Ford follows but continues looking around for any other additional color as they go. Luckily, he made notes of the important parts before Stanley came back.

“Looks like we have a new roommate in the house. He’d like a lab station downstairs but has promised to keep his nerd junk hidden in my room until you crack open those binders. Oh, and he’s offered to help you with the boat after you finish all your organizing and papers. He’s as eager to get out to sea as I am.” Stan is wearing a wide-faced grin and if his hands were free he’d be rubbing them together like he has some sort of evil plot.

Ford blinks staring at Stanley suspiciously. “That’s it? What’s the catch? I thought you were convinced he had some ulterior motives or something?” He looks surprisingly happy with the outcome of the conversation. “What happened to not wanting to be possessed every night?”

Stanley can only shrug, taking Ford’s other hand and swinging them both a little because of his excited energy. “He’s just a guy. Part you, mostly me. I don’t think he’s evil. Not yet anyway. How could I object to him speeding up production by working on the boat at night? It’s nerd stuff, he loves that shit, like you.”

He does manage to get serious for a second, leaning closer as if LeeFord could be listening. “Plus, it’s safer to keep him happy. What if he got depressed? I like my life and I need to make sure he likes his to keep it. We won’t have to worry about him doing anything stupid that way.”

With that thought planted it might be all Ford can think about for a while. The guy had seemed so nonthreatening he’d never considered the possibility of suicide if he became displeased or isolated. “I’m going to have to wake up and check on him sometimes, aren’t I?”

Stanley is still reluctant to let the two interact, despite their half-finished discussion from earlier about Ford. But. It’s not like there is anyone else in the house LeeFord can talk with. And, no, Stan doesn’t want him going out to a bar to sleep around either. “Yeah, that wouldn’t hurt. Not every night, but every once in a while. Make sure he isn’t building a death ray or something.”

“I’ve tried, they’re more difficult to build than you’d expect. The amount of power it takes to stop a human heart without frying everything is considerably precise and-“

Ford shuts up when Stanley starts giving him a funny look. “What? I just wanted to see if I could. I wasn’t going to use it or anything. Stop looking at me like that!”

Chapter 62: Crystal Clear

Notes:

This is my longest chapter to date for this fic (I keep unintentionally one-uping myself?) Please, enjoy. I spent almost eighteen hours on this straight because I just needed it to happen right now. I implore you to leave a comment. If ever, on any chapter, this is the one. Anyway, have fun. See you on the other side of this monster!

(I'm gonna go die because I'm exhausted. lmao. Don't expect to hear from me for a while.)

It only took one night to figure out what the exact trigger was allowing LeeFord to come around at night. Not nightmares. Or the kind of food Stanley ate before bed. The deciding factor turned out to be if he was asleep before eleven-thirty or not.

Going to bed any later resulted in no midnight visitors and all the nightmares Stanley usually had to deal with coming back full force. Surprisingly, he’d prefer being possessed. At least this person wasn’t evil. Probably.

Sunday night, after an interruption for Ford’s experiments, they were back in business meaning progress on their plans for Summerween got underway.

Other than feeling a little more run down from walking through the house all night there didn’t seem to be any other negative effects. That small sacrifice was worth it.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for the remaining amount of resistance to their new reality to crumble. He found it fun reading about how the night went in the journal Ford had made for them to share and had fun writing down about his own day for his nighttime counterpart in turn.

Despite being separate individuals, alive at different times, it wasn’t as jarring as it should have been. LeeFord wrote far more then Stan did detailing his various progress on projects, providing lists of things he needed or wanted, but also just. Talked.

He’d been joking before, but it kind of was like having a pen pal, another friend to talk to, if only once a day. They had shared a whole life while having drastically different perspectives now that LeeFord had a growing personality branching off from the mixed bag it started with. At least he was still funny. He had to get that from Stanley. Like how he got his science rambling from Ford.

It’s essentially like having a smarter version of yourself to bounce ideas off of who completely gets what you mean and where you’re coming from. Sometimes better than Ford, which is something he’d never admit out loud.

Unfortunately, this year, under such short notice, there wasn’t time to decorate the house much less prepare to have any trick-or-treaters. They could do that next time. Getting two super amazing costumes was the priority and it took all of Stan’s willpower not to blow the plan all day while babysitting Tate. The temptation to show the kid was immense, but he resisted.

He even kept it together through dinner until long after it got dark. Until it was time to get ready.

When the clock ticked over to ten thirty Stanley turned off the movie they’d just finished after dinner, some nerd thing Ford wanted to watch, and turned to grin full force. It had been difficult to avoid it all day, smiling to himself during long trips to the bathroom and while facing the stove during dinner. “Come on, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Despite how slick Stanley might think he is, Ford still knew something was up. He just didn’t know what, exactly. Whatever it was made Stanley smile wider then since they’d gone fishing though so he hadn’t said anything, waiting to be let in on whatever it was.

It was an odd time of night for a surprise. Stanley had been extremely punctual about his bedtime since discovering the root cause of LeeFord’s appearances each night, insisting on giving him his time. It was almost comical being pulled up to bed before ten pm like they had school in the morning to ensure it.

Because of how happy it made Stanley he tried to keep complaints to himself. But he did miss sleeping next to him every night.

With the bed empty he’d gone back to using the dream gun again since there wasn’t any concern over needing to get up to comfort Stan. But he couldn’t do that forever. Any day now he really should get up sometime at night to go socialize with LeeFord. It couldn’t be good for him to spend all of his time alone, only communicating through their diary.

That’s annoying too, the not being allowed to read their correspondents. Stanley had made him promise not to and- That must have something to do with this surprise! How didn’t he see it before? Ridiculous.

While standing Ford takes Stan’s hand and lets himself be led out of the living room and upstairs to their bedroom. What kind of surprise would take two Stans to plan but happen in here? It makes his heart pound, getting far too excited without further context.

It has been a full week without sex now, slightly over adding the twelve-hour difference.

If that’s not what this is Ford will need to seriously consider initiating a conversation about it before he dies. What could be the hangup? That first night together Stanley had been enthralled with the idea! It had been passionate and they practically got lost in each other!

Now, with everything back in place, when things start moving that direction Stan pulls away or finds some not so slick excuse to stop, acting all nervous and worried. It doesn’t fit. Maybe the Axolotl messed something up out of the thousands of things it rearranged and moved. It did also create a whole other being while it was in there.

For now, Ford pushes those worries aside trying to focus on whatever Stanley has planned. The room looks normal without anything nearly as romantic as that first night. No flowers, no champagne, no suspicious looking bags that could possibly contain a sex toy. Stanley has been going to the store a lot this week. Do they even have a sex shop in town? He’d never bothered to check.

Having guided Ford into the room Stan turns him to face the wall near the closet, “Alright, close your eyes. I need to go get something but I’ll be back in just a minute. Wait here.” He only sticks around long enough to make sure Ford closes his eyes before racing out of the room and across the hall.

More time alone to strew over what it could be? Great.

If its not over here maybe it could still be something to do with sex? Who is he kidding, if Stanley was interested, they wouldn’t have made it up the stairs. They haven’t broken in the couch yet out of respect for guests but it would be impossible to object right now if it was offered.

What then? If both of them are in on this surprise, which could be the case, is it something science related? An invention? Today isn’t anything special though. Their birthday has already passed and the next big holiday is July Fourth in about two weeks’ time. The not knowing just might kill him faster then the lack of sex will.

Later, after whatever this surprise is, he’ll figure out a way to gently broach the subject. A way that won’t make Stanley feel guilty while still addressing the problem. Yes, he can do that. Easy.

After getting changed Stanley quickly walks back across the hall without slamming his feet around the same way he did on the way out and carrying a black hanger bag one would use for a suit. He puts it on the hook on the outside of their closet door with the empty one he’d gotten his costume from and makes sure to dig out the box with their pirate swords to put on the finishing touch. Perfect.

With everything in place Stan moves to stand in the middle of the room opposite Ford. “Alright, turn around and open your eyes.”

Despite not having worked it out Ford is tired of being kept in suspense, so he does just that. Only to see that Stanley is wearing what appears to be a very detailed Halloween costume. It’s a pirate outfit.

The tricorne hat is made of leather on top of Stanley’s slightly messy hair underneath. His mullet does a pretty good job masquerading as wind tussled locks.

Underneath a dark brown frock coat and a waistcoat is a barely visible but tastefully blood covered ruffled poet shirt. Across Stan’s chest is a belt scabbard made of leather to match the hat. Two mismatching belts, one in black and the other in more leather, are visible just below the blood stain with a white waist scarf hanging down to knee length.

To finish the look are a set of tight brown trousers and two boots each with their very own boot covers as well.

The two parts that stand out the most, other then the impressive cohesiveness of the costume, is the sword hanging along Stan’s left hip from a leather sheath and the boots. They appear to be slightly platform, making him about three inches taller then normal.

Its brilliant despite his mind not being able to follow why Stanley would be wearing this. This definitely isn’t sex related or he wouldn’t be wearing so many layers. And what’s with the blood?

Seeing the look on Ford’s face of complete surprise mixed with arousal and confusion makes the whole effort worth it to pull this off. For a long minute he doesn’t even say anything and just stays posed where he is with one hand on his sword and the other holding his hat after removing it from his head. Hats never where his thing, but it completes the look.

“Surprised, are we? Well, that’s not all, ladies and gentleman!” After letting Ford get a good look, he puts the hat back on and crouching down to mess with the side of his boot. As per LeeFord’s instructions and detailed notes there is a small panel on the side up near the laces that pops open along the seam to reveal three buttons.

The first is the power button, turning on the device, the second one turns on the antigravity function, and the third one makes everything translucent and white!

Stan makes quick work of powering them on, the first button flashing green briefly to signal he’s good to press the other two. Quickly he pushes the panel closed and stands up just in time for the full effect, again.

The boots begin to hover about an inch and a half off the ground and Stan’s entire body gains a white color, clothes and all, while simultaneously becoming barely translucent. He waits, watching Ford’s jaw drop open, “Stanford Pines? Behold our creation, an authentic and extremely realistic ghost pirate costume!” He yells, throwing both arms wide despite them being the only ones around for miles. It helps with the show.

A tiny part of his mind finally gives Ford a clue despite it mostly going offline watching Stanley finish his presentation. Tonight is June 22^nd, the night people of Gravity Falls celebrate ‘Summerween’ a secondary ‘Halloween’ held each year involving all the same festivities. Including costumes, trick-or-treating, and sometimes parties.

That must be the surprise. The reason Stanley has been religiously going to bed, hiding his diary away somewhere he can’t find, and just now brought him upstairs. To show off this amazing and brilliant costume and-

Walking is admittedly a little weird, since its walking on air, but Stan made sure to practice yesterday so he makes it look pretty easy, only failing twice, to cross over and grab the still full bag and offer it to Ford. “Tonight, they’re throwing a party for adults at the local roller rink. There’s going to be a costume contest, which we are going to crush, plenty of alcohol, and it starts in thirty minutes. I want to take you out, on a proper date, Stanford. Will you go out with me?”

It's a little unsettling watching Stanley almost effortlessly move across the room despite not touching anything! He looks like a real authentic ghost alright and it’s a good thing he’s standing near a wall to lean back against, getting a little lightheaded trying to process everything from the last two minutes.

How does it work? What kind of technology did there two hatch a plan to invent just for a single date? For a set, because of course he’d make them both one, of scientific costumes! Despite the translucent and white out affect the blood still has a slightly dark color so anyone could tell what it is. How did they even do that? How-

Stanley remains patient, grinning to himself while watching Ford’s mind run in six different directions. “You can look at LeeFord’s notes later. Yes, we sewed the clothes ourselves. I handled everything except the hat, boots, and sword sheath. I didn’t have the time or the knowledge to handcraft leather garments, but he did. I swear, he knows how to do everything!”

“But it wasn’t all from scratch either. He used those notes on that hoverboard you gave me and minimized it for the boots. This platform houses all the tech and the battery, which lasts twelve hours.” To show Ford he lifts up one foot just enough to show the circular holes, barely the size of pencil erasers, in scattered patters across the bottom.

“Oh. And-“ Stan puts Ford’s bag back on the hook-

“And?!” Ford finally manages to produce words, but it comes out as more of a screech then anything else.

It makes Stan smirk, shaking his head, before reaching back down to open the panel and turn off the hover affect, landing back on the ground but keeping his balance. “Yes, and. I have one more thing. Last surprise, I promise.”

When Ford doesn’t say anything else he stomps one foot down on the floor as hard as he can and a set of roller skate wheels pop out of the bottom of the shoe from where they are usually stored inside the large platform part of the boot. It was the only inconsistency they couldn’t hide because of the required tech and space, but no one is going to be paying it any attention when your half see through.

“Tada! We can be roller skating pirate ghosts! I figured they should be hidable for the contest and because that way they have multiple uses! These boots can hover up to thirty feet up which will make hanging Christmas lights a breeze! So, come on, tell me what you think? I’m dying to know!” They both worked so hard for this to surprise Ford, it would be nice if he could do more then gawk.

Words aren’t his friend right now. When Ford is pretty sure his legs aren’t going to give out, landing him on the floor, he closes the distance between them and pulls Stanley down by his hair into a hard and passionate kiss. It would be nice if this could result in sex, but with history repeating itself it seems unlikely. Stanley didn’t get all dressed up (in too many layers) for them to be late to a party.

It's a little awkward given the new height difference caused by the boots and the added inch on one foot caused by the wheels but Stan still returns it wholeheartedly letting himself be pushed back into the closet because of where he was standing. It goes on for a minute and then he uses both hands to push Ford back a foot to put space between them.

“Alright cowboy, easy on the merchandise! Your gonna wrinkle all the crap I spent ironing this afternoon!” He’s laughing though, moving both hands to cup Ford’s jaw instead of holding him at arm length by the shoulders. “Go get dressed, I gotta teach you the basics of walking like this before we get in the car. Unless you want an excuse to hang on my arm all evening?” The grin he’s wearing says that was essentially the plan.

“I’ll go with you, happily, but when we come home-“ Ford manages to stop himself, only just. It takes a moment of struggling to think but he pushes on, cupping Stan’s face back in turn. The translucency doesn’t make him any less solid. “Can we talk about why you’ve been avoiding sex since our birthday? Did I do something? Are you missing something? Talk to me, please.”

The white effect at least hides the slight blush Stan can feel creeping up both cheeks. He looks away briefly, back, then down. “It’s stupid.” He mutters, stomping the foot with the wheels down, putting them away, to make standing easier.

“Nothing you say or do is stupid, Stanley. I just know it was your brilliant mind that came up with this whole idea, wasn’t it? That’s not stupid. You can tell me, please? You’re kinda killing me here.” He lets out a laugh but it’s a little too worried to have the desired effect.

After taking a few deep breaths, he looks back up at Ford and shifts out of the closet to press their foreheads together. The weird angle, being unable to see each other properly, makes it easier.

“I love you, Stanford. I’ve been in love with you for literally forever. This matters, a lot. More then anything else I’ve ever done and I’m beyond grateful to have it, that I get to have you. I at least wanted to take you out on one half decent date before taking you to bed. God knows I never did something so basic with quarter of the other people I dated over the years and look how those turned out.”

As if the effort put into the costume, something so simple as a date, wasn’t already enough to melt Ford’s heart. This basically turns it into soup sloshing around in the center of his chest, leaking out with a spreading warm feeling while still hammering hard enough to break skin.

“Oh, Stanley. That is perhaps the sweetest thing anyone has ever said ever, but you didn’t have to do all this. I mean, we’re still going to have to hide the fact it’s a date. I-“

“Yes, I did. You deserve it, Stanford. And even if I can’t kiss you while we skate, or hold your hand I still want you to have fun. It’ll be like when we where young again. You falling on your ass and me have to teach you again. No one ever questions that, I’m just a super awesome brother willing to help you out.” Stan’s eyebrows wiggling suggestively is felt against Ford’s forehead more then seen from how they’re standing.

The melting transitions to physically melting in against Stan’s chest, pulling him into a hug despite the earlier complaint about wrinkles. Shouldn’t pirates have those anyway? Like hell they iron they’re clothes. “You really did think of everything tonight, didn’t you?” It’s a surprise to everyone when Ford finds tears have escaped from his eyes when pulling back from the hug. He lets Stan brush them away, leaning into his hand with a lovesick sigh.

“That I did, I’m an excellent planner. No idea where I got that from, but it’s a pretty cool trait to have. And don’t worry, I promise not to get so drunk we can’t have sex after. We just might not get very far inside, if you can live with that?”

“Stan, I’d consider letting you screw me in the bathroom at the place if it meant we got to have sex a few minutes sooner. This outfit really accentuates all your best features and-“ Being closer Ford is able to take notice of something else. “Are you wearing a girdle?”

Later he’ll need to pay LeeFord back with something extra special for making these things hide blushes because his face would look cherry red right about now otherwise. “Yeah, I am. I thought it would make us more difficult to tell apart, for the outfit.” It’s half true, but really, he just wanted to try it out…. He knows that Ford doesn’t mind the stomach fat he’s got, but tonight is supposed to be perfect! One small addition couldn’t hurt, especially when it made him feel more confident.

That’s a lie. Ford knows Stanley is lying. But is now the time to call him out on it? Stan looks about ready to curl up and die having been forced to fess up this much. Later, when they get back, once all the layers are off, he’ll make sure to remind Stanley of how perfect every part of him is. Doing so now might kill Stans excitement and make for a more awkward conversation then praise during sex would.

“Should I put in contacts in place of my glasses then? You’ll have to remind me to take them out before bed though. I never wear them because I always forget.” He goes along with the lie for now, grabbing the bag and finding it surprisingly heavy off the closet door.

“Nah, I don’t know what kind of affect the tech might have on those. I know its good for the glasses he made but not much else. If I’d known you had contacts, I could have discussed it with LeeFord during the design process.” With the terrible moment passed he guides Ford over to the bed to help him get dressed. It is a lot of layers to put on even for someone who’s practiced it!

The outfit inside the bag is almost identical to Stanley’s and has just as many annoying layers. It’s going to be a real pain getting off later for sex, but the whole thing is too cool for him to audible complain about. In addition to everything Stanley has is a pair of circular shapes sunglasses. Except they match Ford’s prescription, doubling as normal eyewear. “Why did you-“

While securing Ford’s belts in place Stan interrupts him, “I figured you’d want to spend all night staring at me instead of socializing like the aloof man you are. Easier to do that if people can’t see what you’re looking at so long as you don’t turn your head.”

They look kind of ridiculous in the mirror but they do their intended job of letting him see while hiding his eyes. Good, that means Stanley can’t see more tears pooling while he refuses to let them fall. “Stan, I hope you know if I could I’d proposed to you over a gesture this big. This is amazing, minus the fact I’m going to have to be around other people for several hours.”

Behind Ford in the mirror Stanley has finished straightening out Ford’s coat and briefly disappears to bring his sword over, putting it into his sheath finishing the look. “Who’s to say you can’t, Mr. Science? You made an invisibility cloak, who says you can’t make a ring for me to wear, huh? Or maybe I could get a tattoo or something, somewhere only you can see it claiming me as yours, bet you’d like that. My boyfriend’s possessive.” He wraps both arms around Ford’s waist with a laugh, pressing kisses in against his neck with more giggles.

Another neat trick of the pants is that they are incredibly tight. It’s a little uncomfortable but between that and the built-in cup they hide any sort of erection one might be sporting. “Come on, let’s get in the car or we’re never actually getting out of the house.” He’s the one to give them a push towards the door, feeling lightheaded and grinning as wide as Stanley by now.

Walking on air isn’t as difficult as you’d think, not after a little bit of practice in the yard. Either the boots are designed to be easy to work out or Stanley is an excellent teacher. Possibly both.

The ride over to the indoor roller rink Ford can’t help but find himself excited. It’s unusual, given he hated all social situations. They don’t know anyone here, not really. Will it be weird staying glued to Stanley’s side the entire time? Is that something normal brothers would do? Maybe the normal kind of brothers who also wear matching costumes despite being twenty-eight.

This town is pretty weird, is anyone going to pay them any mind? Whatever, none of that matters because Stanley knows what he’s doing and will make sure this is fun. All he needs to do is hang on and enjoy the night without overthinking everything. The beginning was perfect and it’ll end with a bang making the middle irrelevant.

Stanley isn’t surprised to find the whole parking lot almost full meaning they have to park in the back, in the dark. It’s a minor unimportant part of the night. He stuns Ford with a kiss they really shouldn’t be sharing to give himself enough time to run around and open the car door for him with a wink. “You’re evening awaits, my sweet.”

Ford plays along, taking Stan’s hand and letting himself be helped out of the car while glancing around in case anyone is nearby. Lack of sex seemed like his soon to be cause of death earlier. Now its changed to being from too much sweetness, from Stanley. It’s turning his brain into mush for fucks sake! I’m a lucky man.

With the car door closed Stan pauses long enough to take off his hat and pull an eyepatch out of his coat pocket to put on over his bionic eye to complete his look. “This way I’ll still be able to look at you anytime I want and no one will know we’re gawking at each other.” With the hat back on and the boots powered off for now they’re ready to head inside. The lack of handholding hurts, but walking side by side will have to do until after they engage the hovering function later.

Once they’ve gotten inside Ford begins to realize what exactly he signed up for while his love and lust-soaked brain wasn’t paying attention. It would seem that the entire adult population, anyone old enough to drink, is inside this one building tonight.

Hundreds of people are scattered about split between tables, the rink, the bar, and a dance floor over near a stage where live music is being played. It’s incredibly loud with all the different conversations going on at once combined with the music, glasses clinking, and skates hitting the floor.

Everyone is dressed up too. Vampires, witches, werewolves, fairy’s, doctors, cops, and that’s not to even mention the various scantily clad women scattered throughout. Cats, nurses, playboy bunnies, and incredibly revealing dresses that don’t even seem to be related to any obvious costume.

Here Stanley is, dressed up looking as dashing as is physically possible, and now there are far too many people, women, who are going to try and talk to him. They’ll flirt with him and there is nothing that he can do about it without making a scene that must be avoided.

“Come on, let’s go over and get two of those fruity drinks you like. It’ll help loosen you up. I’m buying and then we’ll see if Fids was able to find a babysitter tonight or not. You’re going to love his costume, it’s nerd central and right up your alley!” He grabs Ford’s arm and pulls him away from the door over towards the bar, weaving through people on a mission.

While Stanley orders two long islands Ford uses his additional height because of the boots to try and spot Fids somewhere out among the crowd. It’s incredibly difficult to find him though without know what his costume is. He hadn’t said anything about having one during their time in the basement. Stanley must have told him to keep quite to avoid spoiling this. Bastard.

It almost feels like a double date, if they didn’t have to hide the fact that they’re on one to begin with from the other two people that are going to be here.

After starting a tab under Pines and grabbing their two drinks he passes one into Ford’s hand and encourages him to take a drink before starting to look around in search of Fids. It was a little short notice for them to find someone, with only five days’ notice, but hopefully-

“Over there, come on!” Once against Stan grabs Ford’s elbow a little more ‘feeling him up’ then is necessary while dragging him through more people over towards a table in the corner

Fids practically spit out his drink when they both come towering into view, getting up from the table him and Emma-May had claimed earlier. “About damn time you two showed up! You look incredible, is that real leather?!”

While Fids is inspecting their costumes Ford can notice what Fids and Emma are wearing as a couple costume. “Us? Are you two dressed up as the Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane!? Where on Earth did you get his scarf, it’s literally a mile long!” Ford grabs for it to look at while Fids snatches the leather hat to examine.

Stanley rolls his eyes and sits down on the inside of the still empty side of the bench across from Emma. “Geeze, you’re acting like you’ve never celebrated Summerween before. Show him the other companion, Fids!”

Fids practically throws Ford’s hat at him to grab a remote out of his pocket, flipping a switch, to direct a metal robot dog out from underneath the table. It’s a perfect replica of the companion K9 from Doctor Who!

“Oh my god! Did you make him Fids? This is brilliant, you’re definitely going to win the costume contest for sure if anyone here has taste!” Ford bends down to admire the robot, listening to Fids rattle off information about it while it moves around some before it gets directed safely back under the table.

“Hold your horses, Sixer! We’re taking first place and winning that thousand-dollar prize or my name isn’t Stanley Pine!” A long island ice tea isn’t in the top ten list of drinks he’d pick, but he hadn’t wanted Ford to feel weird being the only one with a ‘girly drink’ so he’d deal. They do get you drunk faster then beer at least, that’s a plus.

With the robot dog put away under the table Fids sits back down next to Emma and puts an arm around her shoulder, cuddling on their bench while using free hands to sip drinks. “Is that so? I thought you said the costume was ghost pirates? I’m seeing a lot of pirate but not any ghost.”

Stan motions Ford to sit next to him with the hand not holding his drink without directly looking at him. “Oh no, you get to be surprised like everyone else when we go up on stage later. Ford, you better keep your mouth shut until then. We don’t want to scare anyone before money is on the line.”

Drink halfway to his mouth Ford stops and glares at Stanley through his glasses. “On stage? As in, we have to go up on stage? In front of all these people?” He finds himself looking around at all the people in here, starting to panic at the very idea.

Using the hand lacking a drink Stan slaps Ford on the back, “Relax! I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is stand there and play the part. Science is going to do all the work!” He barks out a laugh before taking a large drink from his glass and dropping the hand without letting it linger longer than would be acceptable. Underneath the table he lays his hand in a way, given they’re sitting with backs against a wall, that handholding between them is well hidden because of the tablecloth.

Stan’s hand calms him down more than actual words do but instead he scoffs and shakes his head finishing the sip he’d been trying to take. “You’re splitting that prize money with me, asshole. You should have told me!”

Stan makes a yapping motion with his hand (after putting down his glass) in a place only Fids can see, making his friend almost choke on a sip in laughter. “Fine, fine. I suppose I could do that. If you stop being so uptight. Come on, these shoes don’t have built in wheels for nothing. I’ll teach you how to skate again.” With a squeeze of the hand Stan pulls it away, detangling so he can get up, waiting for Ford before heading towards the rink.

It takes several minutes for Fiddleford to get his laughter under control between choking, Stan’s giddy expression, and Emma laughing next to him on the bench. Nothing gets better than this, watching Stan and Ford be complete goofballs together. Two drinks are probably enough for this conversation.

Things are good, better than good. Great. He’s home on time every night, satisfied with the work now that its not world ending, and he’s got great friends to spend that time with anyway! His marriage is leagues better too. Everything changed when Stanley Pines came to town, for the better. If Fids thought they had a real chance of winning up against whatever those two have got cooking, he’d purposefully not enter to let them win. They deserve it.

Turning away from the rink to face Emma with one arm still around her shoulder makes his smile wider, a little giddy. A month ago, the idea of leaning over and kissing Emma would have been unthinkable with how cold things had gotten. He does so now, ignoring the risk of getting lipstick on his face. It’s brief, but sweet, and makes him smile a little wider.

“Emma, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” He shifts the hand down to wrap around her waist, holding her even closer. It feels like they’re in college again and that alone is like a dream. “I’ve been doing some thinking, with how things have been going lately. I know we ain’t perfect, but things are good again. You make me feel young, like no time has passed since Tate was born.”

Emma leans in against Fids side, keeping her head up enough to look at him. How on Earth his neck isn’t getting all itchy in the heat with that scarf is something only God knows. Like how the twins are managing to survive in what looks like three layers in here! To many people breathing in one space. “Fids, you really do say the sweetest things. Makes it worth getting done up in this silly outfit to make you happy. It’s fun.”

Fids takes another drink, taking a brief interlude before turning back to face Emma. They never had this conversation with Tate. It was never a decision because it was taken away from them to young. He makes himself talk through the fear, “I was thinking we should have another baby, Emma-May. Work ain’t going to be like this forever. Once that boat is done, I’m gonna go back to selling computers again. But from how ridiculously well those two pay me I could take time away from that, a year or two, to help get through the hard parts.” He rushes on through his explanation, breathing out the rest of his air and holding his empty lungs in anticipation.

Emma stares at him so long that Fids is forced to breath again or risk suffocating but otherwise tries not to let his smile faulter. She’s got her thinking face on, not outright refusing like he’d feared. Shoot, she might be considering it!

“Fids, it’s been six years. Do you remember how hard that was? The endless sleepless nights, our money troubles, not to mention the strain it put on us. I love Tate to pieces Fiddlesticks, but I don’t want to lose you trying to add to what’s already perfect.” Her words are cautious and worried.

“Emma-May, if we could get through an accidental pregnancy before we both had so much as a stable job, I’ve got complete faith in us to handle one now. And if we ever need help for any reason, we’ve got family in town. Now, I’m not above getting over my pride asking the twins for help if something unexpected happens.” And they’d help, if it came to that. Fids is sure of it.

“What we’ve got is perfect, but wouldn’t it be nice if Tate had a brother, or maybe a little sister? I mean, look at them,” Fids turns to look over towards the rink where off around the far side Stanley is trying to help Ford figure out how to stay up without landing on his face by linking elbows and holding him up. “Ford ended up in another dimension, Emma-May. But Stanley made sure he got home. If that’s what having a sibling is like, someone who’d do anything for ya, Tate should have that.”

Looking out towards the rink, following Fids finger pointing she can’t help but smile a little. It’s still insane sometimes to think that’s something that happened and that Fids helped do. She always knew he was special and bright, but that really is something else all on its own.

She laughs, pulling him over into a full hug, squeezing him tight. “Well, if you feel that passionate about it then maybe we should at least give it the old college try, huh? Though personally I think those two are a little too close, despite what happened. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them in the same room and more then five feet apart!”

Before Fids can think of a response she’s pulling back and tugging him forward into a more heated kiss. But its brief, “Say, let’s go out and have a smoke in the car like old times. It’s a little hot in here anyway, don’t you think?” She gets up off the bench, grabbing the end of his scarf to pull him along towards the door, giggling the whole time.

Fids would have to be an idiot not to follow, but he does glance over towards the rink one more time on the way spotting Stan and Ford skating easier now with Stanley leading but their arms still linked. A sharp tug on the scarf makes him forget seeing it.

Skating isn’t as hard as it was in high school, because back then Stanley already took the time to teach him. He fakes being truly awful at it now just for an excuse for help. They get away with three laps around the place before Stanley deems it too much contact and they skate side by side for a while.

It’s for the best and allows Ford to watch Stanley anyway which is the point. Blatantly staring at his ass without turning his head, watch the fancy footwork he must have picked up somewhere in the last decade. A kickflip was the extent of skateboard tricks he learned back in Jersey. Now Stan is being a total show off, skating backwards, doing a half split at one point, and a spinning jump too that almost results in him falling over but gets saves at the last second.

Stan had forgotten how physically exhausting skating was and having showed his piece directs them back towards the now empty table to finish their drinks. It’s while they chatting, Stan trying his best to explain what little technical jargon he knows about the shoes, that they get their first interruption of the night by a woman.

A hand comes up from Stan’s side, with him sitting on the outside this time, tapping him to pull his attention away from the conversation.

Stan actually rolls his eye at Ford and then does what must be a wink but can’t be done right with the eyepatch in the way before spinning around. Despite being the perfect height sitting down to come face to face with a very nice rack, he doesn’t look. Ma raised him to be respectful, he can be if he chooses.

“You two look great tonight! It’s a little hot for all those layers, but you two really pull them off! Awesome twin costume, I almost didn’t recognize you!” It’s Tina who sits on the empty bench across from them that are still vacant from when Fids and Emma disappeared.

“Why thank you, I made them myself, with this guy’s help that is!” Stan takes the excuse to mess up Ford’s hat and hair with a headlock and noogie accompanied by loud laughter.

Ford scowls, pushing Stan off halfheartedly while internally smiling.

“I can’t believe you two came out! No one ever sees you out in town these days, busy working on that boat I take it? How’s it coming along?” She seems genuinely excited to see them and not necessarily being flirty despite her revealing outfit.

“Oh, you bet. We’ve got the plans halfway done already. Then all we gotta do is the piecing it together. Out foreman has a sailing date estimated for sometime in September, forgoing any unforeseen mishaps!”

“Well, if you happen to need any more library books, I’m good as a dealer! I know where you live if I need to come steal them back!” She giggles a little over her drink. “Listen, you can’t blame a girl for trying, but any chance you’d want to dance?” The question is vague and she looks at both of them.

Ford is brimming with self-assurance and confidence in Stan’s ability to make this problem go away so he takes a long drink, finishing it, leaving the talking to girls and breaking their hearts to Stanley.

“You know what, usually I’d say no, but if it’ll get Sixer here out on the dance floor, I don’t have much of a choice, heh? You go on ahead, if we’ve gonna dance that required shedding a layer!” he waves her off, smile not faltering even when Ford glares at him.

“Oh, relax. A girl between us is the closest I’m going to get to dancing with you Stanford, you know I’m going to be the one bent over the couch later screaming your name.” He whispers in Ford’s ear before quickly leaning away and getting up to unhook the sword sheath from his belt to leave here at their table along with the top overcoat.

At least the heat is a good excuse for a bright red face and these pants hide the constant problem he’s had since Stanley first told him to turn around in their bedroom. It gets worse watching Stanley remove the coat, revealing the back of his pants.

Ford has assumed, though hadn’t been able to check, that they were completely normal trousers. Wrong. Stan’s pants are different from his in the fact that they have a subtle seam you wouldn’t noticing unless you were staring and-

Long story short, it would seem a zipper butt flap was installed on them. Very discretely.

“Come on Ford, it’s impolite to keep a lady waiting!” Instead of helping Ford he grabs their empty glasses to go return to the bar, leaving Ford alone for the first time since walking inside.

It takes a full minute for him to even think about getting up. Stanley is actually trying to kill him tonight, or rial him up more than a full week already has, either way its working. After adjusting himself, painfully, he gets up and copies the amount of layers Stan removed a little slower since he’s less familiar with the getup. More attention should have been paid when Stan dressed him earlier.

Dancing, unlike skating, is just as awful as he remembers. Its awkward, he never knows what to do with his hands, and in the larger than normal shoes it’s easier to trip then it used to be. However, it doesn’t go as bad as he expected to. Never before had he considered that being a twin could be used as an advantage in these kinds of situations.

All Ford has to do is copy Stanley’s movement, mirrored across from him, the whole time. That’s something he can do, no matter how ridiculous it feels to be throwing his arms around. It looks good when Stan does it, so it can’t be as bad as it feels. Tina, who they really shouldn’t be encouraging just for their own benefit, seems to think they’re using twin telepathy to manage it.

She might be a little more drunk than it appeared over at the table, but that is also to their benefit. It means she hardly notices how neither of them is paying attention to her despite being directly between them. It’s truthfully the only thing keeping him from doing something incredibly inappropriate like grinding against Stans ass.

After dancing comes another drink and a smoke break outside, more talking at the table, and a third drink. Over the time they sit Stan has to take an annoying amount of time to turn chicks away. He even has to do it twice for Ford but he stays polite and smiles through it every time before turning back and continuing like nothing happened.

How ridiculous would it be to fuck in the bathroom? I mean, really. Who would know? Turn on the antigravity function so it only looks like one of them is in a stall and presto, easy. It doesn’t matter anymore. He needs Stanley otherwise it feels like his skin will slop off and his brain will turn into a fried egg.

It has gotten so bad that he doesn’t have half a clue what Stanley could be saying in the first place, much less paying attention. His eyes are all too focused on those plump lips and he’s leaning on his hand like an idiot too. He only stops when Stan pushes it out from under his face and starts laughing at him, taking away his half finished third drink.

“I think you’ve maybe had too much Sixer. That’s enough for the night or you won’t make it on stage, much less home.” Not a moment too soon because finally, after a very long time, Fids and Emma-May have come back to the table with fresh drinks and clothes a little rumpled but otherwise in working order.

“You two look like you had fun!” Fids comments, noting that both Stanley and Ford are both considerably sweater then before they disappeared. Stan is missing two layers of coats, draped over the bench with his shirt more open than it was before. Ford is only missing the one coat with his hat.

Stanley isn’t drunk enough to miss that Fids looks somehow happier then when he disappeared and slightly flushed. Both of them are, despite not being anywhere inside the building that he could see. “Ford, you think you and Emma could go get our tickets for the costume contest? It’s supposed to be held at midnight which should be coming up soon.” Very discretely Stan switches his wallet from his pants pocket over to Ford’s when Fids is looking at Emma all goo-goo eyes.

Still feeling like he might die Ford accepts his fate and pointedly decides that after they win, he’s going to screw Stanley’s brains out in the bathroom. It’s a good plan and gives him the strength to stand up without stumbling. It helps having Emma to walk next to with her leading the way across the room over towards the stage to wherever he’s supposed to be going.

“Fids, you absolute dog. Did you just screw your wife in the back seat of your car like a couple of teenagers?” Stanley barely lets Emma and Ford get out of sight before asking, enjoying the full-face flush and sputter it causes.

The blush and spluttering turns into a small smile, the alcohol loosening his tongue. “We’ve decided to start trying for another baby, Stanley. We’re gonna try to give Tate a sibling, if we can.”

 It’s pretty much impossible for Stanley to smile wider, but he tries anyway briefly lifting up his eyepatch. “Seriously!? Fiddleford, that’s amazing!? You’re such a great dad, I just know you’ll do great, again!” He gets up from his side of the table to pull Fids into a hug. Maybe the kid doesn’t exist yet, but it might as well for how excited Stan gets about it.

Fids returns the hug for a minute before pulling back, “You know, we never bothered with having godparents with Tate. Emma’s family lives in Vermont and mine live in Tennessee. But this time will be different. I’d have to discuss it with Emma, especially when were a little more sober, but I think you’d make a great Godfathe-“

Stan just about chokes Fids in another hug and can’t prevent two small tears from escaping no matter how hard he tries. “Abso-fucking-lutely! Of course I will Fids! You don’t even have to ask!” After a minute Fids gives up pulling away until Stanley lets go, which takes a minute.

Before much more can be said the sound of a mic being tapped from across the room where music was playing earlier on the stage. “Will all the participants for the costume contest please make your way over to the stage please? We’ll be starting the presentations momentarily!”

“Shit, guess we should get over there. May the better scientist win?” Stan extends a hand out to Fids to shake before quickly pulling his coats back on and resecuring everything while watching Fids starting making his way through the crowd with his robot dog.

With his own outfit fixed he also grabs Ford’s hat, coat, and sword before sneaking his way over to find his brother. The extra couple inches make a difference over the crowd of tall hats and allows him to find Ford pressed against a wall holding two tickets while Fids talks away at him about the dog down on the floor.

Ford hasn’t spotted him yet and seems to be looking at Fids and the floor, hard to tell because of his fancy glasses.

Tonight, has been perfect. Sure, it could have been a little better with some grinding or handholding, but working with what they got its enough. He can’t remember Ford looking this happy and blissed out, not even during or after sex which is saying something. Hopefully he’ll sober up a little more between now and when they get home. They both deserve to remember their second first time.

Joining Emma and Fids with Ford Stan has a good excuse of his brother being clumsily drunk to help him put his coat and sword back on as well as the hat. They both still look sweaty but the ghost effects will hide it making them look colder and more ghoulish!

The contest is rated on an audience cheering scale with different rounds for close calls with a set of (thankfully not drunk) judges.

A lot of the costumes are pretty run of the mill. A group of slutty cats that have had too much to drink, a coven of vampires in pretty realistic looking clothing, and Tina is part of a group of people from Duke of Hazards with her dressed as Daisy Duke.

They’re all good, don’t get it twisted, but they don’t have the razzle dazzle needed to get everyone in the building gasping and yelling. The closest anyone gets is a group dressed as the Scooby Doo Gang who have a real dog with a coat that looks pretty close to Scooby! They get about half.

It’s a grand shame that Fids and Emma with their robot dog don’t get more then twenty people cheering and a lot of polite claps. Stanley and Ford are by far the loudest but some people do seem to enjoy Fids controlling the dog and piloting it around in circles in front of the stage. It’s just not that visible, killing the trick.

Then its their turn and it takes a lot of self-control not to take Ford’s hand and yank him along up on stage. This is, by far, the most people Stanley has ever done any sort of presentation or show in front of. By hundreds. No problem. Once you’ve done a presentation to one person, it’s easy.

Up on stage he leans over to the guy running the show, a tall skinny rich guy who looks like he could use a couple of his straight perfect teeth being knocked in. Northwest or something. “Hey, you mind if we introduce ourselves? Your gonna want to see this front row.”

The guy looks tired and is wearing a suit instead of a costume. Too tired to care. “Knock yourself out buddy, but if you break something you buy it.”

No, this is actual death. Not Stanley teasing him all night with the promise of sex at home afterwards. This. Right here. Is how Stanford Pine dies. Not dancing, not sexual frustration, but standing on a stage in front of their entire town’s adult population. And. Someone just gave Stanley a microphone. Fuck.

“Goooood evening ladies and gentleman! How are we all doing tonight here in Gravity Falls?!” His voice is loud enough to carry across the whole space and when he gets no cheers he carries on. Oh, we’ll see who’s cheering in a minute. “What a beautiful night to celebrate Summerween here. You know, this is my first time but having been all over the country I can honestly say you guys know how to throw a real party! Not a lot of places can say that!”

“My name is Stanley and this is my twin brother Stanford Pines who you may not know that well because he likes to hide in our basement!” He laughs into the mic, flashing Ford a grin despite knowing he’ll get killed for all this later. “He’s a genius, the smartest guy in this room and I’m not just saying that to avoid him hanging me after all this! I’ve got 100% pure grade proof and we’re wearing it! Now, without further ado, enjoy the show!”

After setting the mic down on the stand he moves back to Ford’s side. “Alright, now for the easy part. We turn on the boots, do a little sword fight well levitating, and we’ve got it made Sixer.” He gives Ford a nudge to shake him out of the stage fright he seems to be stuck in.

It doesn’t work. Ford is frozen still caught up on the number of people looking at him without having fully processed anything Stanley said after introducing them. How did he ever expect to accept an award like a Nobel Prize when this is barely a fraction the number of people they’d have in Sweden. That’s broadcasted live. Is this? His eyes panic and search the crowd.

He finds a tripod in the space in front of the stage, aimed right at them by a woman. Maybe not live, but what if this ends up on the news? Is it a home video type situation or-

Stanley steps over in front of Ford because the silence is going on too long. His broad shoulders block most of the crowd except for those directly to the side of the stage. “Hey, don’t think about them. Look at me, Sixer. Forget they’re here for a minute, okay?” Under so many eyes he can’t exactly cup Ford’s jaw so instead he grabs both shoulders and gives him a little shake to get him back.

It takes longer than it should to get his pupils to focus back on Stanley’s face but after another long silence it happens. He can do that, just look at Stanley. Breathe. In and out. Having a panic attack certainly isn’t going to help matters. Wouldn’t that be quite a television broadcast. “Okay, alright. Just. Just get it over with.” It comes out in a whisper but he keeps his eyes on Stanley using the glasses as cover while keeping his head straight.

Without grabbing the microphone, which would delay this further, Stan just uses his voice to shout instead while finally bending down to flip open the panel and start turning on the boots. He makes sure Ford mirrors him the whole time. It has to be in sync to have the full effect. “And now, I give you, our costume! Pirate Ghosts!”

Ford only fumbles a little bit turning the boots on but presses the two other buttons and closes it back up only two seconds behind Stanley without moving his eyes off him.

Tomorrow the volume he used to amplify his voice throughout the building will hurt like hell but its worth it to get everyone’s eyes back on them right before the magic happens.

Traveling up from their legs is the translucent white out effect allowing anyone looking to see through them towards the drum set and other music supplies sitting on the back half of the stage. Next comes the floating which naturally only goes up two inches without additional help.

Turning away to face Ford instead of the crowd Stan grins, kicking both feet upwards so he’s about a foot up in the air for all to see. Then he starts to draw his sword out of its holster while the crowd is still stunned in silence. “Argh! If you want me bootie, you’ll have to fight me for it you dirty scallywag!” Stan aims the sword down at Ford who is now at a height disadvantage and still unarmed.

There is no way Stanley just said something like that in front of all these people.

But no. A beat of silence passes and then-

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! FIGHT!”

The chanting starts off small by someone quickly lost as more people join in egging them on from off stage. Occasionally its interrupted by other words and various shouts but Ford is still flabbergasted at the damn eyebrow wiggle Stanley is giving him.

Oh, fuck it. What’s the point in fighting it when over half the crowd is chanting while he stands around like a dumb rock?

The encouragement gives him the confidence to draw his own sword and kick up some so they’re at even height in the air, extending out his sword. “You’ll regret the day your ever challenged me, prepare to walk the plank!” Yowch. His throat hurts trying to yell over the crowd. It probably gets lost anyway.

Sword fighting on level ground is challenging enough as it is. Doing it in midair is even more difficult. The shoes allow for some sort of stability but it takes practice to keep steady without being knocked back into people as silence falls as the fight starts. Other than the occasional cheer.

Stanley gets in a few good hits and parries since he knows to keep one boot tilted backwards behind himself, taking the blunt of each clash to avoid being flung back. Ford learns that lesson the hard way almost knocking into Fiddleford but stopping himself just short of kicking him in the chest after being thrown into a flip.

Three fractions form throughout the fight. One chanting Stanley, the other chanting Stanford. Both of them get mixed up because of the similar names, morphing into one that you can’t really distinguish unless you pay close attention. The third is people yelling in general. Hollering, whooping, screaming, shouting, cursing, etc.

Once Ford gets a good handle on how the shoes work by losing some and watching how Stanley avoids the same effects he starts gaining ground. They don’t usually seriously sword fight. It’s careful and playful without either of them trying to get real jabs in for fear of injuring the other. Now it’s a little more intense. Orchestrated, sure, still more serious.

Stanley purposefully leaves spots open only to deflect at the last second to make it look good. Putting on an excellent show. Who is supposed to win? Every other aspect of tonight has been hand picked down to the minute detail. Is he supposed to take an opening to knock Stan’s sword away? Or is he supposed to lose his?

Don’t overthink it. Ford enjoys the moment instead. The yelling, the positive attention, the play of it. It’s a show, but they’re having fun as much as everyone else watching. It must be a shocking sight seeing two people levitating and appearing holographic in appearance.

At least he’ll no longer be known as the drunk nutjob. He’ll be….the brilliant scientist.

When Ford spots an opening to knock Stan’s hand away he takes it, catching the handle and causing the sword to drop out of Stanley’s hand down onto the floor in front of the stage with a loud and final sounding clang with the metal reverberating against the hardwood floor as the crowd goes quite other than some gasps.

Stanley’s hands are both empty now with Ford pointing his sword up at Stanley’s neck. More cheers erupt and Ford gives Stanley a too warm smile using his free hand to fix his glasses. It’s amazing he didn’t lose them after doing a backward summersault through the air earlier. With the fight over he pulls back his sword, moving to holster it while the shouting gets louder.

A good show is nothing without an unexpected plot twist now, is it?

Reaching into his coat pocket Stanley pulls out what appears to be a long hunk of metal. Flicking it outwards however a collapsable dagger comes into view and Stanley takes full advantage of the awkward angle Ford has with the sword half tucked away. He pushes over behind Ford, holding the dagger right over Ford’s heart where the shirt is stained in blood.

Thank God the crowd shuts up because yelling loud enough for everyone to hear is hard. “You silly scoundrel! You think you can best Captain Pines! Think again, you’ll be sleeping in Davy Jones's Locker tonight!” Without further ado Stanley plunges the collapsable blade down against Ford’s chest with both hands directly over where his heart would be.

“You dirty bastard!” Ford plays along, attempting to pull away but then pretending to choke and pass out after the knife has been plunged. There is no pain, of course. A slight pin prick at most and-

Looking down under his eyeglasses fresh blood has appeared, drenching the rest of the front of his shirt and making for a stark contrast against their white appearances. It must have come from the fake weapon Stanley is holding making a mess. It is surprisingly challenging playing dead when all Ford wants to do is smile. He forces himself to wait. Wait. Wait….

Stanley yanks the dagger out, spraying fake blood out across the crowd with the dramatic wave he does and then physically pushing Ford’s body down towards the ground under he’s laying on his back just two inches above it. Stan plants a foot right over the ‘wound’ and pushes him the rest of the way down letting out a loud evil laugh and letting it echo across the room.

No one can decide if this is part of the show or if they just witnessed a murder live in person as a beat of silence passes.

Then the scene crumbles and Stanley lifts his foot up, grabbing Ford’s hand to pull him back onto both feet despite them both still floating. Blood, or fake blood, scattered across Stanley’s face and hand with Ford’s whole front shirt drenched in it despite the district lack of a wound through the shirt.

“Pines. Pines. Pines! Pines! Pines! Pines! PINES!! PINES!!!" Stanley starts to chant, settling one arm around Ford’s shoulder and holding up the bloody dagger with the other, getting the whole crowd to chant along.

Only after everyone is being too loud to hear does Stanley speak to Ford, turning to look at him a little. “You did fucking great. Told you that prize money would be ours.” Then he forcibly pulls Ford down into a deep bow, that he couldn’t fight if he tried, to the crowd before stepping back to where they started to let go and turn off the damn boots.

Long after they’ve gone back to being regular pirates, swords holstered, and the blood has been cleaned up people are still shouting, clapping, cheering for them both. It goes on so long that the guy who was supposed to introduce them comes up and has to use the microphone to calm people down.

That, is exactly why Stanley had made sure they went last. It’s an impossible act to follow and now no one has to.

They still have to go through the secondary rounds of cheering. Those that made it to the next round go up, weeding out the lesser-liked costumes, but it’s not a fair contest anymore. Stepping back up for a second round everyone in the building is cheering all over again.

Again, at the end for the third and final round. They don’t have to do an encore to get everyone shouting. Stanley just rases the dagger again and the familiar words, “Pines! Pines! Pines!” Ring out like they’re a sports team who won the Super Bowl.

The actual announcement and congratulations that come afterwords are a blur to Stanford. The whole thing is so loud, so intense, that his mind sort of numbs it out and can’t hear any real words anymore. All he knows is that he hasn’t let go of Stanley’s arm since they did their bow during the first round after the fight, letting himself be guided around like a show dog.

That’s not what this is, not in the way his brain likes to think, but kinda. They won. They were fantastic. Stanley, was fucking brilliant.

It could be the alcohol or the adrenaline talking but it feels so monumentally impressive how Stanley just-

He orchestrated a perfect night, effortlessly. Made it so they had the best possible time, ever, with it continuing to escalate every step of the way. Between being announced the winner and going across the room to pick up the check he’s aware of Stanley guiding him somewhere else but can hardly care where it is. He’s floating on cloud nine and still hasn’t stopped smiling either.

It takes longer than it should to detangle from every new person who wants to talk to them, asking how they did it.

‘Was it a hologram? Where did you get the swords? Do you sell those shoes?’

Each question comes with a deflection.

‘No, it was real. A pawn shop in Jersey, Pines family Pawn. My dad’s the owner if your ever in Glass Shard Beach. No, unfortunately Stan Co. Enterprises will not be selling them until after the technology patent is approved, but this town will be first to know! Excuse me!’

Finally, after what feels like a half an hour, they manage to get into the bathroom without someone following them inside and he pulls Ford into one of the stalls. Alone for the first time all night he reaches up to push the glasses up out of the way to look at him. Stan brushes away the tears that have fallen. “Hey, it’s alright. Shit. Did I fuck it up? Too far?”

Words are a little too much for his mind to handle right now so Ford shoves Stanley back against the wall of the stall, crushing him in a searing hot kiss starting with a bite of teeth and a moan that is entirely too loud for being so close to other people outside the door. Sure, no one is in here now, but it won’t be like that for long.

Stan could get out of being pinned, but its kinda hot letting Ford push him around so he doesn’t try and returns the kiss instead, putting one hand on top of Ford’s hat to keep it from falling off while his own was knocked sideways and tilted from the impact.

“I need you, right now, or I’m going to lose it on the way out of here and fuck you over one of those tables in front of all those people. Now. Please, for the love of God, tell me you brought lube like the blessing from above you are and the devil below tempting me to take you so carnally no sex ever satisfies you again.”

Ford isn’t sure that made sense or not, but he begins feeling up Stan’s pockets anyway looking for a lube shaped bottle somewhere with one hand while the other reaches back to fumble with the zipper on the back of the pants.

Shit, if Stan wasn’t hard before he’s at full attention now with Ford getting all desperate and demanding. “No need, Sixer. I thought ahead. We’re good to go. Here, let me turn on the boots so only two feet are visible below the door.”

He pulls away enough to reach down and turn on the antigravity and then pushes up a little to be at the height of Ford’s waist, laying backwards a little in the air and planting one hand on the wall to keep steady with either leg spread wide. “Ravish me Sixer, just keep it down so no one hears or I’ll have to choke you again.” He winks, grinning with teeth.

“You’ll have to choke me, without question. I’m going to ruin you.” One hand finds the stupid tiny zipper to open up the butt flap on Stan’s pants and after a minute manages to get them out of the way so he can pull Stanley flush against his waist, groping both cheeks before dipping two fingers down the middle-

Tucked neatly, invisible, inside Stan’s ass is what he can only assume is a butt plug. He isn’t so sheltered as to not know what they are, but its unexpected to find one here now. At some point before leaving the house Stanley had taken the time to prep himself with ample lube and then-

All of that had been done while wearing it. Without waiting a second more, already running on borrowed time, he pulls out the plug and finds its surprisingly long. Perhaps prostate brushing long. “Have you been walking around at full mast all night with this in?” He almost drops it in the damn toilet with his eyes locked onto Stan’s.

Using the wall Stanley is able to push his hips a little closer to Ford without getting much friction in their current position. “Fuck, yes. You have any idea how difficult it was? Get those stupid pants off and fuck me. Been on edge all damn night waiting for this.” Reaching down and around he takes the removed plug from Ford’s hand, guiding it up and pushing it into Ford’s mouth. “Maybe this will help keep you quiet.”

It's absolutely filthy having something that was recently shoved up Stan’s ass now being pressed into his mouth. Yet, all Ford can do is moan around it and draw it in deeper with his tongue while reaching down to start undoing his overly complicated pants to free his aching dick.

The sound of the door opening and closing can be heard but it doesn’t halt or delay his efforts. Pants being pulled open is a normal sound to hear in the bathroom. His teeth bite down on the plug to avoid making any out of place slurping sounds or another moan.

“Stanley? Are you in here? The mayor is looking for you two with the check and no one can seem to find you? Where is Ford?” It’s Fids, walking through the room checking from the back forward for them.

“In here Fids! We’ll be out in a minute. Ford needs a minute to catch his breath and get away from his many adoring fans!” Stan makes no move to get down despite Ford’s hand freezing in place.

“What are you two doing in the same bathroom stall?” Fids voice sounds concerned but also a little perplexed and…suspicious.

“I think the stage fright and the alcohol got to him. He threw up, lucky to make it to the toilet at all. Do me a favor and go stall? I’ll get him out as soon as he’s finished. Last thing he needs is to throw up on the mayor’s shoes!” Stan throws in an amused laugh that hopefully puts Fids at ease.

A moment of contemplated silence follows.

“Well….alright. I’ll see if Emma and I can keep him busy for a few minutes. Don’t take long.” He still sounds unsure, hesitating, before the sound of footsteps receding and heading towards the door can be heard followed by the clicking of the door.

Never one to be too careful, and being the most sober one, Stanley does lean forward up over Ford’s shoulder to look over the stall door to confirm Fids really left before falling back into position. “Hurry the fuck up, you have about three minutes before he comes back and you don’t want to be balls deep in my ass while having to explain you aren’t dead.”

Pants undone Ford pulls the plug out of his mouth to collect spit on one hand to lube himself up, slotting it back as a gage in his mouth while lining himself up. It’s hotter sinking into Stan’s ass then it was out in the main area and he quickly fumbles for purchase on Stan’s hips to pull him down while thrusting up to push deeper.

Fucking in a dirty bathroom isn’t near the top of the list of ‘second first time ideal places’ but it’s better than having to wait another moment. It’s through sheer force of will that he didn’t cave sooner before their date. With both legs wrapped around Ford’s waist he pulls himself the rest of the way down, dropping his head back against the wall with a muffled grunt.

“Come on Sixer, fuck me so hard you have to help me walk straight out of this bathroom. Ruin me and-“ His words get cut off by Ford pulling out quickly and slamming back in knocking the words out of his mouth.

With eyes narrowed Ford’s mind comes back together into a sharp focused point like an ice pick. Yeah, he’s going to get off and come harder then ever before in his life, but first Stanley gets the celebrity treatment.

Gripping both hips and locking his mouth around the plug to keep noise to the minimum he takes off at a brutal pace without warning pulling most of the way out and slamming all the way in to the base with the loud schleck sound caused by the lube and his balls hitting Stan’s ass.

“Oh baby, fuck yeah.” Stan grits out, keeping his voice down while reaching down to palm at his own erection through his pants. “That’s it, shit!” Ford changed his angle on purpose to pull an almost squeal out of him. When Ford wants to get shit done, he knows exactly what to do.

Every thrust slams into his prostate, the head pressing and rubbing against it to drag out the stab of heat almost constantly with how fast the thrusts are. “Yes! Damn you know how to use that cock. Gonna make me cum in my pants. Don’t worry, they’ll prevent a wet patch. Designed, ahh!”

For once Ford wants Stanley to be the one absolutely losing himself and he thinks maybe he can find the strength to keep quite if it means being able to talk. He pulls out the plug and clutches it in one fist against Stan’s waist. “I can’t fucking believe you, pulling a stunt like that. Must get off on being hard as a rock in front of all those people with them cheering you on. You’d like if I lost control and fucked you out there, wouldn’t you? Bet you’d beg for it.”

It's hard to decide between watching Ford work or closing his eyes to picture the scene. The pleasure in his groin wins out over feelings, eyes falling closed. “Fuck yes, all I could think about standing behind you with that dagger was resisting the urge to grind up against you for everyone to see, shit!” The image of getting off from grinding against Ford’s ass makes his cock throb inside the suffocating fabric. It hurts, but in a good way.

“Maybe I should walk right out of this stall with you impaled on me, huh? Give everyone a fucking encore where you cum all over yourself and get stuffed full!” His voice is quiet, just above a whisper, but gravely from yelling earlier on stage and already beyond wrecked.

“Yes! Do it, fuck me full! Please, harder Sixer, fucking need it like air or I’m gonna die, please!” It’s like the world falls away in these moments leaving just them and their bodies merging into one for a little while before being forced to separate.

“That’s right, your mine.” To keep the plug from getting dropped Ford presses it into Stan’s mouth instead, allowing for better leverage on his hips to go faster, harder, pushing both legs further apart to reach deeper.

“Only I get to have my perfect Stanley like this, spread open on my cock begging to cum and to be filled. Soon as we get home, I’m gonna fuck you until dawn, Lee. You’ll be so sore you’ll have to fucking crawl, stuffed full and leaking my seed. Good thing you can’t get pregnant, but I’m damn sure gonna try.”

The orgasm comes barreling through him like a freight train with rails growing hotter with friction, room getting too loud to discern separate sounds, much less words, before it all crashes. His legs tense up, locking in place around Ford’s waist, and the plug is going to be marked from how hard he bites down muffling a scream.

Pushing Stan’s hand away he rubs Stan’s cock through the fabric, milking him through it without stopping his own thrusts. It’s so damn tight, so hot, feels so good watching Stanley fall apart with his cock spurting by my hand. “That’s it, make a real pretty mess for me. Again, come on, don’t stop.” He keeps stroking, palming, never letting up for a second long after Stan’s cock has stopped twitching.

A much too loud moan escapes with traces of drool leaking out of Stan’s mouth before he starts sucking on the plug instead, making obscene slurping sounds and looking down at Ford half in a daze.

“Not gonna stop now, Lee. Gonna make you cum again. You will cum on my cock again, don’t you want that? How many times do you think we can manage tonight? After a week I’m betting at least five.” His own hips are stuttering now, growing painfully close. Not yet, not yet, shit!

Using one hand Stan manages to pull the plug back out with a low groan, “Fuck yeah, cum in my ass. Shit..” It’s been a long time since he’s trusted anyone enough to go bareback but it’s a hell of a rush and makes the overstimulation of Ford continuing to stroke his cock a little hotter. Still painful, but with a softer edge.

“Oh, shit! Shit! That’s it, such a sweet tight ass.” With one hand Ford lands a light slap on one cheek, pulling him in closer while continuing to thrust, forcing through the overstimulation. “Ah, ah! Fuck, yeah! Feels, hurts, so good Lee!”

Stanley shoves the plug back in Ford’s mouth to shut him up when he starts getting way too loud. Technically any noise is too loud, but he’s too far gone to care. “I love you so damn much Sixer, don’t stop. Fuck, not sure if these paahh!” Biting down in the only way to stop a particularly loud moan and his lips are gonna be swollen to hell after. “Faster, stroke me faster, right there, little to the rightahh!”

Feeling Ford attack that extra sensitive spot under the head while continuing to stroke with his extra wide hand drives Stan crazy. And he’s still. Fucking. Thrusting. Hadn’t stopped the whole time despite how bad that’s gotta hurt before it gets good again.

His cock is fucking through the first load of semen but surprisingly none leaks out despite how gravity usually works. Maybe it has something to do with the boots, Ford can nerd out about it later when he’s not busy plowing ass like a farming sowing oats to avoid starving next year.

Ford is still moving, distantly aware of his locked jaw, but his mind is still focused on the drive to move and the pleasure and pain its causing. Every thrust is wet, tight, and hot with new lube paving the way. Stan is fluttering almost constantly, almost milking his cock, and its so much and not enough all at once.

Just a little more. A little deeper. A little harder. A lot more. The next thrust. Cum. Cum. CUM! He needs to get Stanley to finish again and tighten up again so the hand working his cock, feeling damp through the fabric, presses harder and is rewarded by a sharp cry.

They’re both sweater then they ever managed dancing and there is a fat chance in hell no one picks up on what they did in the bathroom but Stan’s mind is too busy teetering on the edge of an abyss to give a single shit.

Pushing back from the wall causes their hips to collide, jostling everything a little harder and Stan’s uses it, putting both hands onto the wall behind himself to slam down into Ford every time he thrusts back in and its perfect. So, fucking perfect. “Shit, shit! Shit! Ford! Stanford!” He has to use his own hand to muffle his shouting with both eyes rolling back.

The slightly damp patch on the front of Stan’s pants from the first round and precum gets worse but Ford strokes him through it with drool dripping down from his mouth onto his blood-stained shirt as Stanley clenches. Too tight to move or for Ford to do anything other then grind up, press deeper, and cum inside again.

This time, without the constant movement Ford keeps his cock pressed as deep as possible while it twitches and spurts a sizable amount because of how long it’s been. Stan’s going to have a very hard time walking out of here without another women throwing themselves at him looking all sweaty, covered in drool, and ass dripping cum on top of the obvious stain-

Uh oh.

Barely thirty seconds into a second orgasm and his mind is already settled enough to realize how screwed this picture is. It’s hot as hell, but this isn’t going to work for something as simple as walking out to the car, much less stopping to meet with the mayor on the way! Fuck!

It’s midnight, what is the mayor doing up this late anyway? What is anyone on a weekday? Maybe tomorrow everyone has it off or something by default. This town’s holidays rarely make sense.

Stan is too out of it, blissed and gone, to do much more then moan in pleasure and at the lose having the plug removed from his mouth, dick removed from his ass, and immediately replaced. He should probably help cleaning up but not enough neurons are firing to think of offering.

“Stanley, wake up. I need help here and you can’t fall asleep now!” It comes out in a hiss and watching Stan just close both eyes again does stroke his ego. Not helping their situation though.

Using toilet paper, which thankfully this stall has a lot of, Ford is able to clean up the spit they both got everywhere except for some patches hidden on Stan’s pants underneath his coats. After cleaning his own dick up, and closing his pants neatly, he does what he can about Stan’s pants.

Getting the zipper closed again is easy and it’s hidden by the coat anyway but there is literally nothing to do about the stain on the front of Stan’s pants, except-

Shifting Stanley down onto both feet, despite him still being barely coherent, Ford is able to turn on the white translucent setting. Amazingly, it does the trick of hiding body fluids other then blood. Thank God for science and either Stanley or LeeFord thinking of this. It’ll be a little weird and get them swarmed, but that’s going to happen anyway. At least this way the large cum stain won’t be visible.

“Stanley? Come on, you need to at least be able to talk a little before we walk back out there, come on.” He gives him a shake but is forced to wait a minute or two for him to come back around. It’s kinda nice holding Stanley and getting to enjoy the afterglow despite the panic for a few seconds anyway.

“Sixer?” The name comes out slurred but Stan does lift his head to look at Ford with half open eyes at least which is better then snoring against his shoulder.

“Lee, you need to focus here. I’m sure we’ve been in here for at least ten minutes and Fids is going to kill us if we don’t get moving already. They aren’t going to wait around all night for us to collect that prize money no matter how cool our show was.” A loose wave from Stanley is not helping.

Fine, guess they’ll just have to go outside looking like this. To hide any mistakes, he might have made on his own appearance Ford reaches down and clicks on his own boots, antigravity, and whiteout setting.

Looking in the mirror they still look a mess. Maybe the kind of mess you could blame on puking up your guts from food poisoning though from those terrible chili fries Stanley insisted they buy earlier. Good enough.

Without delaying any longer Ford glides them through the air with one arm around Stan’s shoulder to keep him close and from floating off when half asleep. One more fix of their hats and his glasses and Ford guides them out through the door and as far away from the bathroom as possible in case anyone heard anything.

Finding Fids while having an extra two inches off the ground on top of the shoes is easy, over near the judges table where he’s alone talking with the mayor. Great, here they go with the expert liar dead. Maybe they should have been one and done instead of getting overzealous.

“Oh, there you are, it’s about time! We were beginning to think you slipped out without saying goodbye!” The mayor is quick to shake Ford’s hand (boy is it good he washed them) while looking amused at how Stan appears incredibly inebriated.

“No, of course not. What would be the point in winning if we left without claiming the prize-“

Something here isn’t adding up from Fids perspective. Ford was the one hurling in the bathroom earlier while Stanley sounded perfectly fine. Now he’s the one barely capable of standing, appearing half asleep on Ford’s shoulder.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Stanley just had really good sex and still hasn’t come back down yet.

But that would be ridiculous because he was in the bathroom with Ford, so that’s impossible. It must be food poisoning or maybe while he and Emma went outside, Stan had more to drink then usual and made himself sick doing all those air acrobatics.

“-so, do you think a scientist such as yourself would be interested in helping with the Fourth of July fireworks? If they’re half as good as tonight I’m sure it would be spectacular!” The mayor drowns on, holding the check without handing it over like it’s a hostage waiting for Ford to agree.

They need to get out of here, twenty minutes ago, so Ford just says what gets this over with faster. “Sure, my number is in the phone book. Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll discuss details.” It works, getting the check handed over so he can finally turn and drag Stanley out.

The building had become almost a ghost town with only fifty or so people milling about now compared to before they took a bathroom break. Mostly cleaning up, employees, and a few stragglers finishing drinks before driving home drunk afterwards. Best to get on the road now, before the worst alcoholics.

“Do you need help or do you got it from here?” Fids asks, following them both out towards the door. The antigravity must make Stanley almost weightless but its still kind to offer.

“No, I’ve got it. These boots LeeFord invented really do make it effortless. Tonight was a great time Fids. It was wonderful spending it with you both. See you tomorrow?” Despite every instinct saying to run for the car he stops near the front door with Stan to say goodbye to Fids.

Ford isn’t mad? Stanley sprung a damn party on him, with a million people, and then on top of that a literal stage performance. He should be livid, not carrying Stan to the car. What about this picture is missing? “Yeah, noon sound good? Given we’ll be hungover?”

Now Ford starts walking away, giving a wave with his free hand. “Perfect, see you then!” Most of the parking lot has cleared out leaving a straight shot across to their stupid car. At least there aren’t lights around for any prying eyes. It takes several tries to find which pocket Stanley put the car keys in, using one leg to keep him still against the car and ignoring all the grabbing he’s doing. “Would you stop it? Can you behave for two seconds, please?” Why do there have to be so many pockets in all these layers?

When he finally finds it, Ford unlocks the car and puts Stan in the passenger side, buckling him in, before walking around to the driver’s side. It’s the least he can do to drive them home after the long night Stanley orchestrated. They’ll go home, get a nice shower, and maybe one more round since they’ll be washing up anyway.

“Oh, Stanley. My sweet prince.” In the dark it feels safe enough to reach over and cups Stanley’s jaw, stroking the skin with a thumb. “You are perfect in every way and I love you dearly. Let’s head home and get you comfortable and in bed. Are these boots waterproof by any chance?”

Rolling his head to face Ford, Stan leans into the hand with a hum. “That they are sugar. My lips hurt, why don’t you kiss em’ better?”

Despite getting in the car Fids had not immediately driven off or started it, for that matter. Emma had fallen fast asleep in her seat so Fids just. Waited. Part of him wanted to see what would happen if Stanley and Ford thought they where completely alone.

Curiosity killed the cat, and he should have taken that lesson at face value.

Watching the twins in the car is fine, right up until its not. Okay, holding the face is weird, but excusable but wait, what is Ford doing and-

It’s like the world freezes on the frame of Ford leaning over across the seat and pressing their faces together in the dark with a silhouette barely visible. He could fake ignorance, because he didn’t see their lips touch, but all it takes is a little context clues. Especially when one of Stan’s hands come up and knocks off Ford’s hat to pull their faces closer.

He can hear Ford giggle across the parking lot or maybe that’s his mind filling it in with what looks like is happening. Either way he feels the need to leave, immediately, or he’s going to throw up. Without buckling up he starts the car and with shaking hands heads out of the parking lot, trying to be careful not to jolt the car and wake Emma-May.

Until getting her up into bed Fiddleford has to pretend that the world didn’t just fall apart.

Chapter 63: Shattered Glass

Notes:

This took me a lot longer then it should have. I hope you like it. :)

Taking stock of injuries usually isn’t very fun, except for when they’re inflicted by the love of your life, of course. Calling them ‘injuries’ also might be a little dramatic. More like love bites. Ford can be pretty rough when he gets into it and its definitely a good thing he doesn’t have more grip strength. Or strength in general. That could result in damaged drywall.

Starting from the bottom up its quite a list. One of his thighs has a distinctly six fingered handprint, both hips have matching bruises, and don’t even get Stan started on his ass. If Ford has plans for more sex today, he’s bottoming and there better not be any complaints.

Moving up his stomach is littered with small red marks. They might be hickeys or maybe Ford just grabbed at the skin a little too rough last night. That last round is kind of a blur. More bite marks decorate his shoulders, two of them, and hickeys barely below the collar on the front of his chest. Both nipples are also pretty sore, as made evident by shifting against the bed sheets.

Lastly his scalp is a little tingly. Ford did a fair amount of tugging on it last night but its nice having fingers run through it now. Takes away from the crick in his neck from sleeping funny. Or maybe that’s Ford’s fault too, either way Stan isn’t going to complain.

Last night was more fun than any other party he’d been too or any marathon sex he’d participated in. And that’s saying something, because he’s had a lot of sex. Not that he’d tell Ford that. No need to ruin the morning with unnecessary jealousy.

“You owe me a massage for damn near blowing my back out.” Ugh. His throat hurts too.

Stan doesn’t even lift his head off the pillow, knowing Ford will be able to hear him over the hum of the AC in the window. He also has a small hangover but it’s nothing compared to the last time they got drunk together. They should do this more often.

Ford knows his face looks stupid from how much he’s smiling. All they’re doing is laying in bed together. He’s always been in love with Stanley, but for a very long time those feelings where suffocated and shoved in a closet. They’d both done that, like idiots, for much too long. This must be what being in love, together, is like. Something out of a movie with gross sappy words, romantic gestures, it would make anyone except them want to throw up seeing it.

Maybe romance books aren’t as ridiculous as he’d insisted they were growing up.

Sitting up some Ford leans back against the headboard getting into a better position to continue straightening out Stanley’s hair and massaging his scalp with gentle strokes. “My apologies, I may have gotten a little overzealous. Would a massage really help?”

He makes a mental note not to hold out on Ford for a full week again unless he wants to lose the ability to sit down. Despite the aches and pain this is still nice. He certainly won’t be forgetting who he belongs too any time soon. Who knows how long it’ll take for all these marks and bruises to fade.

“Do you know how to give one?” Leaning his head back a tiny bit into Ford’s hand is the only encouragement or movement he manages, other than a brief shiver down his spine from the constant touching to his hair. It pulls a chuckle from Stan. Ford likes the mullet. Isn’t that something.

“It can’t possibly be that difficult. I already know where all the muscles are, from there its just about working out the knots.” Stan is already in a close to ideal position for it anyway, so he shifts again, moving the blanket down so its only covering Stanley’s lower half and he can lean over his back with it only being a little awkward.

The loss of a hand in his hair is agonizing but he’s not about to complain when shortly after Ford starts touching his back instead. It’s clumsy, because Ford clearly doesn’t know what he’s doing, but still nice. It does help to sooth out some tension he didn’t even think was possible to hold onto being half asleep.

“You know, I bet you could be an expert on this too if you took a class or something. Put those extra big hands to use. By the way, do you think your palm is wide enough to jerk off both of us at once? I used to wonder-” Stan laughs when one of Ford’s hands pushes his face back into the pillow.

If Stanley wasn’t so sore Ford would consider making him orgasm again since that tends to shut him up for a while. He huffs and continues rubbing and applying pressure to Stan’s shoulders little by little working his way down his back. “Unless you plan on testing it immediately, I suggest you be quiet and enjoy yourself.”

Moving the pillow out of the way Stan shifts around to lay across both arms and get into a little bit better of a position without further complaint or comment. He is not going to screw up whatever affection Ford is willing to give him. Be that kisses, cuddles, hugs, hand holding, sex, marks, or massages.

For a while he stays quiet, relishing in the touch of Ford’s hands. The longer he works at it the better it feels, pulling the occasional muffled grunt from Stan despite being much too tired to be getting in the mood again despite having slept it off.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d be interested in using that scar cream I brought back from dimension B? I wonder if it might have any affect on the tattoo Bill gave you. Otherwise, we could use it on the burn mark on your arm and the brand on your shoulder?” The constant reminders of Bill are the only complaints Ford has when it comes to Stan’s body.

Ford’s voice is so quiet that it takes an additional nudge before the words process. He’d almost fallen back asleep. “Eh, I think I’d be alright keeping them. If you can stomach it. The burn marks, I mean. Not the tattoo. You thought of a good coverup?”

With Stan facing away Ford lets himself scowl. He could press, and it wouldn’t take much, to convince Stanley otherwise. But he shouldn’t. Just because he can’t understand why-

Okay, maybe he does have an idea why. “You don’t need scars all over your body to look tough, Lee.” Having finished with the back massage he shifts to lay back down under the blanket with Stan, draping an arm over his back. “All these muscles do that plenty.”

Ford in fact had not thought of a good coverup. Perhaps today he could take a break from finishing up the last stretch of research papers to work on a way to remove the tattoo. A more effective laser removal gun? Do they still have some of the anesthesia from the eye surgery? It seems unnecessary for Stanley to be awake for the painful process.

“I know, but I don’t necessarily want to forget all that either. I tried and it didn’t work out so well. These scars are proof I lived, even if it was terrible.” Shifting up he moves over a little in bed, ignoring his necks complaints, to wrap an arm around Ford in return. “At this rate I’m pretty sure I’m immortal. If I could survival all that it would be really pathetic to die from anything else.” A short laugh accompanies it while turning over, pulling Ford with to lay across his chest with both arms this time.

How could Stan possibly dislike the extra cushion on his stomach? It makes an excellent pillow laying on top and Ford relaxes while having his own hair played with. “Good, because you aren’t going anywhere unless we get to die at the exact same time.” Though mortality can’t be that big of an issue to solve. And, Stan has that safety net with the bionic eye.

This is not the kind of conversation anyone should be having after last night. Time to pivot.

“You know, beyond being a bit of a know-it-all like you, LeeFord isn’t so bad. Don’t you think?” Granted Ford hasn’t communicated with him at all since that first night and the following day playing referee in the mindscape. But he’d seemed to like the guy well enough then. Sticking up for him a little too much in the beginning. Now Stan gets it.

“Oh, so now that he invented something that got you laid you like him?” Ford chuckles without lifting his head. It was a pretty cool invention. Maybe tonight he’ll skip using the dream gun to get ahold of those notes. Do they use stuff from the binders?

“Hey, I could have gotten laid plenty without his help. You were practically drooling over me. Don’t think I missed you staring at my ass on the way upstairs before I had even busted out the costumes.” The blush Stan can feel more then see across Ford’s face is satisfying, but not the point of this conversation. “You didn’t answer my question of if you like him or not.”

For the record Ford definitely didn’t start drooling until after the costume was put on, but that’s not important right now. Sitting up Ford looks at Stanley to try and gage where this conversation is headed. “He is certainly smart due to an unfair advantage of having God level knowledge and seems to share enough similarities with you to be tolerable. Why?”

It takes a little more effort then its worth to continue playing with Ford’s hair so instead he settles both hands around his lower back. “Well. He is mostly me, isn’t he? And we both know how obsessed I am with you. Its borderline unhealthy. So. I’ve been thinking, about that.”

None of that really helps clue Ford in to what exactly Stanley is talking about. Or rather, what direction he’s trying to take this. “Are you bringing this up again to seek reassurance? I’ve already told you there is nothing to worry about. The math of those boots hardly matters when the heart came from you.”

Thanks to years of careful control over his own body only a small blush rises at Ford’s words. “No, no. That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, yeah, I’m still not a big fan of you and him, but.” Why does Ford have to stare at him so intensely like that? Stan looks away. “But. I mean, it would be kind of mean to keep you all to myself, wouldn’t it? It’s not like you can break up with me and be with him instead or something. Your stuck with both of us, like it or not.”

He can hardly believe what Stanley just said and he continues staring at him for a long time. Sure, he’d considered the implications briefly, but never seriously. LeeFord isn’t his brother. He’s something else and both of them at once. But it sounds like Stanley is trying to give him permission, which is ridiculous.

“This is a bit of a weird joke for you to be making and I’m afraid the punchline didn’t land very well. Perhaps you should try again, this time without implying I should cheat on you. And no, it being the same body doesn’t cancel that out somehow.” He stares at Stan some more, really looking into both eyes and glancing at the clock. “If yellows the color of Christmas, then what’s the color of July Forth?”

“Oh, for fucks sake, I’m being serious Stanford! Joy, by the way, before you work yourself up into a panic thinking your dick to dick with the wrong fella. You know, we should probably work out some other phrasing so its different then that other dimension. It’s kinda asking for trouble, isn’t it?”

Okay, well this is definitely Stanley at least. “Don’t change the topic. You’re still suggesting I essentially, what? Have a second boyfriend? I’ll be sleeping most of the time he’s awake anyway, which would make me a pretty shitty partner. You didn’t use me as a bargaining chip to get him to make those boots, did you?” Now Ford pulls away, moving to sit next to him on the bed wearing a glare.

This is going about as well as Stan expected and it makes it easier to keep pressing. He would have been upset if Ford caved immediately. “Oh, don’t be like that. And no, I didn’t sell you for a fun night. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

He follows the blanket to the edge of the bed to sit with an arm around Ford’s shoulder. “Listen for a minute, will you? Up until recently LeeFord was me and still is for the most part. He’s used to being part of a set, puzzle pieces, making up a whole picture. We complete each other while also reflecting our apparent narcissistic tendencies in needing to date a better version of ourselves.”

The gut reaction is to yell some more. One could write a whole psychoanalysis on why they love each other due to their socially isolated childhood, tough home life, and everything else that contributed to this outcome. How does that have anything to do with LeeFord? He’d a different person despite having shared memories. “Just get to the point already?”

“He’s like a reflection, or at least he is right now, and I think it would make LeeFord really happy getting to experience that. I tried every possible way of living without you and nothing worked. I don’t want him to put our body through all that shit again trying to cope when there’s a much easier answer.” Stan still has some pretty serious jealousy going on, but he forces it down back into the corner for now. You can hate something and still know it’s the right move at the same time.

Studying Stanley’s expression, he seems to be completely serious with an edge of determination rather than anger. A lot of thought went into this and the possible complications before broaching the subject. Regardless, Ford still doesn’t like it and isn’t convinced. What kind of partner would he be if he was? “Stan-“

He brings up a hand to cover Ford’s mouth and stop him from talking. “I’m not asking for you to stay up every night with him. I’m pretty sure he’d be happy simply being able to sleep next to you. God knows I’d prefer it to waking up in bed alone. Just think about it.”

It’s all Stan can bring himself to push because of his own hangups about the idea. Now is a good time to get up and go write up last nights journal entry for LeeFord to read tonight. Everything is still fresh which is important for the details.

Before Ford can object further, because there is plenty more to argue about on this particular topic, or Stanley can get up with the plan to get dressed the sound of someone knocking on their bedroom door can be heard. It’s loud incessant banging more then real knocking. The kind that would hurt your hand.

Fiddleford had been very patient waiting downstairs for the last hour for the twins to wake up. Except he couldn’t wait for them to wake up on their own, because Fids still felt the need to discover pure proof. It doesn’t get more obvious than walking in on them in bed.

“Stanley? Stanford? I need one of you to open this door, right now!” A test of the doorknob reveals its locked. Why would they lock the bedroom door if they’re the only one’s home? How didn’t he notice how suspicious the two were earlier?

Turning on the bedside lamp reveals the messy state of the room. Both of their costumes are strewn about across the floor, Stan’s bed is still a mess from the last round they’d shared after the shower, and the butt plug and lube are in a very obvious location on the bedside table.

The whole place certainly looks like someone had sex, not even counting the state of Stan’s naked body. His clothes are across the hall, with Fids in the way. “Shit.”

The next several moments are a scramble. Ford gathering up the mess of costumes on the floor to shove into the hamper, tossing Stanley his robe off the back of the door, and Stan shoving the bottle of lube back in the bottom drawer and the plug into the already ruined sheets of his bed.

It seems unlikely Fids will know the difference between their robes, but even if he does its better then him seeing the dozens of marks Stan is sporting. The room doesn’t smell like sex anymore at least and Stan grabs a blanket from the closet to cover up the ruined sheets for good measure while Ford pulls on the first thing out of the closet that looks like pajamas.

“What, do you two think I’m stupid? Open the door, there is no point hiding whatever sex evidence you’re cleaning up. As long as your wearing clothes I don’t care. Just open the door before I pick the lock and see something I’d rather not!”

He’s lying, of course, because Fids would rather not see any sort of sex evidence. It would be nice to walk in the room and see them both lounging in their separate beds without any obvious evidence they’re sleeping together. But that’s not going to happen.

The shared look across the room from where Ford finished pulling on his shirt at the closet and where Stanley is hovering near the door is comical. A whole conversation occurs without either of them saying anything.

‘What the fuck did we do last night to tip him off?’

‘Umm, how about fucking in the bathroom and then you being unable to walk?’

‘Oh, sure, and who’s fault is that? Someone couldn’t keep it in their pants for five extra minutes!’

‘Shut up! You’re the one who installed a butt flap on your pants! What was I supposed to do!?’

‘He’s going to kill us, you realize that, right?’

‘I highly doubt Fids brought a gun to murder us over a little incest. He grew up religious, but I don’t think he practices anymore.’

‘You think!?!? Oh, I’m going to kill you later. You should know these things about your best friend.’

‘He’s your best friend too and you don’t have a clue either!’

‘Yeah, but I’ve only known him six months, you’ve known him almost a decade. I’ve got time as an excuse.’

‘Just shut up and let me do the talking!’

‘You? I’m the expert liar, keep your trap shut and maybe we won’t lose the only good friend either of us has ever managed to make!’

This is followed by more glaring at each other in the silence of the room that gets interrupted by more insistent knocking. “Hello? If you two are trying to climb out the window using those boots, I swear to God you’ll both regret the day you were born!”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea-“ Stan says this but stops after Ford smacks him upside the head having crossed the room. “Shut up!” With them bickering near the door Fids now knows they’re inside and very aware of him waiting not so patiently.

‘Nice going, idiot.’

‘What!? It’s a good idea! You’re the brains, why didn’t you think of that!?’

Rather than continuing their silent conversation Ford finally unlocks the door and goes to open it a crack wearing an unsure smile. “Morning Fids, aren’t you here a little early? What seems to be the problem?”

Fiddleford looks awful. He appears exhausted and there is a mild heat rash around his neck from the scarf he was wearing last night. Ford can’t tell if he got any sleep, it doesn’t look like it, which doesn’t bode well for this conversation.

Rather than continuing to wait around in the hallway Fids takes Ford by surprise and pushes on the door, hard, to force his way into the bedroom while using one hand to flip on the overhead light. Despite the mad dash the two had made (because Fids heard them, did they forget he isn’t deaf?) the room is still a mess.

The hamper lid isn’t closed, the boots are kicked under the edge of Ford’s bed, and he doesn’t even want to know what kind of dried fluid is on the bedside table.

Then there is the two of them. Ford appears to be mark free other then what Fids knows now to be kiss bruised lips. Stanley on the other hand is a different story. He’s wearing a robe, for one, but his wrists also appear to have faint red marks. Fids doesn’t want to know what he’s currently hiding underneath the fabric. He’s also standing funny….

There it is. It’s not exactly catching them in the middle of sex, but its close enough. Less traumatizing this way.

“Can it Stanford Pines!” Fids turns his wrath on Ford first, standing a safe distance away from both of them and the beds. It’s a good thing he’s still wearing his shoes. Nothing in this room seems clean anymore.

“What did you do, huh? You never could accept things as they were, you always had to push for more and get your way, didn’t you? Is it a love spell? A cursed object? Mind control? Tell me!” He keeps his hands to himself, because who knows if they’ve showered. Just because they look clean doesn’t mean shit.

“Woah, what the hell are you talking about Fids?” Looking over at Stanley he isn’t given enough time for another silent conversation.

“You know damn well what I’m talking about! Stop lying to me, I think you’ve done enough of that! You’ve manipulated Stanley into this, haven’t you? So, tell me, what did you do?! Whatever it is, you’re going to undo it, right now. I don’t care-“

“Umm, any chance I get to participate in this conversation here? Listen Ford, the jig seems to be up. No point lying about it anymore.” Stanley shrugs, having an easier time accepting their fate then Ford. Part of the mastery of lying is knowing when to stop, otherwise things just get worse.

“Shut up, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Fids shoots over his shoulder at Stanley before turning back to Ford, backing him up over against the nearest wall into the corner of the room. “Is it those damn bracelets? I knew that story sounded ridiculous, I can’t believe you would lie to me about that! I thought we had gotten past this, that you had really grown as a person!”

“Wait a minute. You think I’ve manipulated him into this?” Ford stops letting himself be pushed back into a corner, one eye twitching. “What do you take me for, a psychopath!? No, Stan isn’t under any sort of love spell or wearing some mind-bending magic amulet! We’re just-“ In love. But it is really difficult to make the words leave his mouth, so they don’t.

“Yes! You almost destroyed the universe to bang an interdimensional demon, Stanford! Sue me for not finding it that far fetched you’d trick your brother into having sex with you!” Fids dodges the punch Ford throws his way, expecting it and then-

“Woah, woah, woah! Cool it, both of you!” Stan had followed, not that far behind Fids, and gets in the middle of them both to keep Ford from punching Fids and vice versa. It works in his favor since he’s the middle man with neither of them wanting to hurt him. Still doesn’t stop Fids from getting in a fit around Stanley’s shoulder and clipping Ford’s jaw.

“Alright, that’s enough!” He stops focusing so much on breaking them apart, which is going to be impossible, and instead on moving Fids away. “Stanford, sit down on the edge of the bed and stop it! What did I say about letting me do the talking?” He shoved Ford in the direction of the closest bed and drags Fids away. It’s a relief when he stops fighting. His target was Ford anyway and Fids knows that’s the only fight he’ll win.

“Stanley, let me go! I’m trying to help you! This is between us, there is no need for you to get involved. I just need to figure out what the spell is. Here, let me take off that bracelet he gave you.” Having been moved over near the closet Fids takes the opportunity to grab Stan’s wrist and snatch the bracelet, hoping that will solve the problem.

It doesn’t.

There aren’t any sudden tears and Stanley doesn’t pass out either. Nothing visibly changes and Fids throws the bracelet down onto the floor under the dresser out of frustration. He probably should have thought this through a little more before barging in here like this.

Ford remains fuming sitting on the bed, glaring across the room at Fiddleford. It’s unbelievable that he would accuse him of something so selfish. He was tricked by Bill and didn’t consciously decide to jeopardize the universe. In fact, he actively fought against it. If anyone actually tried to destroy the world, its technically Stanley.

But that was out of love, for him, so Ford lets it slide. This time.

“I told you already those bracelets are a gift from a God! What about that is so hard for you to wrap your dumb head around!?” Standing up he only resists marching across the room because of the stern look Stanley is giving him.

“Would both of you shut the fuck up?” He gives Fids a hard shake and steps between them again facing his friend. “Fiddleford, I’m telling you. I don’t need your help. I’m not under any sort of spell. I’m just a sick gay bastard, alright? No lies, no tricks. I promise.”

“Technically our parents were married before having us, unlike Schermie, Stanley. And I was under the impression given your sexual exploits with women that you were at least bisexual. That would make you a sick bisexual man.” Ford explains, not helping.

“Do you want me to let him come over there and beat you up?” Stanley says, glaring over his shoulder briefly before turning back to Fiddleford. “Sometimes I wonder why the hell I like that guy, much less sleep with him. I mean he’s a know it all. And without going into detail, yeah, it translates to every subject.”

Fiddleford can only stare at Stanley. He still can’t really grasp that he’s awake, much less that what Stanley is claiming could be real. It doesn’t look like a spell is affecting him. They’re still acting like brothers which doesn’t fit with the whole ‘sleeping together’ thing they’ve got going on. Fids isn’t buying it, still not willing to let go of the only logical explanation.

“Stanley, I understand that whatever he’s done to you is influencing you to lie for him. I should have expected that. Please, leave us alone. I’m sure we are perfectly capable of having a civil conversation without things getting violent. I’ll help you get out of whatever he’s done, I promise.”

“God, you are in some serious denial, aren’t you?” Stanley steps back, letting go of Fids shoulders. “I get it, this isn’t exactly normal. I’ll admit, I’m touched you’d be willing to ‘save me’ if Ford ever did turn out to be evil. Guess I really did turn you into a fighter.” It’s not funny, but he chuckles anyway.

“Listen Specs, I think you’d have a little easier time digesting this if you let us explain a little. I suppose we could visit some memories too if ya want? Though you might accidently see some stuff you’d rather not, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We are absolutely not bringing him inside either of our mindscape Stanley! Do you have any idea the kind of intimate encounters we might stumble across unintentionally?!” Ford finally starts making his way across the room again.

“Fine, we’ll go inside my mindscape then. I’m the one with insane control over it. I’m pretty sure I can avoid thinking about sex long enough to avoid scaring our friend for life!” Turning around he faces Ford, trying not to get upset over how difficult he’s making this.

It’s not like they have any other choice, do they? The memory gun is still broken-

No. No. They couldn’t use that even if it was in working order. Fids would just figure it out again.

“How the hell did you figure it out?” Ford finally asks, leaning over to the side around Stanley to look at Fids.

“Seriously? Could you two have been more obvious?” Fids finds himself looking between them. He’s getting a headache and more than a little tired. “I saw you two making out in the parking lot. Maybe turn off the glow setting next time you want to sneakily kiss in the shadows.”

“Alright, that’s on you Ford. It was your job to get us into the car without blowing our cover. Let’s just be glad it was only Fids that saw us, you idiot.” Stanley responds without missing a beat. He grabs Ford’s arm and starts over towards the door. “Fids, do us a favor and go start some coffee. I’m not having anymore of this conversation with my junk hanging out.” He only brings Ford with to avoid the two of them getting into another fight, dragging him across the hall to get dressed.

Fids follows them both out of the bedroom but does have enough common sense to wait in the hallway while listening to dresser drawers being slammed around while Stanley gets dressed. “I already made coffee. I’ve been downstairs for three hours.” It had been the only way to avoid potential questions from Emma-May this morning. She had the day off, like a lot of the adult population today, which worked out since someone had to watch Tate this morning.

The bedroom door briefly opens, for a split second, before Stanley is able to yank Ford back away from the door causing it to close again.

“Stop it, alright? He’s just in a state of shock, it’s not personal Ford.”

“Oh really, not personal!? Easy for you to say! You aren’t being accused of the equivalent of a war crime!”

“Well, you can either suck it up and deal with it until I can convince him otherwise or he might get the bright idea to call out parents and tattle on you!”

Now that isn’t a bad idea. Ford may be willing to do terrible things, but he did go to great length to hide it until getting sloppy. He probably wouldn’t want his parents hearing about this. They might fly out here and move Stanley a safe distance away. Maybe down to California with his other brother? Incest is illegal in Oregon. Except Jersey…

Stanley takes the time to pull on boxers and some breezy pajama pants but heads back for the door with a shirt in hand. Without leaving the door closed for long he opens it again in the middle of pulling on the shirt. “Alright Fids, come on. We’re gonna have the talk with you.”

It takes a few minutes for everyone to get settled in the kitchen. Ford bringing the box containing Stan’s love letter, puzzle, and the dreaded sketchbook. Stanley takes the time to make them both coffee and gathers pain meds for their various hangovers before settling at the end of the table between Fids and Ford.

“Take these and drink some water.” Stan passes both over to Fiddleford, trying to be sympathetic despite his accusations. They both managed to be in denial for a decade, it seems fitting their best friend would have his own version of it. Ford turned into an asshole, Stan almost deleted himself again, and Fids?

He clearly didn’t sleep, hasn’t eaten, drank too much coffee and not enough water, and might be experiencing a mental breakdown. They’re bad friends.

There isn’t a single thing Ford can think of to say that would be helpful so, following Stan’s advice, he says nothing at all and simply holds onto the key to the box they’ve been storing their dark secret inside of. And he also drinks coffee, still glaring across the table.

“Alright Fiddleford, where do you want to start? Let’s say, for this hypothetical, that Ford isn’t a crazy nut job who’s turned me into a sex slave and personal servient. Pick your poison, there are dozens.” Surprisingly, he isn’t as worried as Ford looks. Years of high stress situations makes something as simple as talking light work.

For a while Fids doesn’t say anything at all and instead just looks at both of them. Upstairs in the hallway he’d seen another undeniable layer of proof when Stanley had so casually pulled on a shirt while walking out the door. Was Ford a hyena or something? Despite lacking sleep, he didn’t miss the variation and vast number of marks decorating the front of Stan’s body.

Most of the night had been spent in a weird paralyzed state with his brain stuck on a loop trying to look at that kiss in the car park from a different angle. But there are only so many ways you can turn something over. Insanity is derived from doing the same thing and expecting a different result. The twins are insane and apparently so is he.

When he can finally make his mouth work, he takes the pain meds and drinks the cup of water Stanley had given him wishing it was something stronger. There are to many thoughts to sort through leaving him no chance of creating a comprehensive list of questions.

Instead, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “In college, you explicitly told me on multiple occasions that romantic relationships were a waste of time. You never mentioned you were gay.” It’s not his most eloquent speech, or much of a question, but it’s better than sitting in silence.

“Ford, you want to elaborate on that? Without yelling at him?” If Stan wasn’t worried about Ford throwing his cup of coffee on Fids, he’d be making breakfast instead of playing mediator.

Maybe they should have brought this up on their own instead of lying to Fiddleford. At least then he wouldn’t have jumped to such a ridiculous conclusion. Does ten years really mean nothing for trust after Bill? Ford had been under the impression they’d mended that crack but maybe it was too deep, making the foundation permanently unstable.

It hurts.

“I’ve only ever been interested in one person. I like to think the results would have been the same regardless of Stanley’s genitalia, though I certainly would have had more moral objections if that were the case.” His voice is even but it would be impossible to keep the venom out of his voice. It’s not yelling though.

Fids can’t help but let out a snort laugh, covering his face. It’s impossible to take this seriously when Ford says stupid shit like that. “It’s incest, Stanford! You should both have plenty of moral objections! I can understand you’ve both been through a lot of trauma, but that don’t make this right!”

“Oh, come on Fids, it’s not like we’re capable of making an incest baby or something. What’s the real harm? Besides, I do make Ford less of a pain in the ass for everyone else, don’t I? he probably would have killed you already if I wasn’t stopping him!”

Uncovering his face Fids looks at Stanley now with another hysterical laugh. “You’re seriously trying to sell me on this now? It’s immoral, you grew up together, and you look the exact same for fucks sake! Are you such a narcissist that you need to date yourself!?” That last question is aimed across the table, glaring at Ford.

“Have you completely forgotten all of Stanley’s other qualities? He is kind, brilliant, strong, resourceful, loyal to a fault, and yes, he does happen to be very handsome but even if he wasn’t that would not change my stance. He wears our face better anyway.” Ford puts the coffee far away on the table because giving Fids burns right now would not help the tension. Still tempting.

Stan pointedly ignores the blush Ford’s compliments cause to remain focused. “People grow up together all the time and get together later in life. It’s not like we did anything back then, for the record. Plus, we don’t look exactly alike. We’re fraternal twins, not identical. That technically only means we share half the same DNA, unlike maternal twins, if that helps?”

Fids still isn’t fully convinced he didn’t give himself a stroke last night or something and can’t believe the conversation they’re having right now. Stanley, blushing and trying to rationalize this, and Ford- Well. He sounds absolutely smitten, despite the anger lacing his words.

Looking between the two of them its ridiculous he didn’t see it before. He’s had that thought before, but it gets more painfully obvious the longer he sits with it.

“This is a new development, then? Not something that’s been on again off again for the last decade? Is this the real reason-“ Why Ford was so betrayed by his project being broken. Why Stanley still showed up after being thrown out. Why he fought so damn hard to get his brother back.

Fids has to cover his face again, getting lightheaded, without finishing his sentence. This discovery paints their relationship in a whole new light and it makes him sick all over again.

Stan shifts his chair over, closer to his side of the table, and puts an arm on his shoulder. “Breathe, passing out isn’t going to do you any good. Not that I can blame you. I almost did when we finally confessed. Ford don’t look it, but he’s capable of being pretty damn romantic when he tries.” The longer it takes Fids to look up again the more worry seeps into Stan’s own shoulders.

This needs to go well, at least well enough for Fids to not blab to everyone. It would be better if they could still be friends, but Stan isn’t confident in that possibility. Not anymore. He can’t dwell on how that makes him feel right now, because it hasn’t happened. Yet.

“When did it happen? How long have you been lying to me.” Fids finally talks, dropping and wringing both hands around his empty cup.

“You remember when I panicked and drove down to Cali? I kind of freaked out when I remembered I was in love with Ford.” It feels weird saying these things out loud. Their story has only ever been between them and was supposed to stay that way. It really is incredibly romantic if you can get over the incest parts.

“At the same time,” Ford reaches over to unlock the box to pull out the various pieces of the puzzle. “I was here, putting together a scavenger hunt Stan made before losing his memory.” He pulls out the fancy envelope with the wax seal and not even his anger at Fiddleford stops a warm smile from gracing Ford’s face just looking at it. “At the end of it was a love confession.” He doesn’t offer the letter to Fids because it’s very personal but does keep it on the table in both hands.

On top of not being deaf Fids isn’t blind either. The reverence Ford’s expression holds looking down at the letter is palpable. Until today he’d assumed that romantic love or desire was impossible for him. Ford had never shown interest in college, barely leaving their dorm, and it hadn’t changed afterwards either.

While fixing the portal him and Stanley liked to joke and speculate about Ford’s relationship with Bill, but they never really got answers on that front. Or he didn’t anyway. Maybe Ford has a type. Tricksters, capable of the impossible.

The remainder of his resistance that this is all a rouse, something Stanley has been tricked into doing, evaporates. That isn’t necessarily a good thing though and leaves him more distraught in the aftermath. This is real.

“You planned on deleting it again, why didn’t you?” Fids continues to look at the letter and Ford, watching in real time as the grip tightens on the paper and the glare returns his way across the table. It makes him wince.

“Because..” Ford had been happy enough with a less concise answer but Fids is demanding something more specific. Being sappy is hard enough with Ford, this feels impossible. Can’t they do another show again?

“I left myself a letter detailing my feelings but it wasn’t until I listened to a mix tape I made back in high school, inspired by them, that all the memories around it came back. It was like the last piece of me clicked into place, allowing me to realize how love sick Ford was acting that first week. Especially on our birthday.”

“You know me Fids, I latch onto hope even if it’s microscopic. I thought, maybe, it was worth at least coming home to check if he returned the feelings before using the gun. Glad I did since he finished the scavenger hunt just in time. I’ll give him a pass on cheating since it was for the greater good.” Stan looks away over towards Ford and gives him a playful wink despite the serious situation. Sitting in tension without breaking it a little would be suffocating.

No wonder Ford had been so freaked he could barely talk that night.

With ten years apart it’s safe to assume these feeling manifested sometime during their youth but weren’t acted on. Stanley remembered, ran away, and Ford read the confession and must have made the same conclusion-

He looks back across the table at Ford again wearing an expression of deep thought. His friend had been terrified and hysterical on the phone. At the time it had seemed like an overcorrection after just getting his brother back a week prior only to have all their progressed erased again.

Ford had found out the feeling was mutual and then realized Stanley was going to make it go away in the same day. No wonder he panicked and deemed it worth getting the cops involved. Breaking into the police station despite Ford generally being a stickler for rules.

“You didn’t have to act on it. Do you have any idea what people will think?” Fids tears his gaze away from Ford look back at Stanley. “I thought you wanted kids, you know that can’t happen-“

All morning Stanford has been doing a pretty good job keeping a hold of his temper but even he has his limits. Its higher than it used to be, but not infinite. Standing up out of his chair he speaks too calmly. “Get out.”

Stanley gets up too, putting a hand on Ford’s shoulder to keep him from moving. He looks eerily still. “Ford-“

“No, that’s enough Stanley!” He turns his glare from Fids to his brother. “I’m not going to sit here while he lectures us on something he knows nothing about! There is zero chance of pregnancy, we are both happy for the first time in our lives, and there can’t possibly be anything wrong with loving my other half in every possible way! I’ve always been a freak! I don’t give a shit if he adds something else to the list and tells everyone!”

“Get out of our house, right now. You have insulted us both enough. I’ll drop off your last paycheck with your projects downstairs later. Now! Get up!” He tries to move around Stanley, intending on throwing Fids out if he must, and gives Stan a look when he’s stopped again.

“Fine! You want me to go, I will!” Fiddleford stands too, moving away from the table and back towards the entryway of the kitchen towards the front door. “Waste your lives, the both of you, see if I care!”

Why does Ford have to ruin good things? The conversation was going okay for a minute there. Stan doesn’t allow himself time to dwell on being pissed at him right now and instead follows after Fiddleford out the door, off the porch, and across the yard to his car before catching him.

“Fids, wait a damn minute. Listen, I get this is all pretty tense right now but your exhausted. You shouldn’t go running off until we’ve finished talking, please-“

Turning away from the driver’s side door he brings up a hand to poke at Stan’s chest. “I don’t care. There is something fundamentally wrong with both of you. Trouble follows you everywhere you go and when this inevitably comes out I don’t want to be around to see the aftermath. Do what you want, but don’t try and drag me into it.”

Stan can’t bring himself to react properly. No anger rises up because it's currently being drowned in pain leaving his mouth dry. No helpful words spill out to stop this from happening. It doesn’t feel like there are any, otherwise he’d know them.

He stands there watching Fiddleford get in the car, start it, and drive off and out of sight fast enough to throw up some gravel. The weight of it settled on his chest. It feels like dying again.

Chapter 64: Bouncing Forward

The sound of the bouncy ball hitting the far wall, down against the floor, before landing back in Stanley’s hand is a constant rhythm inside the attic.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

It was the closest he could find to a paddle ball in the house and the farthest away he could get from Ford since this kind of repetitive background noise drives him crazy. The tension in the house doesn’t need to be made worse than it already is by sharing close proximity right now.

The light airy atmosphere from Wednesday morning, before Fids showed up, died right around the time they opened the bedroom door.

In retrospect there are a lot of things they should have done to avoid this outcome.

Despite Ford’s suggestion to invent time travel to go back and try again that still wouldn’t solve the real issue. It is kinda tempting though. But no, they can’t do that. They would always know the truth, how he’d really react. It wouldn’t be the same.

Fiddleford knows and the consequence of that is wanting nothing to do with them.

This late in life rejection is something he’s gotten used too. It’s happened more times than one could count. Doesn’t change the fact that this sucks.

It’s not Ford’s fault, not really. He was just standing up for their relationship which is more than Stan was doing. Trying so hard to hold onto a friendship that they had a big fight when his feet worked enough to go inside. Yelling about he said she said, who was at fault, and what could have been.

All they have is each other now. Family, no matter how crappy it used to be, is all they’ve ever had. Or at least that’s how it felt for Stanley. Ford had his science and stuff. At least now that seems to have taken a back seat in light of everything with Bill. He certainly isn’t taking it for granted.

What now?

That’s what he’s been sitting up here for going on three days trying to figure out.

Without Fiddleford around he doesn’t have anyone to talk to but Ford, LeeFord, and their parents. Tate isn’t around anymore to spend time with babysitting. The house is in tip top shape including the new elevator call box and passcode LeeFord had installed to keep anyone unwanted out of the basement.

This space was cleared out with the intention of doing something with it, but Stan doesn’t have a clue what that is. It was supposed to come to him somehow like one of Ford’s genius ideas. Who would have thought those are hard to come by.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

In that other dimension he opened a tourist trap here in Gravity Falls and ran it part of the year, but with Ford having finally cracked open those binders, holding up in the basement, the plan to build their boat is still on. It’ll simply take longer because Ford and LeeFord will be working on it without additional help.

Technically it was never about the boat. All he ever wanted was to be with Ford all the time and they have that. It’s not like he hasn’t done enough traveling for one lifetime, would it really be so bad to stay here from now on?

At least then everything wouldn’t feel so pointless.

It’s weird not having something to work towards anymore.

Protecting Ford from bullies in Glass Shard Beach. Saving up for a car and building the Stan O’ War. Trying to make it big and ultimately survive life on the road across the country and several others. Seeing the far side of Bill and getting Ford back. He can’t really count their relationship as a ‘goal’ because its ongoing.

That’s all. Without anything to fix or work on he feels stuck. Finishing the treehouse is pointless if its gonna just sit there rotting away without seeing any use from the moment its done.

It’s that same weight that settled in his chest (or tried to) that morning they drove out to the coast and went fishing. Getting out of bed and walking up here to read LeeFord’s latest journal entry was hard enough. That’s how he ended up sitting on the floor, next to the desk chair, the hardwood floor only half cushioned by the rug in the middle of the room.

For the first time ever, nothing is trying to kill him or at least do physical or psychological damage. What kind of hobbies would be fun? What could be profitable? What am I good at? Those three questions don’t have answers.

When he was really young, he used to enjoy drawing, but it’s a little late to get back into art now. Ford is leagues better at that then him, so what would be the point? They compliment each other in most ways, opposites. Maybe that’s the question he should be asking. What does Ford suck at?

Socializing, but you can’t turn that into a hobby or job. Not if your gonna be traveling around all the time at least. You need other people meaning it can’t be done in an office.

This is hopeless. The only thing he’s good at is winning and you can’t turn that into a hobby. The chances of doing something physical like boxing professionally or any other sport have long since passed. Stan might not be old, but old enough.

He puts more frustration into throwing the ball, it stinging in the palm of his hand now with every bounce back. Not hard enough to risk losing control of it though. The new stained-glass window over his desk is too important to chance breaking.

Why does Ford have to be so talented at everything? God, he hasn’t had these kinds of thoughts since high school. Because he’s actually smart and worth something? Unlike me. Fighting and being strong isn’t worth anything in a boring life. Common sense doesn’t help if you don’t do anything with it!

It’s like Ford got all the good skills and he got left with the useless ones, leaving the vast majority of the pie empty. Heh. If they’re using metaphors that would make Ford the filling and Stan the boring crust that everyone cuts off from the end and throws away. Sounds about right.

That first day after their fight Ford knew they both needed space.

No matter how much of a people person Stanley is breathing room to avoid killing each other, or saying something they’d regret, was needed. This resulted in Stan hiding away in the attic and him in the basement thrown into wrapping up the remaining research papers he had left. They were finished before dinner.

Given time to cool off they had been able to discuss it. It wasn’t a competition of who was more hurt. That didn’t matter. Losing Fiddleford sucked for both of them. It wouldn’t do any good trying to one up the other, making everyone feel worse, instead of just offering comfort.

That’s what they ended up doing all of Wednesday after a long conversation.

Now? The house feels oddly empty. Ford didn’t waste any time boxing up his old friend’s projects but still can’t find the strength to drop them off. Fishing the ring of spare keys out of the mailbox this morning was already difficult enough for one day.

Progress feels like it’s at a standstill no matter what Stanley might think while he’s locked down in the basement. Part of what made him and Fids such a good team was being able to bounce ideas off each other. He can’t do that with LeeFord until after he’s finished inhaling the binders which are turning out to be denser than expected.

It became clear yesterday that a serious change was needed. Very quickly they had both fallen into a rut and it would likely stay that way unless something was done about it. The tension in both shoulders and the strained smile Stanley has been wearing during meals, morning and bedtime routines is hard to stomach.

Sitting here, ruminating in grief, isn’t going to fix things. It won’t make either of them feel better. What do Pines do best when things fall apart? Historically, they run away. At least that’s more or less what Ford did. Running away from his incest feelings, their complicated relationship, and at first, he had in fact tried to run away from Bill. Didn’t work, but he still tried, however briefly.

Stanley did too, in his own ways. When thrown out, he traveled the country leaving a whole path of destruction and problems behind that he kept moving to avoid. This feels like a small and big enough problem at the same time worth escaping.

Except they can’t move. That would be a ridiculous over reaction. Gravity Falls is their home and the lose of one friend isn’t going to drive them out. If Bill couldn’t in other dimensions, why should Fiddleford manage it?

This is the perfect time for a vacation.

Upstairs in the attic Ford knocks several times on the office door, “Stanley? Can I come in?” Other then some repetitive thudding the space seems too quiet. Maybe they should get another record player and put it up here so he isn’t working or reading in silence.

Catching the ball a quiet sigh and then a muffled grunt escapes Stan using the desk to get up enough, sitting in the chair instead. The journal gets tucked in the bottom drawer leaving the desk empty other then the computer Fiddleford had gifted him on their actual birthday.

LeeFord gave it some tweaks to make it fancier and has been working on some projects with it. Stan leaves it out but closed so Ford doesn’t realize he’s actually doing nothing but sitting around up here. “Yeah, come in.” Looking at the window helps with keeping his voice steady, from giving away the pit he’s found himself sitting in.

The office, much like the rest of the house, is still in perfect condition. Just because Stanley started leaving clothes around doesn’t mean the place fell into complete disrepair. Being downstairs its unclear for sure if its Stanley or LeeFord doing it though.

Several shelves are full of various books, there is a new rug in here that he doesn’t know where it came from, and a couple boxes of parts in the far corner barely visible inside the closet. The curtains are open on the window, basking the room in colorful light this early in the morning.

Stanley looks tired and his cup of coffee must still be down in the bedroom from when they had breakfast in bed. Cooking, so long as you never take your eyes off it for a single second, is something he has been getting a little better at. The food this morning wasn’t burnt which is excellent progress.

Crossing the room to stand near the chair Ford ends up leaning against the edge of the desk. “Up to anything interesting?” With the desk mostly empty it certainly doesn’t look like much, especially given the bouncy ball in Stan’s hand.

Opening the middle drawer Stan puts the ball away before sitting back, “Not really. Just thinking about stuff.” Maybe he should call mom. She might remember something he was good at as a kid that got brushed aside? Can’t make things worse at least. It’s always nice to talk to her.

“I thought we agreed ruminating on ‘what ifs’ wasn’t going to do either of us any good?” Staying leaning against the desk feels to far so he moves to sit in Stan’s lap instead despite it being awkward in the chair.

Holding Ford always helps, making things feel less terrible. They really aren’t, his mind is being overly dramatic. “It’s not that. I just-“ Wrapping Ford up in a hug allows him the ability to hide his face. “I’m trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do. Sounds kinda stupid, but I guess you could say it’s a midlife crisis?”

How does losing a best friend translate into that? “I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate.” This is not one of those times he’s able to read Stan’s mind. Maybe there is something he could invent for that?

For the millionth time in the last several days Stan sighs but it gets muffled by Ford’s shirt. How can he wear a sweater vest in the middle of summer? “I don’t know what to do. And I don’t mean about Fids, that ship has sailed. I mean in general. You found your purpose. An endless search for knowledge, inventing, and journaling about the weirdest shit you can find. I still haven’t found mine, as corny as that sounds.”

Ford can now see Stan hiding his face as the strategic move it is but doesn’t press to see his face. Whatever makes opening up easier. “I wouldn’t necessarily call that my life purpose. They are passions, sure, but I like to think loving you is my reason for existing.” The smile is audible in his voice.

Stan in return almost pushes Ford off his lap for being so sappy. “I’m being serious Stanford. I don’t have passions about crap. Not the same way you do. I was never encouraged in any specific direction like you, especially not when it counted.”

The best he can do is glare in the general direction of the phone in retaliation of their parent’s failures. Why did Stanley forgive them again? Right. Right. He wanted family and now he’s got it. It might be all they have from now on in retrospect. “Well. Is there anything you like to do? It doesn’t matter if your already good at it or not. Hobbies are supposed to be fun for you, not pleasant for others.”

Pulling away from Ford’s side he scoffs a little while keeping a tight hold on his waist. “Oh, come on. Whatever I do should be at least profitable, shouldn’t it? You managed to turn your sci-fi weirdness into an income. Doing something I suck at that won’t earn shit would be double pointless.”

“I didn’t decide to live here and research the anomalies in Gravity Falls because I saw stacks of cash. In fact, that’s why I rarely spoke to Filbrick after moving here. He was disappointed in the lack of opportunity for financial gain. Besides, you don’t need money. Our financial future is secured because of that second deal you made with Bill.” It’s a little awkward in the chair to wrap an arm around Stanley, but he manages.

“I know from experience you shouldn’t treat the funds you have like a sink hole. It’s very easy to run out of money if you aren’t careful. That’s why most of mine is off limits in a fancy growing account or whatever. Can’t spend what you can’t touch.” He makes a vague unclear gesture with one hand, looking at the window again.

“Is that the problem? You haven’t run out of what you allocated until the next interest payment occurs next year, have you? How much did you spend on that trip out to the coast?” Ford manages to keep most of the accusation out of his voice by replacing it with concern.

“No, of course not. I’m not that bad with money. Not earning anything just makes me feel like a failure? Like I’m just a mooch on your success again if I’m not doing something worthwhile with my time.” How many colors are in the window? Three blues, four purples, two whites, two yellows, and-

Is this the real reason Stanley has been hiding away upstairs all the time? Maybe the loss of Fiddleford isn’t having as big of effect as the lack of stuff is. Lacking purpose. Shifting over it takes some guidance to get Stan to look at him, “Hey. We aren’t completely without income. I’ll still make a sizable profit from my research. You aren’t mooching. Technically you could live here and never pay another bill and I’d still owe you money. Pick something, anything, that you’d enjoy. I want you to be happy.”

Without the window to distract himself Stan has to close his eyes to avoid crying. He’s being ridiculous doing so over a few kind words. It takes a while before he trusts himself to look at Ford much less speak without having an embarrassing voice crack. “Even if I decide to take up playing the accordion?”

For a brief moment a true look of horror passes over Ford’s face only to realize Stanley is probably kidding. It’s good to see him smile genuinely again. “Only if you stay up here and practice while I’m in the basement. I might also request LeeFord soundproofs your office in that case.”

Stan laughs at that, having another excuse to hide and subtly wipe away the few tears that manage to escape on Ford’s shirt. If he notices, it doesn’t get mentioned. “Nah. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a musical bone in my body.” Its for the best Pops didn’t let them join band in middle school.

“What about art? You used to love making comic books, didn’t you? It would take practice and being patient with yourself but-“ Ford has a better and more obvious idea. “Stanley. Why don’t you write? I bet you would make an excellent author! I have never met anyone with the ability to tell a story like you!” Yes, someone would need to help with editing, but that’s easily solved. He would happily do it.

Usually when presented with ideas from his own head its easy to shoot them down but this, isn’t. Stan can’t say he hasn’t done it before because the memory journals would say otherwise. The entire process of preparing to lose his own mind forced him to relay a lifetime of stories in an incredibly short amount of time. How different could it be doing the same thing about something fake?

Looking at Ford its clear the prospects excite him making it extra difficult to say no or come up with a reason not to try. Writing can be profitable if your good at it, can’t it? It’s as good a place to start as any for a hobby. If it doesn’t work out, no big deal. “What would I write about?”

What a stupid question. “Anything you want. You could write about your time on the road, time in prison, your experiences with Bill. You could write romance books, short stories, horror, or mystery novels. The options are truly endless and completely up to you. We could stop by the library in town to get some books on the subject before we leave!”

Stan feels like he missed a step but is familiar enough with Ford’s thought pattern to know he failed to mention something important. “Good idea, but back up. Why are we leaving town? Fids didn’t call the police on us now, did he?” No phone call came from their parents and no mob had shown up either. It seemed safe to assume Fids was being nice enough to die with their secret as long as they didn’t screw it up again. How considerate.

“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. Last night I had the idea to take a trip out of town to help shake off the gloom of the place. A visit to Schermie is long overdue as is and I figured we could do some other stuff once we get to California. It could be fun?” It had actually been LeeFord who inspired the idea but that’s not important. It was brilliant, better then anything he thought up alone. It also meant Stan’s bags were already packed other then a backpack of stuff to do on the train.

With everything they had going on Stan still hadn’t taken the time to call their older brother. It’s a poor excuse though considering it’s been a full month to the day since getting most of his memory back. “Did you call at least? We can’t just show up at his house unannounced.” Nerves make themselves known like a drum rattling in his chest.

They haven’t seen each other in over a decade. Schermie got drafted at twenty-two and served in Vietnam, getting sent off when they were fifteen. That’s more than the ten years spent apart from Ford. Almost thirteen, give or take a few months.

A lot can change in a few years. What about a baker’s dozen? He’s been to war. What kind of injury got him send home? That information had never been shared. Ma probably knew and maybe Pops, but very little trickled down to them in their youth.

After getting medically discharged during their junior year he’d been flown back to the states and dropped in California, never making it back to Jersey. All within the span of that first year back he got married, had a son, and went back to school. It was a no brainer for his wife and son to make the trip cross country to stay with family during his last semester. Staying up in the attic that used to be Schermie’s bedroom.

Who knows, maybe he did briefly make it back to Jersey after school or something. They weren’t around to find out. How do you talk with a literal stranger who you haven’t seen in that long? What breaks that kind of ice? Family by blood, but they only share a handful of memories from forever ago.

“Of course I called. It was awkward. He only seemed a little reluctant, but didn’t say no. LeeFord and I packed last night while you slept. All you need is a backpack of stuff to do on the train. Driving used to be calming, the sense of motion, and a train is basically the same thing without the need to pay attention?” It would also give them both time to prepare mentally for the meeting. It would take closer to a full day by train compared to half of one by car.

It'll be difficult and weird, but maybe family is exactly what both of them need right now. “Alright, but no funny business once we get there. This is a practice run for Christmas because we are not screwing this up again.” After a brief squeeze to Ford’s side, he pushes him up and off his lap to start gathering some things like the journal and laptop.

“Absolutely. I’m going to go lock up the house and make sure the axolotl’s automatic feeder is working and then I’ll meet you in the car.” Ford then dashed out of the room, letting his underlying excitement show now that Stan is in better spirits.

Closing the curtains over the window Stan follows not far behind with a few books, the laptop, and the journal. LeeFord likely packed everything else he needs to keep busy at night himself so he won’t worry about it to much. Making the way downstairs his backpack is already situated on the bed inside his room, ready to be packed.

The same kind of excitement from when Ford sent him that postcard settles, bubbling like a cauldron, in his chest. It’s not like visiting could make their relationship any worse. Ford probably got them a hotel to avoid imposing so if shit hits the fan at least it’ll still be a nice vacation. There isn’t a single way this could go worse than visiting Gravity Falls. That’s impossible.

*

The drive to Portland is a familiar one and goes off without a hitch. They listen to music on the drive after picking up some books on writing for Stanley from the library. Thankfully they didn’t run into Fiddleford while in town. That’s the kind of awkwardness they might have to get used to in a small town.

Their train left the station shortly after two thirty in the afternoon, long after they’d loaded up their luggage into their suite room and gotten comfortable. Or as comfortable as you can inside of a tin can. Thanks to the windows it doesn’t feel too claustrophobic but it’s a good thing they showered before leaving. The built-in bathroom is smaller then either of them could fit inside of comfortably for long.

 It feels like a switch flipped somewhere between leaving the attic and the train departing the station. Instead of hiding on opposite sides of the house they sit on the same bench, legs tangled up, reading their own respective books. It’s completely unfair that the bionic eye allows Stanley to read faster.

Beautiful scenery passes by outside the window, neither of them have to cook because of the dining car onboard, and when it gets dark out its nice being able to look out at the stars before bed. The constant noise of the train takes some getting used too but it’s worth it to watch Stanley spend the day smiling and reading.

Its hard for Ford to decide if he should use the dream gun or not. On one hand, having a nightmare on a train is literally the worst thing that could happen. No where to go. People all around incredibly close through not very sound proof walls. But he does want to talk to LeeFord again. He can always catch up on sleep tomorrow night in a better location and drink a lot of crappy coffee in the morning.

Because of the size of the bed, it simply isn’t comfortable to sleep together. They end up on opposite sides of the cabin with luggage moved onto the chairs near the window with the door between both sides open. He settles on leaving a note for LeeFord on the door of the room asking to be woken up since they don’t have an alarm clock here.

Eventually Ford falls asleep. Maybe the rocking of the train is a little more pleasant than he expected it to be.

The feeling of someone shaking his shoulder is what pulls him back to the land of the living. Its disorienting waking up in a dark and unfamiliar place so it takes a second to focus on LeeFord’s face and remember where they are. “What time is it?” He manages to ask, looking around for a clock that isn’t there.

“Just after twelve. I’ll be in the dining car.” He keeps the explanation brief and slips out of the room with Stanley’s backpack over one shoulder having shuffled its contents some to continue working on a project. Its too dark in here and a little cramped.

This is an excellent opportunity for collecting data at least. It had been assumed that their house was a source of anxiety because of the bad memories of the past. That somehow, he just wasn’t as good at handling their trauma, making being in the downstairs bathroom basically impossible. But it followed them here. Being inside the small compartment in the dark, without a reference for what it looks like during the day, feels suffocating.

The best course of action was to grab what he needed and move into a more open and public space. It took some fumbling around to find what he was looking for, having never been on a train previously, but eventually he settled on a table in the corner to keep an eye on the room while pulling stuff out of his bag.

The computer, thankfully fully charged, some cords, and the device he is currently in the middle of programing for his newest project. There are also two books inside the bag to read after but it seems unlikely he’ll finish the coding for the hologram device in one night. It could take at least one more. Hmm. He’ll have to take a break after tonight when they reach California…

Ford takes his time getting dressed, only bothering to pull on a coat and shoes over his sleepwear before following after LeeFord. He arrives just in time to watch the laptop being set up with a weird cube mixed with a circle plugged in using a series of wires. “What are you working on?” It’s accompanied by a yawn while sitting down across from him in the otherwise empty car.

“I’m attempting to program a hologram of a memory as a personal experiment. Any further details you might request are strictly confidential for now. Later I’ll share the rest with you, after its finalized.” Without looking up from the computer, which he has started typing on furiously, he changes the subject.

“I see the plan is going well. Is there something else I can help you with tonight?” Just yesterday they had worked out a good solution for getting over Fiddleford, what could possibly be the problem now? He should be upset about only being visited when Ford needs something, but that’s impossible. It feels good to be needed. Maybe that’s a program design but it could also be an emotions thing. Hardly matters since LeeFord doesn’t care.

Looking at the device more closely reveals the square is the base and the circle is more of a sphere screen on top. That must be where the image is projected out of. Interesting. Ford allows the change of subject, too tired to deflect the redirection. “I’d ask you for advice on seeing Schermie if I thought you could help, but Stan’s the one who hasn’t seen him the longest. Do you two even remember what he looks like?”

“We’ve seen pictures of him from when he got married but that was ten years ago. Appearances can change drastically. Ours certainly did.” The bionic eye stays focused on the screen, hands continuing to type, while the regular one focuses on Ford across the table. “Do you happen to know what got him medically discharged? It wasn’t visible in the photos.”

Sometimes its easy to forget that Stanley was gone by the time that information was shared back in Jersey. He had missed out on such basic information- Ford tries not to let it bother him, fiddling with his hands instead. “He was shot along the left flank while manning a helicopter door gun. Fortunately, they were able to get him back to base before he bled out. From what I was told it was a very close call. Unless we go swimming, I doubt we’ll see the scar.”  

As important as this project is even LeeFord knows continuing to type while discussing this would be insensitive. He stops, saves the progress, and closes the computer to avoid draining the battery to give the conversation his full attention.

This should feel devastating. Knowing the full truth of how close they’d been to losing their other brother, how serious it was. But it isn’t. “Interesting.” LeeFord mirrors Ford’s hands laces together on the table over the computer. A working theory is starting to come into focus, one he’d started forming after waking up and reading the journal entry about the blowout with Fiddleford-

“Excuse me? You find the near death of our brother, interesting?” It comes out a little louder then intended, quickly dropping back down into a whisper range. “Don’t start acting evil now, we where all just starting to get along.”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean that. My apologize. It would seem, based off all the recent developments, that I wasn’t left with built in relationships and feelings for anyone beyond you and Stanley. The loss of Fiddleford is more an inconvenience then painful and this knowledge is about the same. I’m aware of the implications, but it feels as though you’ve told me a tragic story of a stranger despite having access to the memories Stanley shares with him. That, is what’s interesting.”  

Ford can’t decide if that’s better or worse. It still sounds kind of evil, doesn’t it? “So, in order to care about anyone else you’d need to be able to establish your own relationship with them?” That at least explains why he had been so calm the other night discussing what happened with Fiddleford. Often Stanley will push aside his own feelings to comfort others, dealing with them later. That’s what he assumed LeeFord was doing, but apparently not?

“I guess? I’m still well aware of the relationship I should have. Maybe I simply need to meet them in order to jog my emotional memory. It’s hard to say since I never got the chance to meet Fiddleford officially. Are we staying with Schermie? Perhaps I’ll be able to run into him at some point and test that theory.”

Out of all the things to forget, lodging seemed one of the most important things to be on top of. In the excitement of everything booking a hotel or asking if Schermie had a guest room had completely escaped his mind. “Damn it, I knew I was forgetting something. I’ll have to call around to some hotels when we arrive in the morning.”

With the sensitive topic moved passed LeeFord opens the computer again to resume the coding at a slower pace. “At least ask to stay with him before you go spending money on a hotel. The worst he can say is no. Or I suppose he could refuse to see you over it, but I doubt that if he’s already agreed to pick us up from the train station.” If Schermie has bothered to make the trip back to Jersey in recent years for Hanukkah family must hold some importance to him.

For a while Ford doesn’t say anything else in favor of watching the world outside and listening to the constant typing competing with the sounds of the train. Perhaps he could phrase it in a way where it doesn’t feel pressed. ‘We have hotel reservations, but it would be easier to stay with you’ or something? That still feels like imposing, but it would waste less time if they were staying in the same house. More opportunity for conversations and bonding.

Beyond visiting the Monterey Bay Aquarium together what else could they possibly do to build a long-lost relationship? Will they even want to go? Living so close they’ve probably been before. Or they could go see the redwood forests, but-

All these thoughts are enough to work himself up into an anxiety attack. He needs to focus on something else.

“This project of yours,” He starts, looking back at the computer and weird projector thing. “Is it something for you? The elevator code and lock were more for me then anyone else, is this for Stanley? You shouldn’t be spending all of your free time doing stuff for us. Maybe you need to find a hobby too?”

Without meaning to he does give Ford a look of annoyance at being interrupted again but doesn’t say as such. “For all of us. It’s complicated.” Although the loss of Fiddleford hasn’t emotionally affected him that doesn’t mean he’s going to sit around and do nothing. It’s weird enough that Stanley seems to have accepted things without putting up more of a fight.

This is devastating, for both of them, but no one seems willing to try having another conversation to fix it. Idiots.

“It’s much easier to simply do things for you instead. I have no doubt Stanley will make an excellent author, as detailed in his journal entry, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I should do the same. There aren’t that many hobbies available that require minimum physical movement to avoid over exhausting our body anyway.”

“You’re not doing a very good job convincing me your capable of expressing free will.” The inability to pick a name, to go against Stan’s wishes, and now to pick a simple hobby. What kind of hobbies can you do sitting down anyway?

Right. He’s supposed to be proving he can make decisions on his own. It’s just easier not too. LeeFord sighs, bringing up a hand to straighten out his hair while looking out the window. “Anything I can think of would be a money pit. Puzzles, sewing, embroidery, knitting, painting. I suppose learning an instrument wouldn’t be, but I hardly have the dexterity for most of them. Plus, I shouldn’t pick something loud.”

Reading is a far better hobby but even that is limited. What’s the point when you already know practically everything?

“This again,” These two really are more alike then different, even as time goes on. “It doesn’t have to be profitable. That’s the point of hobbies. I’m certain you could find a way to make money easily if you wanted, given how smart you are. Just pick whatever sounds fun.” Ford tries not to sound annoyed.

“Is this why you wanted to speak with me? To talk me into finding a life purpose given the distinct lack of one Stanley is experiencing?” He should have seen that coming from the journal entry. Its nice for Ford to be thinking of him at least.

“Believe it or not I am also simply capable of existing in your presence. I wouldn’t have had to get up and follow you out here if you’d stayed in our cabin. Why do you need to work at a table anyway? You could sit in bed and do this.” Socialization is a key part of development. Its unfortunate LeeFord is stuck with him instead of a better conversationalist.

“The cabin happens to trigger my fear of confined spaces in the dark. It reminds me of being trapped in a car trunk and gives my jaw phantom pains.” Later, when this project is finished, he can try thinking a little more about hobbies or potential streams of income.

“What if we turned on the lights? Would that make it easier?” Are they technically supposed to be out of their cabin this time of night? Most people are asleep, but would the staff be upset to find them here? He doesn’t know traditional train etiquette.

“You aren’t going to be able to sleep that way. I-“

“Shut up. I could probably sleep up on the roof of the train with the dream gun. It’s hardly much of an inconvenience to have the equivalent of a lamp on if it makes you more comfortable. In an unfamiliar environment I’d feel better having both of you nearby, will you please come back to the cabin?” Ford doesn’t leave him much of a choice reaching over to gather up the computer and device before heading back the way they came.

It's annoying that Ford is trying to be nice but LeeFord can’t bring himself to be upset. Any sort of attention, especially positive, makes him smile. He isn’t so clueless as to expect anything more, but it's still nice. Gathering up his bag he gives the table and car another glance before following.

Chapter 65: Two Birds One Stone

You can tell a lot about a person based solely on what their house looks like.

The Pines Family Pawn shop has been owned and operated in New Jersey for three generations. Filbrick Pines was the first owner to be born and raised in America with his own father having been brought over from Lithuania when he was practically a baby. The place is old, cramped, but there is some love found there. Three generations of at least a mother’s love is pretty difficult to beat out of a place.

Blood, sweat, and tears went into that shop from what was once an immigrant family trying to start a better life here in the States. It’s a family legacy, good or bad.

The shack in Gravity Falls is isolated, done intentionally because Stanford Pines hates people, with only the nearby wildlife and forest as company. It’s new, high quality, and full of fancy pants tech on top of it. It’s huge with far too much space for one or even two people. Large enough to be a family home but instead gets used for all kinds of sci-fi and paranormal weirdness.

They both cast their own shadows, built on their own unique foundations, owned by drastically different people. Stanley Pines has seen a lot of places all across the country, but Schermie’s house is truly unique. He isn’t sure what to make of it.

Standing in the large driveway on the sprawling corner lot is a dark orange Spanish Colonial at the edge of its own little cul-de-sac. It’s got white trimmed windows with grey awnings over half of them. The yard is a bright vibrant green with neatly sheared bushes, statues, and a prominent big tree in the front yard.

Without going inside, it seems safe to assume this will be the largest house he’s ever set foot in. Their house is close but without knowing the exact square footage of either place its hard to say who wins. Schermie does have one thing they don’t. An attached three-car garage at the top of the driveway.

It had never crossed Ford’s mind that Schermie could possibly be doing this well out here.

Way back when, living in Jersey, the whole reason Mary and his son had come to stay with them was money issues. Their older brother couldn’t handle school and working enough to support a family of three. Something had drastically changed in the last ten years and somehow it had gone completely unmentioned over the phone.

The chauffeur picking them up from the train station in a stuffy suit and a shiny car had made sense. It's Shabbat and practicing Jews don’t drive from Friday sunset until Saturday at sunset. To pay in advance, because you don’t spend money during Shabbat either, their brother would have had to find a company willing to accept payment prior. Most taxi services just charge your card after the drop-off. Something fancy made sense to accommodate the request.

Clearly, they won’t be needing to pay Schermie back, he doesn’t seem to be struggling for money. They must have a gardener to keep everything so manicured. The little that can be seen through the windows suggests the interior is equally as clean. Maybe they have a maid too.

“Stanford, are you sure we’re at the right house?” It’s a little late to be asking that since the guy who dropped them off has already pulled out of the driveway, turned around, and disappeared from sight.

Setting down his suitcase, keeping it from rolling away with one leg, Ford pulls out the small note he’d taken while on the phone the previous evening. “7222, Saint George Lane, San Jose, CA 95120.” A quick glance at the street and then the mailbox confirms it. “This is the place, unless he gave me the wrong address to mess with us.”

As funny as it would be for Schermie to drop them off at some rich guy’s house, leaving them stranded without a ride, it doesn’t fit what Stan can remember about him. He wasn’t an asshole, not to them anyway. Hard to say for sure since they rarely saw him interact with others.

“You know, I’m already used to being the screwup. That’s my gig. Don’t feel too bad if Schermie turned out to be secretly more successful than you.” Stan accompanies the dig by elbowing Ford in the side before starting across the stone path off the driveway up to the front door.

That certainly isn’t what’s happening here. Is it? Ford follows behind Stanley despite wanting to stand around and stare at the house for a while longer. In this part of California, it doesn’t take a genius to guess how much a place like this would cost. What the hell does Schermie do for work?

Is this why he rarely talks to anyone, because of money? Until very recently that was the main reason he didn’t. “If he is it’s only because I made the conscious choice not to become a lawyer or a neurosurgeon. I still have ten times more education than him and-“

Standing on the front porch, barely two feet away from the door, it’s funny watching Ford flounder trying to justify himself when it's unnecessary. “Would you shut up already? At least wait until we get invited in before you start comparing dick sizes.” Throwing on the Stanley Pines signature showman grin he turns, bringing up a hand to knock on the door nice and loud.

The wood sounds sturdy and expensive. This whole house looks costly. Ford wants to make a comment about how at least he didn’t flaunt his wealth, unlike their older brother. However, that’s not true. Schermie explicitly never once mentioned being well off. Sure, he had the money to visit Jersey for a week each year but that didn’t make him this rich. The whole time it’s been downplayed like it's no big deal. Ford decides to be mad and impressed.

Through the glass panels on the front door, a shadow is visible followed by the sound of the door unlocking and opening enough for Schermie to come into view.

Unlike Stan and Ford, Schermie has a jawline closer to their mother. Still chiseled but with higher cheekbones. His hair is considerably shorter too. One could argue he’s the most attractive of the Pines brothers considering he doesn’t look that different from Tom Selleck, with a hairstyle to match.

What with the house, Stan isn’t above saying he is Tom Selleck. Acting would explain the house at least. Schermie is still wearing a mustache with the same dark brown hair to match theirs. There are traces of a few barely noticeable grey hairs, and some new wrinkles to show the passage of time, but overall, he looks the same. Just older and tired with visible eye bags.

Still taller than both of them too, damn it.

The clothes he’s wearing aren’t very fancy, despite the garden looking straight out of a Beverly Hills catalog. A bright red Hawaiian shirt with pink and yellow flowers, white slacks, and no socks. It looks like he’s on vacation instead of lounging around on a Saturday afternoon.

These exact moments, the tension here on the porch, are what over time taught Stanley how to fake it until you make it. Smile until it's fine and you’ve got it made. No problem. It doesn’t matter if the smile is forced, eventually it’ll be real. They just have to get past this part first.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Schermie doesn’t look mad from where Ford is standing but he also doesn’t look very happy either. It reminds him of Dad, standing around waiting for them to say something and give themselves away. Except they haven’t done anything, not this time.

Surely, they aren’t that obvious, are they? No. That’s paranoia talking. Neither of them are wearing any marks, they are a normal distance apart, and this is all just terrible. And awkward.

“So…you have a guess which of us is which? And don’t cheat looking at our hands, that’s not fair and you know it.” Stan breaks the silence, doing his best Ford impression by adjusting his voice without otherwise changing his appearance.

Schermie looks between both of their faces and traces of a smile come into view, feather-light. “Very funny, Stanley. It hasn’t been long enough for me to forget how to tell you two knuckleheads apart.” He continues to look both of them over for a long moment, because his little brothers aren’t kids anymore and the few pictures he was given don’t do it justice.

After a brief glance into the entryway, making sure their nephew isn’t around, “Damn it! I told you we should have swapped clothes.” Stan directs his gaze over to Ford. “We are never gonna have a shot like that again, but no you didn’t want me ‘stretching them out’ or whatever!”

Ford manages not to take the bait for an argument because Stanley never suggested they trade clothes in the first place. It breaks him out of the tense stance he’d taken, producing a small smile on his own face with an annoyed sigh. “Stan, if we couldn’t fool him as kids, it’s impossible now. We have different builds. You’ll just have to live with being recognizable.”

“Are you calling me fat? It’s fluff, thank you very much.” Stan turns back to the door again, “Can we come in, or are we going to stand around on the porch all afternoon running up your electricity bill?” Someone has to keep things moving otherwise these two will stand around having unofficial staring contests until the sun blows up.

“Right, yes. Of course, come inside. Just take your shoes off near the door and put them on the rack.” Schermie steps back out of the doorway, holding it open, to finally let them both come inside.

It opens up into a grand entryway mostly open to the upstairs hallway. On each side of the room are doorways. One into what appears to be a movie room, the other has a pool table visible, and the third has a large dining room table. Maybe this place is nicer than Ford’s.

Don’t get it twisted. Gravity Falls is home. But Stanley is capable of appreciating the authenticity of the space. Tiled floor with rugs on top, metal railing along the wrap-around stairs of the room, stucco walls, and curved archways. It feels like being back in Mexico.

“Are those tiles along the backsplash of the stairs hand-painted? Jeez, looks like Stanford here has some competition. Your place is almost nicer than his and we’ve only made it into the entryway!” Despite expressing his enthusiasm, he does keep the volume at an inside level while setting his bags down to remove both shoes.

There are all kinds of conflicting emotions to deal with right now that Ford wasn’t expecting. Jealousy, anger, and possessiveness. That’s not normal. He should feel happy for Schermie for succeeding despite his humble beginnings. This place is nice, but not at all to his personal taste. Perhaps, due to spending a lot of time in Mexico, Stan became fond of the architectural style? Yeah, that must be it. Stanley is admiring and being polite. It’s not meant to be an insult.

It took a lot of work to establish a strong base and trust each other again. Visiting Schermie will not be enough to upend that. He just isn’t used to sharing.

“Why yes, they are. The original owners added their own personal touches throughout. You’ll see similar craftsmanship in the bathrooms and kitchen. Did you plan on spending the night at a hotel or would you be comfortable staying here?” Schermie has closed the door, tucking both hands in his front pockets.

Over breakfast, they agreed that Stanley would handle the exact phrasing of his direct oversight on arranging a hotel reservation. Except Ford hasn’t said anything this whole time directly to Schermie, “We’d love to stay here. But I call the bed, Stan can sleep on the couch.”

“Our guest room has two twin beds. Mary’s sisters come over regularly and spend Shabbat with us. I suppose we should start with a tour? You can leave your bags here and I’ll show you to the guest room at the end.” Anything to put off the long list of questions they all must have. Schermie certainly has his fair share.

“Sounds like a plan, Sher-man. Lead the way!” It has been a long time since Stan pulled out any of the ridiculous nicknames he’d been trying to give Schermie way back when. This one seems the least childish. It earns another smile, so it can’t be that bad.

With each room they travel through Ford makes a mental calculation of the square footage. In total, the house has six bedrooms, five bathrooms, basically four living rooms, and a ridiculous amount of space. Just under six thousand square feet if you don’t count the garage and patio, which he isn’t for sanity’s sake.

If you include the basement back home it’s a close call, but Schermie obviously gets more use out of his space. There isn’t stuff crammed into every corner. Things are displayed instead. It’s a family home filled with pictures hanging on walls, and art pieces over mantels. Without knowing shit about art, he is still going to assume its something expensive until told otherwise.

Good thing Stanley is milking the tour for all its worth, asking questions as they go.

The vast majority of pictures throughout the house are of people Stan doesn’t recognize. There are pictures of Schermie, Mary, and Jr., but other people too. Family pictures with people from Mary’s side of the family. An older couple, a guy, and two women that all share the same Ginger hair. Dozens of others, likely friends, possibly from church or something?

Most walls have at least one picture, but it isn’t until they get upstairs into the area above the stairs that the first recognizable pictures of the Pines side of the family becomes visible. The hallway between the two home offices, both facing the front of the house, is seemingly the designated corner.

It makes sense. Schermie selected a single holiday a year, seven days, to visiting their parents. That’s intentional, like this. Maybe if their side of the family wasn’t such a mess Stan would have the nerve to say something about it. One last broken piece to fix.

Everything else is beautiful, very tastefully done, like they hired an interior designer to furnish the place. Schermie certainly didn’t do it based on his clothes, but maybe Mary did. The handful of awkward memories from bumping into her in the hallway back in Jersey or making small talk for a few weeks over dinner before being thrown out doesn’t give a lot of contexts for what she was or is like now.

Thankfully the space isn’t exactly show room neat. There are touches of people living here beyond the pictures. Real books, not just fake ones, crammed into bookshelves to make them fit. The upstairs game room is a bit of a mess with several beanbag chairs strewn about, pop cans not thrown away, and the trash needing to be taken out. Stan has to suppress a chuckle at the mess obviously left by their nephew and possibly some friends.

Other then being told which room belongs to Schermie Jr. they aren’t shown it. Stanley is willing to guess it's either a mess or, more likely, their brother is purposefully not introducing them right away. Fair enough. That would explain why the other people in the house, who can’t go anywhere unless they took a walk, made themselves scarce.

By the time they’ve finished the tour and gotten out to the backyard Ford is seriously over trying to calculate the price of this house and the income needed to maintain/comfortably afford/hire the various services their brother obviously has. Gardner. Maid. And pool cleaner.

That’s right. The backyard has a big swimming pool on top of everything else.

The far-left side of the house has a walkway that must lead to the front driveway but the rest of the area is comprised of a pool, the lawn, and a firepit area with a large grill and some counters for prepping food.

By now he is able to admit he isn’t jealous of the house. No, this is a hosting house. It’s got the space for holding parties, having people over, and all the things that go along with it. Pool table, game room, bar area, three different lounges, two guest rooms, more seating up on the stair landing in the hallway, and a big kitchen for cooking.

It’s wonderful, for Schermie. Ford would rather die than live in a place like this. This better not give Stanley any ideas.

It’s no wonder Schermie visits for Hannukah. He’s clearly the most well-rounded and successful out of the three of them. Wife, kid, fancy job, big house, and he stayed religious too. That is essentially the perfect son Filbrick always wanted. Alright, that might be part of the reason too.

Their father is terrible, leaving no reason to be envious. Unfortunately, feelings don’t care about being rational. It’s annoying.

With the whole house seen Schermie brings them back inside to the first-floor guest room out of the way behind the garage, near the laundry room. It’s lavender themed with floral bedspreads on the two twin beds with matching lamp shades while the walls are a simple white color. “Here you are, I’ll give you a moment to hang up your clothes in the closet. When your finished I’ll be in the lounge.”

This worked out better than expected getting to share a room like back home.

Stan waits, with his bag set on the end of the bed closest to the door, listening to the barely audible receding footsteps until they’re as alone as you can get in someone else’s house. “So, math boy, is our place bigger or are we going to have to build an addition to calm your bruised ego?”

Ford audibly snorts, calmly opening his suitcase to hang up some clothes to prevent wrinkles in the closet of the room. “Including the basement it’s even, if you don’t count the patio or the garage.” They hadn’t been privy to seeing the interior but Ford is capable of estimating. Schermie probably has some nice brand-new cars too.

It’s weird. Until showing up here he’d assumed, stupidly, that he was the most successful Pines brother. There wasn’t any data to suggest otherwise. Now the rug has been pulled out from under him and Ford is mad about it.

Stan decides not to push that topic of conversation because it could only end in a fight or some yelling. He follows Ford over to the closet, steadying him with a hand on one shoulder. “Hey. Success isn’t a measure of money, its how happy you are. Gravity Falls, our place, being a total nerd, means you are successful, got it? And so am I, because I get to hang out with you all the damn time.”

It's hard to keep stewing and being upset when Stanley is smiling at him like this, knowing him far too well. “You like this place though, clearly. I know you say Gravity Falls is home, but is this the actual kind of place you’d want to live?”

Sometimes, Ford is a major idiot.

“Don’t be dumb. Sure, I can appreciate the architecture. Its beautiful, but can you imagine cleaning all this?” His smile gets a little sad, “Besides, we don’t have enough friends to host the kind of party a place this big deserves.” Leaning closer to Ford he makes sure to add, “Can you imagine the noise complaints having neighbors this close would cause us?”

Through a lot of prodding Stanley finally pulls an annoyed smile out of Ford, earning a shove away for his efforts. “Oh, shut up and unpack your clothes. The sooner we go get this conversation over with the better.” All three of them have been dancing around the circus of elephants in the room, avoiding getting stepped on by talking about the house.

Inside his suitcase LeeFord packed a wide variety of clothes. The t-shirt and jeans he’d worn on the train, one dress shirt and slacks, and a pair of shorts that upon closer inspection would work fine as swim trunks. It seems unlikely they’ll use the pool, but clearly LeeFord wanted to be prepared.

It only takes a minute to hang up the dress clothes and tucked the others in an empty drawer. With their stuff put away, suitcases and bags set aside, they don’t have any other choice but to leave their bedroom and go join Schermie in the lounge.

This room has two long couches and two chairs meant to make a conversation space for guests with a coffee table and a visible stack of coasters in the middle. A meat and cheese platter as well as a vegetable and fruit tray has been pulled out and set on the table while they were gone. There is also a bottle of wine and three glasses set out.

With Schermie sat on one couch both Stan and Ford sit on the other opposite, near where the two empty glasses have been set. It’s a little early for drinking.

“You must have eaten breakfast on the train, but it can’t hurt to eat something if either of you would like a glass of wine? I also have water, coffee, or tea in the kitchen?” For the first time since Stan and Ford’s arrival Schermie looks visibly nervous. He doesn’t fidget or mess with his hands or so much as bounce a leg. The wine is telling enough accompanied by the inability to keep his gaze steady.

“Alright Schermie, spit out your questions. We did a tour and you offered a beverage. Let’s get it over with so we can enjoy the weekend.” Stan cuts to the chase because no one else is going to do it.

First, he takes a small sip of his wine, setting it down on the coaster before speaking. “You’ve finished recovering from the car accident, meaning you’ve effectively recovered from the amnesia?”

A drink is tempting, but Stan needs to stay sober for this. “I have, yes.”

“Well. Then I’d like to start back at the beginning. Mom, Dad and Ford have both told me their version of what happened when you got thrown out, but I never got the chance to hear your side of things. I realize you’ve both patched things up, which I’m very happy to hear, but I need to know.” His gaze is steady, hands clasped over his lap loosely.

Ford takes this opportunity to sit back on the couch, trying to hide in the very plush fabric like that will allow him to disappear. His own explanation had been a decade ago, when the anger and betrayal was still fresh. A lot of really mean and harsh things had been said that day on the phone before leaving for school. With both arms crossed he opts to take a new special interest in the rug under the coffee table.  

Hopefully this will be the last time he has to reopen the wound. “You’ve basically heard everything then. Ford wanted to go to college instead of sailing on our janky boat, I got butt hurt about it, then I broke his project. It was selfish and stupid and I’ve spent the last ten years regretting it.” Paying for it. After everything with Bill its pretty easy to let go of his self-hatred around this mistake.

Schermie brings up a hand to rub at one eye, sighing into it before letting it drop. “In retrospect, I wish I had taken that student deferment. Things could have turned out different if I’d stayed in Jersey. I could have been a better brother, for both of you.” He brings up one hand to motion to Ford, “I should have helped you apply for college instead of turning it into an all or nothing deal. Applying for admission, scholarships, and everything that went with it.”

It feels good to get some of the guilty thoughts off his chest. “You would have had somewhere to go, too. Dad was going to kick you out eventually, selfish bastard that he is. You could have stayed with me, worked something out.”

Schermie, as badly as Stan and Ford, wanted to get out. That’s what school was for. A path to a better life. But that shouldn’t have been at the cost of his younger brothers. One damn decision brought about-

Huh.

Stanley expected a lot out of this conversation. To be scolded, yelled at, questioned a lot more for sure. Overall, it seems like Schermie knows more about what went on then they did. Being older and getting everyone’s perspective, having years to sit and ruminate on it, must have provided a clearer picture.

Self-loathing wasn’t on the list.

“God, you two fucks really are brothers, aren’t you?” Stan looks at both Ford and Schermie, letting out a laugh. “So damn stuck in the past over what could have been. You both completely miss the point of how good things are now.” He looks back across the coffee table, deciding to get up and go sit next to his other brother.

“Yeah, it would have been cool to have you around. Sixer might have ended up at his fancy dream school and I might not have spent a decade shunned. But then you wouldn’t be here in this big ridiculous house, Ford wouldn’t have learned how to check his ego, and I wouldn’t have half as many cool stories to tell from my travels. Do you have any idea how boring I was a decade ago?”

There are other things he has now that hypothetically might not exist in the other reality Schermie is apologizing for, but now isn’t the time to address them. “Whatever you’re beating yourself up over in that thick skull? I forgive you. None of that matters anymore because life is good now, isn’t it?”

A near death experience must have done the twins some good for them to have made such a full one-eighty from wanting to kill each other to being best friends again. Stanley hasn’t changed much though, not even ten years through hell could do that.

Before he can let himself overthink it too much Schermie lets it go. Yeah, things could have been better, but they’re here now, aren’t they? It’s not a far reach to lean over and pull Stanley into a hug. Long overdue, but better late then never.

“Jeez, and Ford calls me the sap.” Stan jokes but returns the hug anyway, giving Ford a thumbs up with the hand around Schermie’s back like this means everything’s fixed. Could be, why not?

Schermie laughs over one shoulder, “Oh cram it, you’ve always been the sensitive one. Just shut up and enjoy the hug.”  

“Not to interrupt or anything, but would you mind telling us how exactly you own a multimillion-dollar house? You have ten years of plot to fill us in on, give or take, and eight hours of time for non-stop talking until sundown.” Ford pipes up from the other couch, fidgeting with his own hands while waiting out the hug.

Stan is the one to pull away, shifting to sit back over on the couch next to Ford. “You never did tell us how you met Mary either. It was a little fast, wasn’t it? I always figured you’d be a stickler on sex before marriage, but your son would suggest otherwise.” While talking he gathers up his empty glass to pour some wine for himself, grabbing some food from the platers too.

“Fine, I’ll tell you, but then you each get to take a turn. I want to hear all about your travels,” He points at Stan, “And your research, or whatever you’ve been doing up in Oregon. Plus, how school went and everything. You suck at calling.”

A small jab is far less then Ford feels he deserves. “Don’t flip this back on me, we’re talking about you now. Mom already gave me an earful about that when they visited. For what its worth, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t call much either. Fair is fair.” A lot of the tension he’d been carrying in anticipation of a blowout fight during this conversation dissipates. “Did either of you ever have Mrs. Hanson for English in ninth grade? When I had her, she made us do this pen pal project, writing letters with someone in a classroom across the country.”

Just talking about it makes Schermie smile, relaxing back on the couch further. “Mary was the student I was matched with, but long after the project ended, we continued to send letters. That’s what I was usually using my allowance for. Buying stamps, envelopes, and hiding the letters in the floorboards upstairs.”

It makes him laugh now, “Almost dying gave me the courage to drop myself here in California, to take a chance to see her in person and confess my feelings. Needless to say, she felt the same way. We got married as fast as we could plan a small wedding with her friends and family. And we still have all the letters, the first two are framed up in our bedroom alongside our marriage license.”

Maybe Stanley isn’t the only romantic in the family. That story is so painfully sweet it might have just given Ford a cavity. They would have both been seven or so at that time, no wonder they didn’t notice Schermie sneaking supplies for letters. It wouldn’t have been hard to mail them given the post box at the end of the block.

“See! What did I say? If you’d stuck around in Jersey, you wouldn’t have married the love of your life! That’s the exact kind of story you would see in a lame chick-flic.” Stan can’t bring himself to laugh at it or turn it into some joke. They’re happy, its romantic, and he is secretly a big sap for this kind of stuff.

“Yes, well. That is true. I’m very lucky and I can’t imagine the last ten years without her.” He’s openly sappy about his wife, rolling his eyes at the smile they’re both giving him. “Anyway. That’s the beginning of our story. You know the part about her and Jr. staying in Jersey for a while. I was finishing up my last semester of school and working full time to pay for it. I was able to stay with her parents to save on rent, but the place wasn’t large enough for all of us.”

“She stayed the summer in Jersey with the intention of getting to know everyone.” It was impossible for him to know how bad things had gotten while away, otherwise he might have tried to figure something else out. “When I finished my degree, I got a job working for the government to support us. We bought our starter house when Jr. was two, Mary got her real estate license when he was four, and I finished my Masters, paid for by the government, shortly before he turned six.”

“This is our third house in that time, mostly paid for by Mary. Her income is the reason we can afford it. Being close to family was important to her. Her sisters rent nearby, Darin, her brother, lives two miles east, our Synagogue is a twenty-minute walk, and the country club I belong too is close as well.” While talking Schermie had starting picking at some of the vegetable platter, watching their reactions closely.

It sounds boring.

Not that it’s a bad thing to be boring, necessarily. It’s just so…plain. Mortgage, nine-to-five, church on the weekends. A damn country club membership?

For Stan, it takes everything not to burst into laughter. Schermie got all the normalness that should have been spread between three people and it shows. Sure, he’s been to war and all, but nothing close to their lives. “Sounds like you two have been busy. Do you have any photo albums?”

Schermie stands up, setting down his glass. “That I do, but they’re upstairs. Stanford, would you mind helping me bring them down? There are several.” He waits near the edge of the room for Ford to get up and follow before making his way through the house and upstairs into his home office.

Here it comes, whatever Schermie has to say to him specifically must need to be said without Stanley in the room. Why else would someone need help carrying photo albums? They aren’t that heavy or big, unless he has a dozen to bring down into the lounge. Seems unlikely.

“Sorry, I know that wasn’t very smooth, but I needed to talk with you privately about something before my family comes back.” Schermie says this pulling three photo albums out from the cabinets making up the lower half of the bookshelves along one wall. They get set on the edge of his desk before turning back to Ford.

“Yeah, Stan definitely realizes what you’re trying to do.” Ford checks the hallway before closing the door quietly. “Make it quick.”  

“After Stan was thrown out, I tried multiple times to find him on my own and later on when I had the funds I hired a private detective. Frankly, I learned more about his time on the road then I wanted to know in my efforts to contact him.” He leans back against the edge of the desk, clearly uncomfortable.

“Since he’s staying with you at the moment it feels important to warn you that….he has had several drug problems in the past. It looks like he is clean right now, but if something ever happens and he falls off the wagon. Well. Rehab is expensive, but I’m here to help, should it ever come to that, again.”

It isn’t that far of a jump from participating in drug trafficking to using, but Ford had never made the assumption. Why would he? Stanley had, supposedly, told him all the worst shit from the last decade. Wrong. This new information leaves him momentarily stunned.

When his legs are able to work again, he turns and rushes out of the room back down the stairs. As much as he would like to trust Schermie’s word, Ford needs to hear it from Stan himself. He won’t lie directly if questioned.

Being left in the living room reminds Stan of when their parents would go upstairs to have a ‘conversation’ which usually turned into an argument. The short time they’re both gone he braces.

He has no idea what for, exactly, until Ford comes barreling back in looking pissed. “Stanley Caryn Pines, why on Earth didn’t you tell me you used to be an addict!” Ford is almost shouting now that he knows the only other person in the house is Schermie.

Okay, so maybe he did keep some things a secret from Ford, but that was for very good reasons. His life and past are pathetic enough without Ford knowing everything. There isn’t any need to worry about him having a relapse, so it wasn’t worth bringing up. “Because it wasn’t relevant? What, you expect me to find a crack dealer back home and blow through my winning or something? I’ve got better things to do then drugs, Stanford.”

“That’s not the point and you know it! No more lies, we’re supposed to be completely honest with each other! When was it, what was it, and is there anything else you haven’t told me?” Ford remains standing between the two chairs, arms crossed.

Later, he’s going to smack Schermie for telling Ford this. For now, he stands up. “Oh, I don’t know, all the time? It was the worst at the tail end of my time in Nevada and when I was in Tijuana. My drugs of choice were heroin and cocaine, but I can’t think of a single substance I haven’t tried once or twice!”

These are not memories he enjoys revisiting, but Ford asked for it. “You can’t know good product without trying it first. That’s it, alright. I’ve got nothing else to hide. Happy?”

Schermie comes back into the room, carrying the three albums, and walks around them both to set them down on an open section of coffee table. He isn’t fazed by the shouting, or anything Stanley is admitting to either. “When was the last time you used, Stan? Would a drug test come back clean if I had a hair sample sent off?”

It takes considerable effort not to give himself away immediately. Stan settles on glaring at both of them, not a big fan of being cornered. Schermie is under the impression that everything was caused by a car crash. He has no idea about Bill, so how can he possibly explain away his one last hurrah before bringing Ford back?

He looks at Ford when he speaks after a too long stretch of silence. “Once, back in May. A couple days before Mom and Dad flew out, but things were different then. I thought I was going to die. You can’t fault me for throwing a goodbye party before dealing with Bill.”

Ford’s jaw makes an audible click snapping shut, sending what he hopes is a quick glance toward Schermie. He shouldn’t have pushed this here and now. They could have talked about it back home, but now they have to explain who the hell Bill is. Fuck.

Schermie frowns, glancing between the two of them for a moment. “Who is Bill?” A lot of things aren’t lining up here. He might not be as smart as Stan and Ford, but that doesn’t make him an idiot.

“Ford sent me a postcard, asking me for help dealing with him. Bill, is the guy who locked Ford up in his own house, torturing him for weeks. It took considerable effort on my part to deal with him, although ultimately…Pops is the one who killed him.” It’s vague, not a lie, and isn’t going to get them thrown out on the basis of talking about a God Schermie doesn’t believe in.

The explanation is met with silence. Schermie staring at Stanley, occasionally glancing at Ford, before finally sitting back down on the couch. He brings up the rest of his wine to drink, motioning for them to sit, before speaking. “So. Dad killed someone else.”

Clearly, he’s missing a lot of the full story, but if it involves murder Schermie feels some things are better left a mystery. Knowing more will only mean having more to live with.

Stan and Ford both share a glance from where they’d sat back down on the couch. “Someone else?” Ford finds the gut to ask, finally reaching for the wine bottle to pour himself some in the untouched glass.

Schermie refills his own glass, taking another sip, with a short nod. “Of course, you wouldn’t remember, you were barely three at the time.” He clears his throat, holding the glass with both hands and shifting uncomfortably. “I used to be in swimming, prior to an incident involving my coach. Nothing really happened, from what I remember, but-“

This is not the direction this visit was supposed to go. He pivots, shaking his head. “It was ruled defense of another, he walked. Nothing came of it. It’s good to hear that despite everything he did to you both growing up, he does love you. Consider his secret safe with me. Just don’t tell me anything else. I’d rather forget about it.”

A long silence follows, making the room feel suffocating.

That’s only two or so years prior to when the abuse started. It shines new light on why Filbrick was able to be a perfectly reasonable father to Schermie only to flip on a dime. He was living with taking another person’s life. It’s not an excuse, but Stan knows that shit is heavy.

Ford wasn’t left with a lot of time to be impressed at how quickly Stanley was able to spin the truth into a not insane-sounding lie. Other than painting dad as a murderer, which turned out better then it should have. Jesus their family is fucked up.

“Thank you, Schermie.” Stan finally says, looking over at the photo albums. “Let’s maybe get back on topic, huh? Come on, show us what the little pipsqueak used to look like.” It’s a relief to be able to move on from this trainwreck of a conversation. They all shift closer, moving stuff around on the table, to start going over the pictures. Together.

Notes:

I actually picked out a house with the exterior I was going for. Here is the Zillow link. Please disregard the interior beyond the layout. It is as described with a matching interior. (The Zillow listing is beautiful, but kind of weird to combine the two different styles. Doesn't seem like Schermie's style.)

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/7222-Saint-George-Ln-San-Jose-CA-95120/19767714_zpid/

Chapter 66: Love Coroner

Notes:

Hey everyone, sorry for such a long break between updates. I had to take some time away because the English language started to look like gibberish. And, I also had a Christmas Stancest special thing to write that was kicking my butt. (It's up on my profile if anyone wants to read it) Anyway! Here's the next chapter, enjoy! (Love you guys, and thank you to all the readers that actually got this far in the fic. It's so long, lmao.)

“So, you have twelve different PhDs?” Schermie asks while applying chalk to the end of his pool cue. Although, watching Stanley line up his next shot he isn’t confident he’ll get to use it again this game.

He assumed owning a pool table meant he was good at it. Stan is proving him wrong. It must be all the time on the road, spent in bars, hustling people giving him an edge.

Ford, sitting on one of the stools at the bar nearby, is enjoying watching Stanley show off. Schermie doesn’t seem to be paying as much attention compared to the last two games he lost. “Yes, I finished them in four years. A university, if not national, record. Applied mathematics, statistics, physics, chemistry, organic chemistry, biology, microbiology, ecology, astronomy, electrical engineering, mechanical engineering, and geology.” He rattles them off, counting on each finger before dropping both hands back into his lap.

“Seriously, you already have a degree in biology and you couldn’t be bothered to learn anything medical related?” Stanley comments, pocketing the number seven solid ball in the far-left corner pocket.

“They’re hanging in the hallway upstairs. You’re telling me you never took the time to read them?” Ford can’t help sounding offended, scowling almost identical to Schermie who’s looking at the mostly empty pool table.

This isn’t as fun as playing against people from church. Now Stan only needs the eight-ball to win. Damn bastard pocketed the balls in number order this time to show off.

He will not admit this out loud, but Stan is absolutely cheating. No one else can tell, of course, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. The table here is perfectly leveled, a good quality cue, but his extra advantage? Bionic eye.

One of the settings was designed for calculating trajectories. You know, for shooting a gun, maybe an arrow or something. But its equally as useful here figuring out the best angles to hit the various pool balls around. Combine that with his long-honed instincts for the necessary force from years of hustling? You’ve got a master pool player.

Maybe later he should enter a real tournament, now that would be a fun hobby. He’d forgotten about this particular skill.

“There are twelve of them in fancy cursive. I already know you’re a genius, what does a stupid piece of paper matter?” He waves it off, looking between the different pockets so he can call it.

“You know, if you ever plan on going back to school you could reapply to West Coast Tech. The equivalent of….” Schermie trails off, doing some quick mental math, “Thirty-six degrees in four years is impressive enough. I don’t need to ask if you were top of your class. That’s a stupid question.” He looks back at Stanley circling the table, trying to pay more attention.

It’s not a terrible idea. Ford does, eventually, want to go to medical school. They must have a program like that, but-

That’s where things get complicated. Going back to school means leaving Gravity Falls. They could dock somewhere and live on the boat close to campus, but that hardly seems fair. This isn’t something he can do anytime soon, what with them traveling the world and all.

Plus, afterwards students have a residency and don’t get to pick where they end up. Ford has no doubt Stanley would follow him anywhere, but it seems over the top. Unnecessary. Starting with reading some medical books, taking some first aid classes, is better, smarter.

Besides. If he wanted to go to medical school, might as well go big. Somewhere like Harvard.

“Eh.” Ford finds himself shrugging. “I’ve got better things to do then spend more time stuck in a classroom or buried in piles of book inside a library for months on end. Soon as our boat is finished, the world is our oyster.”

“Call, top right pocket.” Stan finally decides on, adjusting his stick and lining up the new shot. He doesn’t miss, but failed to apply the right amount of pressure, the eight ball stopping barely two inches short. “Damn it, alright Shroom, your turn.”

He sulks over to grab the chalk, as if they’re neck and neck. On the contrary, Schermie still has four balls on the table and the eight ball.

Ten years seems to have given Stanley new inspiration for nicknames, causing Schermie to roll his eyes while moving to line up his next shot. “Where do you two plan on setting sail first? If you head down the coast you should stop by, I’d love to see this grand vessel, once it's seaworthy.”

Stan and Ford both share a look over the table, behind their brother's back.

“Ford’s work is studying anomalies, so I guess wherever he can find leads on those. Although, might not hurt to take her for a pleasure cruise first. How about Hawaii?” Crossing half the Pacific Ocean seems like a good test of their sailing capabilities

They’d been so focused on building the boat that not a lot of thought had gone into after it was finished. “Stanley, do you have a passport? We’ll both need to get one for international travel and get up to date on shots....” It’s a lot to think about.

“Hawaii sounds fun. We’ve been meaning to go there on a family vacation,” Schermie lines up his next shot, hitting the number twelve striped ball into the right-side pocket. “Coral reefs for snorkeling, hiking trails in the national parks, and you’ll have to visit the Pearl Harbor Memorial.” One of the advantages to Stanley clearing the table is having more room to work with.

“You nerds and your museums,” Stan laughs a little, “If we’re visiting Hawaii I’m going surfing again.” He actually feels a little bad watching Schermie scratch after hitting in his next ball, the number twelve striped. From there it only takes a single short shot to knock in the eight ball, winning, and ending the game.

Schermie leaves Stan to start collecting the balls out of the pockets, going over to hand the cue to Ford to trade out. “Is there anything you didn’t do during your travels?” He asks Stanley, a bit exacerbated.

Good question. He thinks about it while racking the balls again for the next game before inevitably shrugging, “Depends on what you’d classify as ‘anything’ I guess. I’ve certainly done more than most people do in two lifetimes.” Together they’d managed to finish the bottle of wine, during the lull of Ford getting up Stan takes another drink from his glass at the bar.

It takes some nudging for Ford to get up, having been lost in thought making a mental list of things they needed to do and when. He falls out of the conversation, thinking about it, while accepting the cue and moving to break.

“You know, I was thinking tomorrow we could go play golf at the club, but it can’t be hard to find a shop out on the coast to go surfing instead. If you wanted. Mary has got work all afternoon anyway. Maybe Jr. will want to bring his friend Jacob.” They’d need to take the van, and is the weather supposed to be good tomorrow?

Stan laughs, clapping Schermie on the shoulder, “Now we’re talking. I could show the two of you the ropes.” He absolutely doesn’t mention how he’s only done it a handful of times and definitely isn’t a professional by any means.

Out of the four games Stanley and Schermie have played Stan won three. (He lost the first one because he was rusty.) Between Ford and Stan, on the other hand, they’re evenly split with two and two, this one will be the tiebreaker.

Schermie takes Ford’s spot at the bar, with his drink, deciding to blame his numerous losses on the alcohol. “We’ll sort out the details tomorrow.”

Ford finally seems to take notice that the conversation continued on around him while he was busy thinking, looking between both of them while his mind plays catchup.

Surfing, tomorrow. Them.

It causes his nose to wrinkle in distaste, but he can’t bring himself to object when Stanley looks so excited about it. “I call solids,” With the break three balls had gotten knocked into pockets; One solid, five solid, and nine stripe. “You're sure Mary can’t come with? Seems a shame to exclude her from a family day trip.”

Stan wants to smack Ford with his cue stick.

Sure, they’ve made up, and Ford has a better emotional intelligence than ever before. But he’s still an idiot.

Over the course of Schermie sharing all the pictures of their family from the last decade Stanley had been able to gather a pretty good idea of dynamics. Mary is the main breadwinner, the more successful of the couple, and some part of Schermie seems to resent that. However, it hasn’t manifested in the way you’d expect.

It doesn’t look like he’s having an affair, despite openly admitting to being away on work trips more often than he should. He isn’t abusive or mean either, because he loves his wife. That’s obvious. Why else would he have stuck by her and put in the work all this time?

Especially through sickness and in health.

Their life isn’t perfect. Through pictures, Schermie had awkwardly explained and brushed over the cancer treatment Mary had gone through and recovered from previously. That’s why they only have one kid, ovarian cancer runs in her family.

Honestly, that might contribute to the issue. Schermie was the one who wanted kids between the pair. They compromised on having one, he stuck it out trying to bargain for two, and it came back to bite them in the form of her almost dying.

Point is, they’re relationship is complicated. Ford isn’t helping.

Schermie brushes off the concern with the wave of a hand, “She’s been trying to sell this place out west for months now, no way is she going to miss out on the scheduled tour now that someone is interested. Besides, she burns easily and hates sand. That’s why our honeymoon was in Italy instead of Bora Bora.” He laughs it off, watching Ford pocket two more solids without Stanley having made a single move.

Stan is pretty sure Ford hasn’t played before today, but his mind has a natural knack for calculations. It’s no surprise he can accomplish the same level of skill without an eye to cheat with. “You’d probably have more fun reading on the sand anyway, Sixer. We can swap out watching the kids and make sure to take lots of pictures.”

Soon as Shabbat is over, they need to have Mary take a picture of them. The last time they were all together in a picture was at Schermie’s goodbye party before he left for boot camp. A new one is long overdue.

Calculations don’t fully make up for being inexperienced, causing him to scratch on his fourth ball, finally giving Stanley a turn. “You both work too much.” He says over the table, “What’s the point in having all this,” He motions at the house and stuff with both hands, swinging the pool cue around a bit more then he should in the open space, “If you both avoid each other all the time?”

Stanley actually does hit Ford with his cue stick, knocking it into one shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise. Telling him to shut up already.

“What?!” He hits Stan back with his own stick, or tries, only for it to get deflected. “If you won’t say something, I will!”

“Shut up and stop that, both of you, or you’ll break something!” Schermie barks out, scowling their way. Mary and Jr. will be back soon from Church since they planned on coming home around three, giving plenty of time for them to get all this out prior. It won’t due to keep arguing and yelling in front of his son.

“What, exactly, are you implying Stanford?” He knows, but better to get it out and over with.

“Ford, this isn’t any of our business. Shut your mouth, or I’ll hit you again.” Stanley threatens. Medaling in Fiddleford’s love life, sure. He basically asked for help. He doesn’t see any moral qualms there. Schermie’s? That’s none of their business. He didn’t ask, so they should be keeping their noses out.

Later, back home, they can gossip about it and be completely unsurprised by the divorce sometime in the next two decades.

Ford carefully sets down his cue, putting up both hands, moving around to the other side of the table away from Stanley down at the end closer to the lounge. “Oh, come on, aren’t you a relationship expert?” He asks Stan, then looking at Schermie. “Fix it.” As if it’s that simple.

That makes Schermie laugh, putting down his drink with a huff.

Now Stanley wants to hit his other brother with the pool cue for how long the laughter goes on. Sure, maybe none of his long-term relationships ended well, but that’s not the point. If anything, countless failures give him a good perspective on what not to do.

When he can gather himself again there are tears from laughter that Schermie has to brush away before looking back at both of them. Oh. They both look mad. Ford more than Stanley, which is kind of weird. He clears his throat, “How many long-term relationships have you been in, then, if you know so much? It’s not like you’ve been married before.”

Stan knows, without looking, that Ford is staring at him waiting for an answer. This is the kind of conversation he would rather have privately but, ultimately, it's Ford’s fault they can’t. He just has to own up to some crap right here and deal with his boyfriend’s reaction later.

“On the contrary,” He finally puts the pool cue down back on the rack, pretending to count on his fingers. “By long term, I’m going to assume you mean over six months or that was considered serious. Let’s see.” He puts up the first finger, “We’ve got Carla McCorkle, high school sweetheart. Next, we got Stacy, a chick I was with in Florida. Then a jump forward to-“

He pauses, considering them both. If Schermie knows about his past with drugs, he must know about other things. Enough that he can be honest here. Still makes him wince and cringe continuing down the list. “Fay, a chick I was married to during my time in Vegas. Then my rebound, Jimmy Snakes.”

With each name he puts up another finger, but its not that long of a list. Pointedly, he doesn’t mention Ford, because Stanley isn’t an idiot. He clears his throat, “See, that’s four right there. Fay and I were together just under a year, so don’t go saying I haven’t been married. Not as long as you, but enough to know a little something.”

Now Ford gets why Stanley was trying to shut him up.

They never took the time to sit and talk about either of their romantic pasts, not in detail. Stanley slept around a lot, from what he knew, and Ford got involved with Bill. Anything else had seemed irrelevant.

Still. Stanley should’ve mentioned he was married before right this moment. Especially for a considerable amount of time. More than six months, less than a year. Nine or ten months? It’s enough to make one of his eyes twitch. ‘Something serious.’ Is worth mentioning.

She was likely a criminal if he got involved with her for so long. Perhaps they did drugs together in Vegas-

‘Oh, those? Heh, got into a bit of a fight with a raccoon when I was in Vegas.’

Like where Stanley previously said he got those distinctly raked fingernail-shaped scars on his lower back.

He lied, and that is almost enough to send Ford into a conniption. They have scar cream. Stan should have used it, immediately, to get rid of those marks.

Unless of course, she still meant something to him.

“Ford, why don’t you go wait in the bedroom? I mean, it's not like you’ve ever been married. We’re gonna have a bro talk, alright?” Stanley interrupts, cleverly coming up with an excuse to dismiss him before Schermie can notice how livid Ford looks.

Blowing up at Stanley about what should be a minor annoyance at best is not a good idea. Schermie doesn’t seem to mind their general weirdness, growing up around it, but Ford knows this would be too far. “Fine.” Is all he manages to say before turning, grabbing his glass of wine, and leaving for the guest room.

Schermie doesn’t understand the cause of the new tension between the twins is and decides to not make sense of it. Must be a twin thing. That was the excuse he used growing up whenever they did something that didn’t make sense.

He stays sitting at the bar, watching Ford go, and then waiting while Stan comes over to sit next to him on one of the other bar stools.

“Don’t mind him, he’s pissed either at himself or me for not being there.” Stan waves his hand; weaving lies that fall out of his mouth. “We used to have a pact about being each other’s best man if either of us ever tied the knot, so just ignore him.”

Ahh, that would explain it. Schermie looks in the direction Ford disappeared too, “Do you need to go talk with him about it? I can wait here.”

Stan snorts, “Nice try, buddy. We’re talking about your marriage first.” Yeah, like he wants to go in there and face Ford right now. He’d much rather dissect Schermie’s relationship with Mary instead, thank you very much.

“There is nothing to talk about, I haven’t the foggiest idea what you two seem to think-“

Now he wants to hit Scherm for being stupid. “Bullshit. You resent Mary, don’t you? For being more successful, only giving you one kid, on top of carrying around guilt from almost killing her, right?”

This earns Stanley a glare, “I do not.”

“Double bullshit. You’re talking to the guy who’s spent their whole life living in Einsteins shadow over here. I’m not judging, in fact, I get it.” Stan leans back, looking in the direction of the guest room and then turning back with a lowered voice. “You can love someone and hate their success at the same time.”

Schermie considers throwing them both out for a moment.

It wouldn’t be difficult and they’re more than capable of taking care of themselves. They could walk to the nearest phone booth and call a cab, get a hotel, and-

Except they spent the last five hours talking, bonding, which makes it a lot more difficult to wipe his hands of the trouble. Family is trouble. Caring about people is hard. Okay, and he can kind of see the angle Stanley is trying to play and, its working.

“We’re already in counseling and have been for the last year.” He finally relents a tiny bit, getting up to open a second bottle of wine. It's honestly a good thing Stanley pulls him back into the chair. He knows he doesn’t need another glass, or three.

“Drinking your problems away doesn’t fix things, idiot. I’ve tried that, and stronger.” Stan keeps his hand on Schermie’s shoulder until he’s sure his brother isn’t going to try and get up again. “Speaking of, later I’m going to need you to explain how you know about my drug addictions, but we’ll come back to that. First, spill.”

“What is there to say, you’ve already seemingly worked everything out.” Schermie snaps, turning to face Stanley with a glare. “Isn’t this the part where you tell me how to fix it?”

The anger doesn’t make him flinch, no matter how familiar the glare looks. “Eh, relationships are more complicated than that. I’ll tell you this though, running away from the person you share a bed with isn’t going to get the job done. Have you told her you feel this way? Crazy, I know, but sometimes it works.”

“Of course not, I just need to deal with it myself.” He doesn’t get why Stanley is smiling at him. What’s so funny?

“Sure, you could do that, but I know how that ends. Divorce, primary custody, living in some shit box; without your hot, smart, and rich wife. Letting shit fester only makes the problem worse. How do you think I ended up divorced?” He turns, picking up his glass to finish the rest of the wine.

Then, he motions back towards the bedroom Ford went into. “Our fight? I ran from the guilt in every way you can. Alcohol, drugs, sex. Two of those things ruined my own relationship and the root cause? Stanford Pines. You can keep being stupid, or you can get the pain over with now and save yourself more later. Let it go.”

For the first time all conversation, Schermie shuts up and listens.

He hates to admit it, because he is no exception to enjoying being right like all other Pines Men, but it might be possible Stan does know a thing or two.

Several minutes go by with him thinking over the advice, messing with his empty glass between both hands. “Sometimes, I think we would have both been better off with other people. She settled for someone who didn’t have a problem with her working, and I really didn’t back in the beginning, but now...we live here. If something happened, not even the life insurance policies would let me keep this place.”

“Once again, you’re too busy thinking about what could be, not what is.” The conversation is easier to have when they’re both not looking at each other. “Love is a commitment, a promise to grow with someone. Doubts are normal, as long as you remember that. She isn’t dead and if she was, you’d sell, downsize, and survive.” It’s a little insensitive, but Stan isn’t going to beat around the bush on what Schermie is implying. “And, we’d be there too, you know. That’s what family is supposed to be.”

It still blows Schermie’s mind how well-rounded Stan turned out despite his childhood. Maybe that article he read about trauma being associated with high emotional intelligence wasn’t so ridiculous after all.

“I know growing up we weren’t close. The age gap contributed to that, on top of you essentially being a natural third wheel. Twins tend to have that effect on people, why do you think we never had any other friends?” Stan laughs about it, because he certainly isn’t going to cry. “But you’re still our brother. I guess that’s why Ford pushed. Someone needed to smack you. Mary must be some women.” Ford would know, he was the one who spent a whole summer with her before school.

This is certainly better advice then any of his other friends suggested. The pigs at the country club’s solutions where pretty much the opposite. Ignore, maybe have an affair, etc.

What’s the worst that could happen? Getting divorced anyway? At least he could say he was honest. And that’s pretty much Stan’s point, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you growing up…” He clears his throat, still not looking over at Stan. “You know, with dad. I did my best, but you know-“

“Cram it, Shroom. I’m over it and you should be too. You know what I really want to hear? You, having sex with your wife later.” He almost falls off of the stool in the rush to get up and away from the hit Shermie sends his direction, it makes Stan laugh. “What!? Makeup sex is the best! I should know-“

Schermie doesn’t miss the second time, landing a solid punch on Stan’s shoulder and pulling him into a playful headlock. “Absolutely not, perhaps you and Ford could take Jr. out for ice cream. Maybe.” It’s as close to agreement as he’ll give.

Stan puts up with the roughhousing for another minute or so, letting his brother have the upper hand to soothe his ego. “Alright, alright easy on the merchandise Sherbert.” He pushes him off, finally, “Why don’t you go upstairs and put together a letter? Like old times for you two or whatever. Chicks eat that shit up. I’m gonna go get my ass laid out by a geek in your guest room. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for any damages if Ford breaks something.”

That-

Is another good idea.

Writing emotions out always was easier than talking, why not revert backward a little to keep moving forward? “You two are weird, you know that right? Normal brothers wouldn’t care that much about missing someone’s wedding.” Schermie points out, only because the alcohol has loosened his lips a little too much.

There is no real way for Stan to know what Schermie means by that. He could mean the normal level of weirdness or something worse. Either way, he doesn’t seem to plan on kicking them out over it, so that’s good at least. “Yeah, I know, but would you prefer we go back to trying to kill each other and ending the world?”

This makes Schermie laugh, patting Stan’s shoulder while shaking his head. “Good one Stan. No, I think I can live with you two being a little codependent if you both stop getting into trouble. I’ll be upstairs, yell for me if he tries to murder you.” With that, he leaves Stan alone on the first floor, going upstairs to his office.

Ugh. Now he has to go face Stanford. That should have taken longer.

In order to waste more time Stan stays out in the game room for a minute listening to Schermie make his way upstairs and for the sound of his office door closing all the way from the entryway of the house. The place feels too quiet for the argument they’re about to have.

Very rarely does Ford’s possessiveness bother him. Right now, its pretty annoying.

The whole walk to their room his feet drag audibly on the floor, wishing Mary and Jr. would come home for an excuse to not have to have this conversation.

But, of course, they don’t, and in no time at all he’s opening the bedroom door and stepping inside to see Ford pacing back and forth. He seems to be trying to wear a hole in the floor.

Being left to his own devices, given time to stew over the information, was in no way helpful.

Sure, it kept Schermie from finding out his twin brothers are in an incestuous relationship, but that’s about it.

Hundreds of different questions and possibilities cropped up during the short ten or so minutes left alone. Drug addiction. Being married. What else could Stan be deciding to not mention about his checkered past?

And those damn claw marks.

Who does that woman think she is? Permanently marking Stan? He is mine, not hers. Hence the divorce. Did she leave him? Stupid bitch. Or rather, did Stanley initiate the separation? But then why keep a souvenir?

“Alright, hot shot. Sit down on your bed,” Stan checks and is disappointed to find the door doesn’t lock. Whatever, they’ll make do. He grabs a chair from the makeup vanity by the dresser and uses that to keep the door secure before moving to sit down on one of the beds, across from Ford who does, in fact, look murderous. “Spit it out, go on. Using inside voices, please?”

“You got married, and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” That’s not exactly what he’s most upset about, but prompting a further explanation should answer the bulk of his questions.

“Yeah, and I’ve also told you I don’t like talking about the last ten years. I usually only admit to surface-level shit, because that’s all I can stomach.” He does know better though. Some things should be mentioned, regardless of how he feels about it. Like the past drug issues.

Stupid Schermie.

“Are we really going to have this conversation now, here, in his house? Can’t it wait until we go home?” A tired sigh escapes him, one hand straightening out his hair. They need to shower at some point soon, it was a long day of traveling and-

“No, it can’t. You’re going to tell me all the details about this marriage and those other ‘serious relationships’ too. Now, and I swear to God if those scratches on your back are from her-“ he clenches both fists, but doesn’t know what to do with them, settling to leave them balled across both knees.

It’s tempting to let himself get riled up, to yell, and to walk away.

Since making up, and especially since getting together, they’ve both been pretty good about mitigating arguments before they can get out of hand. That involves stepping back before someone says something they’ll regret.

But, doing that now isn’t much of an option. Where could he go, exactly? A walk in a neighborhood he doesn’t know? The backyard? Schermie would ask more questions than some yelling would cause.

“Fine, you want details, I’ll give you details.” It comes out harsher than intended, and he glares back. “I dated that chick Stacy for seven months, while I was working at that shop, because she was the daughter of my boss. Pretty sure he would have killed me if I broke up with her, so I had to wait until she got sick of me. I was fired and left town shortly after, you know, to avoid getting killed anyway?”

“Technically I was married twice in Vegas, if we’re being completely honest. First week in town I met Marilyn, got married, and divorced all within forty-eight hours. The second time was two weeks later, while I was drunk and high. I lied, big surprise, to Schermie. Married for nine months, but only together for three of those. She filed for divorce from out of state later after we’d both moved on from Nevadah.”

“And I fucked it up, because that was right after I came back from Tijuana at the peak of my drug addiction. So. It didn’t work out.” The tile on the floor makes the room feel cold through the thin socks he’s wearing. Funny Schermie, or Mary, didn’t splurge on heated floors.

It’s summer, you idiot.

Usually, his story would be a little more cohesive. None of it really holds more information than what Ford already knows from out in front of Schermie. He practically shuffled the words around and threw in a few more descriptors and called it good enough.

Stanley doesn’t want to talk about it.

They shouldn’t, not now, because Ford needs to calm down. He should calm down first and-

“That doesn’t answer my initial question.” The new information of two different marriages doesn’t help calm his temper. “Did she or did she not leave those marks on your back? Yes, or no?”

Stan looks up, glaring back, “Yeah, she did, during our last weekend together. At least I assume it was her. I was too high to remember half of it.” He pauses, knowing what Ford’s other question is without him needing to ask. “And, I kept them, because I didn’t want to forget. I need to remember. Because the second you let yourself forget a mistake, you’ll do it again.”

Ford continues to glare, and to push, despite the little voice in the back of his head suggesting otherwise. “I want you to get rid of them. Now. I don’t need a reminder of someone else who hurt you back then. I don’t want to think about anyone else having you.”

Rationally, the marks aren’t that big of a deal. Seriously. But this feels beyond that now, like Ford is making an outright demand. Stanley can understand the tattoo, he gets the scars, and he’s willing to give a little with one but not the other. They compromised, despite it being his body.

That’s what it comes down to. It’s his body, not Ford’s. He isn’t property and he doesn’t have to do what his brother says. In fact, every instinct says to fight against it right now.

Rational thought went out the window with that last push, replaced by that same defensiveness he’s been doing such a good job holding back.

“No. I’m not doing that. I don’t want to, so I don’t have to.” He says it simply, still glaring back at Ford. It feels like they are about a hair width from a physical fight breaking out. Stan certainly isn’t going to start it, so he stays seated.

“What the fuck is with you and needing to remember the past? If you are so inclined to move forward, shouldn’t you be putting all of it behind you? Including whoever that bitch was? You’re being a hypocrite.” Simultaneously, Ford knows he said the wrong thing, and is made angrier by Stan’s reaction.

He barely catches himself in a half lung, hand brought back to swing, but remains standing in the space between the beds looking down at Ford. Sure, hitting your brother for being a smart mouth is normal, but he will not become one of those people who hits their partner. Out of all the shitty things he’s done, that won’t be one of them.

This conversation is with boyfriend Ford, not brother Ford. He resists, and it's hard.

Dropping the hand back down to his side, Stanley takes several deep breaths before sitting back down. Thankfully, the silence goes on long enough for him to calm down a little.

“The reason I want to keep them is because I genuinely think that if I wasn’t such a screwup, if I wasn’t blasted out of my mind all the damn time, I could have spent the rest of my life with her. And you want to know why? Because. She was basically a carbon copy of you, if you’d cared about me back then.”

“She meant more to me than Carla did, and I fucked it up. Can’t regret it, considering I’ve got the real thing, but I can appreciate her for who she was and what we had in the beginning. Besides, she’s probably dead. Most people I slept with ended up that way eventually, comes with the circles I frequented. And her job, she was a stripper. That doubles the odds.”

That little voice is louder now, taking control over his tongue and turning it to lead for his own good. Previously, Stan was dodging the truth and avoiding the question. Not lying, but not spitting out the full story. Now Stan has, and it clearly makes him uncomfortable.

“Jimmy?” But Ford’s voice is hesitant, like he might not want whatever honesty Stan is going to say about him.

“That’s the guy you can thank for getting me sober. I lived with him in Colorado, and got clean, while I was part of that motorcycle gang.” Stan manages a small smile at the memory, getting up off the bed to rummage around in his luggage.

They had brought pictures to share with Schermie, including his short photo album. He opens it up to the picture of them all standing around with the bikes and points him out. “He’s dead too, so no need to get jealous over him either. Died in a crash with a semi. Sold my bike the day after the funeral and left town the day after that.”

Stan closes the book of pictures with a loud thump, putting it aside on the bed in favor of hanging his head in both hands.

Ford is still angry. How couldn’t he be? But that isn’t important anymore. He had been so caught up in his own jealousy, letting his obsessive tendencies rein, that he had missed how much this conversation was hurting Stanley until it was much too late.

Calling the last ten years bad is one thing, but pulling memories piece by piece makes it real. Drug trafficking, okay. Stealing, expected. Time in prison, less fun, but also not surprising. Doing drugs? Awful. Losing the few people who kept Stanley from killing himself? Unimaginably painful, or so he assumes.

Hesitantly he gets up and moves to sit next to Stanley on the bed, putting an arm around his back to pull him into a hug for comfort. Ford isn’t sure if Stanley wants him to pretend not to notice he is quietly crying or not, so he says nothing and lets him pick.

It’s not like he can think of anything helpful anyway, this is his fault.

Amazingly, his own giant brain continues to make a real ass of itself no matter how careful he tries to be. Ford promised to stop hurting him, but almost too easily they’ve fallen back into the same song and dance. Stanley deserves better.

“I’m sorry for pushing.” He only speaks once his brother has calmed down some, without having looked or sat up yet.

Part of what makes getting up, living this new life, easy is not being forced to remember. They always have something new going on. Projects, making new memories, and information to inhale. Getting dragged backward hurts.

It’s like actually being there again, as ridiculous as that sounds. Momentarily, talking about it, and looking at the picture, throws him into the pool of grief.

Shit like that never fully goes away. Everyone you know and love who dies stays with you, until someday you die and those memories go with yours. Death is funny like that. Ghosts do exist, beyond what Ford has in his books. They exist in your head, made of the people you once loved and held dear.

Dwell too much, and they’ll kill you.

He doesn’t cry, not full-blown sobs, just some quiet hiccups, and a few salty trails. Stan refuses to be made a snot-covered mess, or ruin one of the few changes of clothes he has for their trip.

Eventually his breathing his back under control and becomes aware that Ford moved to his left in a hug. “Take this as a lesson. Next time I say ‘don’t bring up the past’ maybe listen to me. I know a few things, because I wasn’t lying when I said the only worthwhile thing I did in my whole life was save you.”

What was once a rolling boil of anger has evaporated from Ford’s chest, the last whisps of steam going up when Stan finally looks at him again. His expression is steeled, and guarded, like he expects more backlash.

“Okay. I won’t ask questions again, but if you ever want to talk about any of it, I’ll listen.” Slowly, Ford brings up his free hand to cup Stan’s jaw. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me out of fear of my reactions. I need to work on that more.”

Stan snorts, cracking a small smile. “Boy, I’ll say. You looked ready to strangle me right in front of Schermie. Pretty sure he thinks you’re a psychopath or whatever.” He nudges Ford in the side, breaking the tension.

Out of paranoia, Ford turns quickly to double-check the door to be sure it's still secured with the chair before turning back to press a light kiss to Stan’s lips. “How did the ‘bro talk’ go?” He uses one hand for air quotes, laughing when it earns him another shove but doesn't move away.

What a dork. “It went fine, but why exactly did you feel it was necessary for me to meddle in their marriage? They’re already in counseling, what good is my shitty advice going to do?”

“You happen to have very good relationship advice. Otherwise, Fids would still be on the fast track towards divorce. And, because I like Mary. That summer after you got thrown out, she introduced me to DD&MD. I assume she still plays, or I hope so. I packed my character sheets and threw together a quick campaign. Perhaps we could play, like old times.”

This pulls a loud groan from Stan’s mouth, followed by him flopping back on the bed. “You’re telling me our sister-in-law is a nerd? That means our descendants are going to be nerds too! Our bloodline is doomed because Schermie wanted to ‘be romantic’ and ‘fell in love’ over dumb paper.”

Ford knows better. Stan isn’t really upset, he’s messing around. Probably.

“I think you are forgetting about our future children? If we use your sperm that gives them a fair chance of being lame. At least they’ll be attractive at any rate, carrying on the lineage, as you’d put it.” Being pulled over into a cuddle makes Ford honest to God giggle.

“It’s not lame to save the world, now, is it? That’s prime hero DNA!” Though he’d still prefer they use Ford’s, in this hypothetical. He’s the genius, that seems more important. Being nerds is a sacrifice Stan can live with.

They really shouldn’t be laying in such a compromising position with him draped over Stan’s chest, despite the door being blocked. “No, it isn’t. Although so long as I’m alive they won’t need to be a hero. I’ll kill whatever gives them trouble without question. That goes for you too, for your information.”

“Alright, alright. Up we go. I need to shower and there is only one direction this kind of flattery leads. I’m drowning the fire before it starts.” He, not so gracefully, shoves Ford off onto the bed without any concern for how he almost falls off the small mattress.

“You think we should wait until after Mom and Pop die before reproducing, to avoid questions? Or will they buy one of us having knocked up some poor soul?” Ford lets Stan get up, handing him the picture book to put back in the suitcase.

“We can talk about it when we get home!” Stan calls from inside the bathroom, right before slamming the door to effectively end the conversation.

Chapter 67: Bag of Lies

Notes:

Hey guys, long time no see. Sorry about the month-long drop-off. Life got crazy, writer's block hit, and it was a serious struggle. I think part of me doesn't want this to end, which is ridiculous because it's not going to??? I literally have at least one, possibly three, follow-up fics planned??? I'm dumb. I hope you enjoy it. I cannot promise when the next chapter will be up because I should be starting a new job soon. JUST TAKE IT!

(Trigger warning for someone being asked if they've been molested. I think I've mentioned this kind of stuff before, but this is the first time I've ever actually stated it out loud instead of implying it, so just telling you ahead of time. )

People say time heals all wounds, and in some aspects, they would be correct.

On the surface, it appears a week and the twin’s vacation were all it took to move on. LeeFord is well aware that’s not entirely the case. There is still the emotional trauma of being rejected by quite literally ever friend they’ve made in all of history.

But-

Stan and Ford are rather good at compartmentalizing and finding comfort in each other instead. In family.

It was nice to meet Schermie, despite him not knowing the full extent of who he was meeting, other than Stanley. That would be way too weird for their straight-edge brother. He’d barely been able to wrap his head around Ford’s work here in Gravity Falls!

Apparently, he’d thought ‘anomalies’ translated toward two-headed cows, albino deer, and other rare but tame blips. Not gnomes, barf fairies, or Steve.

When Hannukah comes around Ford will get a chance to show off his specimens and prove he isn’t completely nuts. Schermie had only seemed to believe them, or half so, because Stanley insisted it was true. Whatever, a problem for the twins, not him.

What LeeFord is tasked with now is something far more complex. Trying to convince a religious man that Incest isn’t so bad.

It’s challenging, but not as impossible as you’d think.

That could be Ford’s ego carrying over, but it’s better not to think about what came from who anymore. That too, doesn’t matter.

He’s an individual now, with assumed free will, created by influences just like anyone else.

Moving on.

It’s early morning, shortly before sunrise, and right now he’s supposed to be working on plans for the boat. That’s his job tonight. Ford is catching up on sleep upstairs from the night before, leaving him alone again.

Which means, now is as good a time as any to enact his plan. The one he’s been working on since waking up and reading Stan’s emotional entry in their journal the night after the fight.

It’s not fair. Yes, technically Fids has every right to want nothing to do with them, but-

LeeFord can’t let it go, not when he’s fully aware of how deep something like this cuts for his host and…friend? Sure, let’s go with that.

They’re also both painfully stubborn, meaning they’ll never actually do anything about it.

They’d sooner socially isolate themselves than reach out and try having another conversation.

Talking with each other? Getting better.

Other people? Horse shit.

Fiddleford might be asleep, but given the early hour and it being a weekday hopefully not. Him or Emma will have to bring Tate to daycare? Maybe he can even catch him alone before they start that whole process.

LeeFord abandons his work in the den, right in the middle of some calculations, in favor of gathering up everything he needs. Upstairs in the office is the projector and computer, which get put in Stan’s backpack, along with the two books he finished reading and annotating while in California. The last things to go in the bag are a folder and a small box out of the secret compartment up in the closet. He made it to hide some of his own things away.

Nothing evil, of course. This whole plan is for Stan and Ford’s benefit, but he couldn’t tell them, otherwise they’d get mad or try to stop him. He can’t have that.

With the bag packed, he double-checks that Ford is still fast asleep in the bedroom, tucked in under the blankets, before making his way downstairs, outside, and into the car.

If Schermie was any indication, it isn’t as easy as meeting someone to remember how he is supposed to feel about them. No overwhelming ‘brother!’ emotions came flooding in so it's unlikely he’ll feel anything when meeting Fiddleford.

Despite sharing all the same memories with Stanley, and same core values, the emotions associated with anyone other than Ford didn’t carry over. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

On the one hand, it means he won’t start to miss anyone. No urges to call and talk to their parents or Schermie.

Simple pure indifference towards anyone apart of their past.

Only if he can fix this will he get a chance to see if building relationships and caring for other people is possible. They didn’t spend enough time in California for that. One conversation doesn’t count.

He turns off the engine and parks the car down the street, away from Fiddleford’s house, before getting out and walking the rest of the way. Their little suburban neighborhood is quiet with only a little bit of grey light coming through the clouds. In the McGucket house, all the lights appear to be off at first glance, but that means little.  

Hopefully whoever answers the door has at least had their coffee. Best not to wake up the whole neighborhood with another shouting match-

No, this is going to go well. Fiddleford is a very rational man. He just needs to appeal to that. No problem.

LeeFord heads up the front walk and onto the porch without delaying and knocks on the door once, only loud enough for someone downstairs to hear it. That leaves him to wait, shifting his weight back and forth and resisting the urge to peer into any the front windows like a creep.

The sound of the front door’s locks turning draws his attention away from the floor and he tries his best not to look like-

Stan? Not a pushover? He has any idea how this is going to go?

Thankfully it's not Fiddleford who opens the door, but Emma-May still wearing a nightgown and slippers with a cup of coffee in one hand. She appears tired still, but also kind of mad-

“Stanley Pines, what the hell are you doing here at this hour? And don’t you dare tell me this has anything to do with this ‘secret project’ you three have been cooking up? Fids has spent enough time downstairs as is!” She hisses this out in a whisper to avoid disturbing anyone else.

The very first thing LeeFord does, rather than responding, is reaching into his front jacket pocket to pull out a small corked vial that appears to contain a purple and slightly shimmery liquid. Popping the cork, he downs it in one go, wincing at the taste, before returning the vial to his pocket.

“Sorry about that, truth serum. Couldn’t take it until I had a witness. It would appear your husband has been lying to you about some project in the basement? He must be, because they’re all in the middle of a rather nasty argument about how Stan and Ford are in an incestuous relationship. Fiddleford isn’t very happy.”

Only now does he extend a hand. “Ahh, but I should introduce myself. LeeFord Pines, at your service, m’lady, may I come in to speak with him?”

Emma is starting to think she’s having a really weird dream, possibly in the middle of sleeping through her alarm. She sets her coffee aside on the side table near the door and pinches herself for good measure.

Nope. Still downstairs.

And Stan- No, LeeFord, is still holding out a hand to shake through the half-open door.

“I’m sorry, LeeFord? I though they where twins, not triplets.” She does, however, reach through the door and hesitantly shake his hand. She also has more questions, but one thing at a time.

“And you’d be right! Sorry, have you ever heard of multiple personality disorder? It’s kinda like that. I’m a separate being capable of forming my own memories from the point of my formation. We haven’t met yet, and neither have Fiddleford and I, but it's nice to make your acquaintance.” The handshake is short and he goes back to tucking his hand into his jean pockets keeping his distance from the front door.

She opens her mouth, pauses, and then closes it again.

Yes, she’s heard about it, but never met anyone dealing with it. Isn’t that something related to extensive trauma? Maybe this has something to do with when they brought Ford back? No one ever really explained how that went, or what happened. Just that Ford came from one dimension, back to theirs.

That doesn’t necessarily mean it was a nice one, and someone must have gone in to get him?

It’s not even six in the morning and she can already feel the start of a headache.

Fiddleford lied, again, even if it was meant to be in her best interest. Was she just supposed to never notice when they never talked to each other again? Honestly, this revelation about the twins isn’t that surprising.

She grew up an only child, but there was a pair of twin girls in the grade above and twin boys in the grade below, both from the same family, and none of them acted like this.

Stan and Ford were too close, but this isn’t the kind of thing you say or spread around about your friends. Especially when you aren’t sure. Well. Now she is. Damn. And, this means she can’t tell anyone at book club either, because word spreads fast in a small town. Double damn.

“Wait a second, you mean to tell me my husband is lying to me again?” It’s too early for her to think about getting into a shouting match with him right now. She grabs her coffee and motions LeeFord inside, closing the door, before heading straight for the basement.

Without anything better to do, LeeFord followed.

Through the house and downstairs, he was starting to see why Emma might have been able to buy that Fiddleford was working on some project for them. The lie was very believable because the basement is a mess.

The door between the laundry room and the office down here is open and it looks like whatever her husband has been working on spilled out, taking over the space. New whiteboards, lots of papers stuck to the walls, and many many books in piles all over in seemingly no order.

It looks like Fiddleford might have gone mad, again. Except this time without the memory gun to exacerbate the problem.

LeeFord would feel bad for him, if he couldn’t read what the hell the mess is about. If Stanley were here the math itself would go right over his head. Ford would know though, most definitely, and they’ll have a laugh about this later. Right now, he keeps quiet and makes a point not to start giggling over the mess.

It’s painstakingly difficult.

Emma hardly notices and doesn’t bother being quiet marching across the room and over to the wooden chair at the table they’re supposed to use for folding laundry. Fiddleford has turned it into another desk and is currently slumped over asleep. “Fiddleford Hardon McGucket, wake up, you have a guest.” Her voice isn’t a yell, but it's more than loud enough to cause Fids to jerk upright with a start.

Based on the dim light coming through the window that would make it early morning, which means he fell asleep downstairs. Again.

But that isn’t his most concerning problem right now, because when Fids turns his head, he spots Stanley hovering near the bottom of the stairs.

Uh oh.

They didn’t exactly end things on good terms by any means.

Having had over a week to stew on the blowout he is willing to admit the whole thing could have been handled a little better. He didn’t need to be so mean. Stan and Ford are going to do what they want, they always have, and he knows that. Overall, they seem to also know how terrible this choice is, but they’re doing that anyway too. So. Everything afterward was unnecessary.

Right now, he’s mostly worried about getting his teeth kicked in, or maybe some other form of revenge for being so mean.

Except Stan doesn’t look that mad.

Tired, and a little unsure, with the trace of a snuffed smile only noticeable by the tiny upturn of his lips. You’d practically need a microscope to see it.

Fiddleford looks between both of them, trying to determine what exactly Emma knows already. Stan isn’t giving him any hints behind her back to help either. Jeez, thanks.

Although, considering they aren’t friends right now, why would he?

“I see that, but isn’t it a bit early for a visit?” He rubs his eyes one at a time, clearing away the sleep, without taking his gaze off the room.

LeeFord can’t help but laugh now. He did a very good job keeping it in for a minute, but it can’t be helped. “Sorry about that, being on the night shift doesn’t give me a lot of options. We should make this quick, Ford will be getting up in a few hours and he’ll be wondering where our body ran off to.”

He crosses the room, extending a hand out to Fids the same way he had to Emma upstairs. “Would have been better to make your acquaintance under better circumstances, but the names LeeFord Pines. Haven’t thought up a middle one yet, not that it matters since I don’t technically have any legal paperwork.”

Fids takes the opportunity to look at his wife, who is standing off to the side with her arms crossed, before back at Stan-

Not Stan, LeeFord, or whatever. The supposed ‘demigod’ living inside Stanley’s mind. Ford hadn’t done a very good job explaining it.

What business does a god have messing around in Stan’s head anyway? A lizard god.

They’re both mad. All three of them, in this case.

But Emma also looks upset, and early morning isn’t a good time to be testing her patience on whatever they may have talked about upstairs before coming down here. Great.

He shakes the hand, looking at Stan skeptically. “Right, sure you are. Got any proof of the matter?”

Oh, this will be fun. LeeFord grins, pulling his hand back and looking around the room again. “We could start with the giant robot you’re working on down here. It’s mighty impressive. Are you planning on terrorizing the locals with it? Or did you decide on something submarine-like to inflict on the coastal cities?” Another uncharacteristic giggle escapes.

He wanders away, over to the nearest whiteboard. Fiddleford must have been working on it before bed, because there are numerous mistakes. LeeFord picks up a marker and starts fixing them in red, still chuckling to himself.

Fiddleford follows Stan over, double-checking the number of fingers on each hand while watching him go over the calculations-

“Excuse me, a giant what?” Emma asks, tightening her arms over her chest with her irritated expression becoming a flabbergasted glare. “That’s what you’ve been cooped up down here, taking over my laundry room, obsessing over for the last week? All because you're mad about who your friends are dating? What is this, middle school?”

Stanley definitely shouldn’t understand any of this math. He hasn’t been able to do anything more advanced than high school-level algebra since having his memory wiped. Fids can’t decide between being more surprised by this, or his wife siding with them.

“As fun as it would be to watch you two argue, I think it would be much easier if you leave us to discuss.” LeeFord talks without looking up from the whiteboard until after finishing the last correction. There where only three anyway.

“I can’t believe you aren’t as repulsed as I am, didn’t you grow up Catholic? Don’t you have any idea how wrong they are?” Fids objects anyway.

“Of course I did, but I’m not stupid either! I mean, seriously. You never even suspected Stanford of being a little gay.” She brings up her thumb and pointer finger to make a pinching motion.

“No! I didn’t, because I thought he would have told me!” They are both whisper yelling, but that does little in the otherwise silent morning.

“Really? The same guy who’s thrown away an almost decade-old friendship after finding out? Huh, I wonder why he didn’t?” Her lips are flattened into a disapproving line, the kind she uses on Tate when he plays with his food.

“Oh, you know that’s not the main issue! They’re brothers Emma, and that ain’t right! I can overlook a lot of mistakes, and a lot of bad choices by those two, but not-“

LeeFord clears his throat very loudly, more of a hack than a cough, so they both look at him. “Um, could you not talk as if the representative isn’t in the room with you? Hi, hello, have you thought about maybe, asking me these questions? Thanks?” He won’t say so out loud, but pretty much every human he’s met so far is an idiot. Including these two.

‘I don’t want to have this conversation’

‘Yeah, well, if you don’t, you’re going to be staying at a hotel or out on the porch.’

Emma and Fids both look at each other for a minute before he sighs and goes to sit back down in his chair. “Sure, why not? Go ahead. Try and sell me Incest. This should be good.” Fids crosses his arms and scowls at both of them.

Overall, this is going way better than LeeFord thought it would! Even if he knows Fids is agreeing sarcastically and likely under threat from his wife. Better than nothing!

For the first time since entering the house, he smiles and it’s a mix between Stan’s ‘sales grin’ and Ford’s ‘I get to give a lecture!’ grin. Over across the room, he starts shifting stuff off the table and clearing off one part of it before grabbing the other chair down here out of Fid's office. “Oh! Right, Emma. Can you tell him you saw me take this?” He pulls the vial back out and offers it to Fids. “Truth serum. So you know I’m not lying or anything.”

Inside the glass tube is only a small trace of the purple liquid. It appears to have some small gold flecks in it that are only visible when held up to the light. “And I’m just supposed to believe this is truth serum? Without any proof?”

“God, you really are a pain in the ass, aren’t you?” LeeFord shrugs off his bag and pulls out that folder, sliding a packet of paper Fids way. “There, and I brought a second vial in case you don’t believe your wife.” He pulls that out of the bag and puts it on the table next to the closed folder, waiting expectantly.

Right. LeeFord is supposed to be a combination of the twins. However THAT makes sense. Of course, he’d come prepared with proof and samples and a whole paper on it. Fiddleford doesn’t bother doing more than skimming it and smelling the new vial. It smells really lemony, like Pine-Sol with a hint of iron. Gross.

“Fine, I believe you. Can we get this over with already so you can give me my crap out of the car and I can go have some coffee?” He assumed LeeFord brought his stuff over, because why waste the trip?

“Emma, would you mind leaving us alone? No offense, but a lot of the things we’ll be discussing are very personal and I’m not going to be able to keep my lips as tight as I should if you plan on listening in. Stan and Ford deserve at least a little bit of privacy.” In the meantime, he takes back the paper and the two vials.

She pretends to consider it crossing the room but holds out a hand once reaching the table. “Sure, but I’d like that vial for the next time I need it.” Emma is talking to Lee but looks at her husband.

Okay, maybe Emma isn’t that dumb. It makes him snicker while handing her the vial. “Absolutely, just don’t misuse it otherwise you’ll be undoing all the progress I’m about to make.”

She takes the vial and turns around, leaving the basement before Fiddleford can complain or say anything. He turns his glare across the table at Not Stan instead.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that. I gave it a very distinct taste for a reason. It’s impossible to slip it into food without being noticed.” Moving on. “So. You’ve had time to stew, got any questions that didn’t get answered before Ford threw you out?”

Fids is quickly deciding he doesn’t like LeeFord much. He just gave his wife a truth potion, which he knows will end up being used on him, probably as a form of calling his bluff. Great. That’s the kind of thing Stan never would have done, or at least not before their fight.

It sucks having powerful enemies.

“Did Stan really mean it when he insisted this was a new development and that neither of them did anything as kids?” Stanley had seemed to be telling the truth, but how could he be sure about anything at this point after such a big lie?

“They never did anything as teenagers, and I wouldn’t call a single kiss much of anything given they were twelve and didn’t know any better.” Next, he pulled the computer and projector device out of the bag and began setting it up on the table.

“Hey, don’t give me that face. I’m being honest with you, aren’t I? It was just the one kiss, never anything else. Not until after Stan came back from California and they both confessed.” There wasn’t much else to do other than wait for the program to finish starting up, so he left the computer off to the side angled away so Fiddleford couldn’t watch or get distracted.

“Oh, let me guess, after that kiss, they both realized who was really their soulmate and then both suppressed their feelings for literal decades resulting in their brotherly relationship falling apart at the seams?” Fid's voice is mocking and sarcastic.

“Why, yes! See, you do get it! I can’t imagine why you’re having such a hard time accepting it when you understand the whole story? What is the real problem?” The upside of not caring about Fids is that he can easily ignore the hateful comment, for now.

“What kind of father would I be exposing my child to something like that? Its incest! Between siblings. Are you all stupid? Am I the crazy one here? Is this not a basic concept taught to most people?” He crosses both arms, glaring at Not Stan. This is stupid.

“Look, if it’s a religious thing,” LeeFord reaches back into the bag and pulls out the two books- the two bibles- and sets them down on the table in front of Fids. “I went through both the Catholic and Southern Baptist iterations- who would have thought there was that big of a difference- and highlighted every instance of incest for you. People used to do this kind of stuff all the time Fiddleford!”

If this guy is supposed to be a genius, maybe the world is doomed. “That’s different! It’s a book, it's not real for fucks sake! It's-“ He can’t even right now and covers his face out of frustration without touching either of the books.

Okay, scratch that angle. Maybe he needs to pull out the big guns right away.

“If it's not either of them being gay, or it being religious, then what? I could use some help, maybe work with me here? I was under the impression that you used to value your friendship with the twins. A fundamental part of who they are coming to light can’t have fully uprooted that.” LeeFord insists.

“That! It can’t be a fundamental part of who they are, because it’s wrong! They’re brothers, best friends, and twins! By every definition of the word that means they definitely shouldn’t be having sex!” Why is this such a hard concept to grasp for other people?

“Hmm. But you’ve seen how happy it makes them, haven’t you? How could you continue to deny this when they’ll likely never be close to as happy apart? You went to college with Ford, for fucks sake.” LeeFord pulls out the sketchbook, balancing it on top of the two Bibles. “Don’t look at the last page unless you want to pour bleach in your eyes, but I’m sure you remember this? You would have seen Ford sketching in it, hiding what he was drawing from you.”

Bleach? Fids is kinda scared to touch the thing at all with that warning, but when LeeFord doesn’t offer any other information, he tentatively opens the book with two fingers.

It takes some thought, but the sketchbook does look familiar. This was the book that Ford would not so sneakily hide under his pillow any time he entered the room. The one he wasn’t allowed to look at.

Despite being terrified of what could be on the last page Fids does carefully look at the first, and rather wholesome, picture. And the gross lovey-dovey letter written on the back. It rivals the love letters he wrote Emma when they were dating despite being way shorter.

“I still stand by there being something fundamentally wrong with you both. What, was one or both of you molested?” He bristles with the first thought being their father, but then they wouldn’t have made up so easily, right? Someone would have mentioned that, surely.

Alright, yeah. Big guns it is, just as soon as the computer is ready to run the program. It could really do with another upgrade.

“No, Fiddleford, neither of them was molested as children. Stanley definitely wasn’t and I’m ninety-nine percent sure about Ford. And that margin of error is only in place because I don’t have all his memories like Stanley. I’m sure we would know if someone ever did that to him. Our father was awful, but even he had his limits. Without any uncles east of Chicago it’s statistically improbable anyway.” He waves it off like Fids didn’t just accuse their father of another heinous crime.

“Well then, you’re not giving me much room to work with! I would like to believe you, I know they’re good people, smarter than this for God’s sake! But you have to give me something tangible other than ‘because they want to’ and ‘the Pine twins are exempt from this rule’ as reasoning!” It would be easier at this point, considering Emma seems to be on their side, to accept that. But his heart wouldn’t be in it if he did.

It shouldn’t be this difficult to convince Fiddleford. Lee can see how touched the other is by looking at the pictures, and reading the letters, but he’s being stubborn! Fine, if he needs a good tangible, even religious, reason? He can do that. That’s why he’s here.

He takes the time to gather up the bibles and puts them back in the bag while but lets Fids look at the pictures, keeping an eye on the computer. All the scandalous pictures are covered up with black construction paper and blue painter’s tape. Easy enough to remove without damaging the drawings, but keeping Fids from wanting to jump off his roof.

After a whole fifteen minutes, the computer finally finished. But, to be fair, it is a very big program. It would take a time accurate computer several weeks. His is just ridiculously overpowered.

When the light finally turns green on the side of the projector LeeFord takes the sketchbook back and tucks that into the bag as well. Then he unplugs the projector and gets up, moving to stand in the middle of the room with it. “Come over here, you want proof? I’ll show you proof.”

Given the ‘evidence’ previously presented Fids isn’t expecting anything mind-blowing. But he’ll humor LeeFord because he did say he would. Crossing the room, he stands across from LeeFord and watches him close the shade of the only window in the room before setting the weird device on the floor. This better not be a bomb or something.

“Did Stanley ever tell you about what exactly Bill tried to show him to sway his loyalties from Ford and this dimension? That bastard tried everything and played dirty with it. Have you ever been shown something only a God is supposed to see? It's as terrifying as it is brilliant. And I’m going to show it to you because it relates to our conversation.” After pressing several buttons on the side of the device LeeFord puts it down on the floor and steps back a little.

He knows to brace a little before the hologram starts, and maybe it would have been a good idea to warn Fiddleford, but he doesn't. Because Fids is being a dick and he deserves to get flashed.

For a moment the whole basement looks like a bomb did go off with a bright white light encompassing the space and blinding anyone looking. But then it fades and the room becomes enveloped in specs of light instead.

Unlike a normal hologram, the light doesn’t cast a shadow behind where they’re standing. They’re free moving, like specs of dust, freely and slowly dancing through the air. They vary in color, some of them are like gems, others too bright to see the color. It’s not even close to the real thing, but it's as good as it gets using human technology.

“Damn, bastard! When I can see again, I’m going to give you a damn bloody nose!” Fids openly yells in the basement, temporarily unable to see. He knows better than to try and stumble in his enemy’s general direction now because he’d lose then. All senses are required. So, he waits, annoyed, until he can see again.

But he forgets why he was mad when the spectacle comes into view.

It doesn’t look like they’re in the basement at all anymore. They might as well be standing in space, surrounded by stars, for all he can tell. The background of a normal hologram, of the basement, isn’t visible against the black backdrop. “What the hell…”

“Brilliant, isn’t it? And this is hardly close to what Bill showed us. But, I tried. It still gets my point across. This, according to him, is what the fabric of reality looks like. Every choice, is, supposedly, preprogrammed. Kinda. We do have free will, but that usually results in a branch-off. A malfunction that produces enough energy to create an alternative dimension. All very boring, not my point.”

Using both hands he reaches out into the hologram and puts his fingers together in a square, like a picture frame, only to pull them apart and zoom in on a tiny corner of the program. Now, with this square up close, you can see all the select little circles in more detail. It kinda hurts to look at.

“See this, they actually look a lot like stars, don’t they? But this section perplexes me. Each person has a soul, these balls of energy, from what I know. They are what make a person who they are, their decisions, their morals, everything they have or will do. So. What does it mean that these two,” he zooms in further, on a smaller section from the trillion of lights, down to just a hundred or so.

Pointing at two, seeming to be overlapping. They both have distinctly different colors, and it's trippy looking at two spheres of light overlapping but also see-through. “Are together?”

He expects Fiddleford to answer because he’s been so full of wisecracks this morning, but when he doesn’t LeeFord continues. “You could claim they are Siamese twins, or maybe the overlapping of two people for an extended period of time. And yes, both those exist, but they look very different. They never merge like this. Conjoined twins are connected at the same point they are physically, not entirely like this. And two people only end up side by side, not fully enveloped.”

A pause, for dramatic effect. “You are right, there always was something fundamentally wrong with Stan, Ford, and myself by extension. The universe screwed up our souls. This was inevitable, at least in our dimension, and likely in others that branched from this one. Two parts of a whole, unhappy without the other, and there is nothing either of them can do about it. Not until they die and the energy gets to try again. Maybe not even then.”

Fiddleford snaps out of his trance, glaring again at LeeFord. “And I’m supposed to believe you?” But his voice isn’t as angry as it was before. “How do I know you aren’t simply making this up? You had a week to prepare, this-“

“Because I’ve traced these two.” He points at the overlapping points of energy. “I’ve got a whole book of math if you want, and, I’m sure. But if you don’t want to believe me, then fine.” Abruptly he reaches down and turns off the machine. The stark gray room, dark with the window closed, coming back into view too fast for the necessary adjustment.

It's blinding in a different way, but LeeFord heads over to the table to start gathering up the computer and double-checking everything in the bag to make sure nothing gets left behind. It's all too important.

It must be Stan’s stupid bionic eye that lets LeeFord move around so quickly. “Sta-“ Fids catches himself with a sigh. “LeeFord-“

“No. You wanted a religious excuse; I gave it to you. Neither Stan or Ford would ever be happy apart. You’ve seen that, firsthand, and I provided the reason. The true, honest, no-bullshit reason. So. That leaves Plan B.” Out of the bag comes a box.

Out of the box, comes a gun.

Not a normal gun, but something close to the dream gun or memory gun. The design is similar, but the color is different. Not red, or blue, but gold this time. Even the bulb is tinted yellow.

Crossing the short distance to Fiddleford, he offers it to him. “If you are so hell-bent on playing God yourself, on deciding what is and isn’t right, then do it.” LeeFord forces it into Fiddleford’s hands and steps back.

“That right there is the next-generation memory gun. Instead of only half deleting it, giving it a way back in, this finishes the job. If you want to be right so bad, then have at it. Follow me home, and you can delete this whole mess from both of us after I go to bed. And I’m the only one who will ever know. Go ahead.”

Well, this all suddenly became a lot darker than it was a few minutes ago. What the hell?

Fiddleford almost drops the gun after being handed it, but instead simply aims it at the floor. “Are you insane!? How the hell did you get this, or even make this? The memory gun is locked up in the safe, the papers on it burned, you couldn’t have possibly recreated, much less improved the design!”

“Of course I’m insane, do you have any idea who my parents are? Two gods, plus Stan and Ford. That doesn’t give me good odds. And you think a Demigod couldn’t break into a two-code safe? Stan’s demigod son? It just took a little reverse engineering using some squirrels. So, are you going to do it or not?” They don't have all morning, Ford’s dream gun effects run out in an hour.

“This is Plan B? Having me delete an essential building block of who my best friends are? That’s your idea of a solution? In that case, you might be an even bigger idiot than both of them!” He finally moves from the middle of the room and heads back into his office to find a hammer, which he promptly uses to smash it on the nearest desk.

It gets gold-painted metal everywhere, lots of yellow glass, and makes a real mess of the work station. But at least this insane idiot can’t go using it on anyone.

LeeFord follows, hovering in the doorway, watching Fids. It’s a little overkill, but it makes him smile anyway while he waits in the growing silence.

Still holding the hammer, he heads back out into the laundry room. “I can’t believe you would even suggest something like that! How on earth do either of those two think you’re a good thing?! You’re a damn menace is what you are! Idiots, both of them!”

LeeFord has to duck out of the way when Fiddleford tries to hit him with the hammer, barely containing a laugh. He fails and quickly falls into a laughing mess on the floor.

“This isn’t funny, you realize how damn serious this is? They’re both happy, for possibly the first time in their-“

Then it hits Fiddleford why Lee is laughing on the floor so hard.

Damn it. He just got baited, didn’t he? And it totally worked.

Now he’s mad for a whole other reason, but he does drop the hammer. “You trickster bastard! They should call you Loki for the trouble you’ve caused me in one morning! God only knows how much you cause at home!” He gets down on the floor to have a better advantage point to elbow LeeFord in the side.

Not even the bruise that will cause could make Lee stop laughing, but he does find the strength to get Fids into a headlock. “And you deserve all of it for being such a rotten terrible friend! If anything, I should give your wife the recipe for that truth serum!”

Now Fids ends up laughing too, because he can’t hear any malice behind the threat. Not Stan wouldn’t, and he can tell. No lie.

Maybe he always knew, deep down, that he was being dumb. He never has seen Ford this happy before. It can’t be healthy to need a romantic relationship for that. But then, it’s not just that. Stan and Ford are also still brothers.

He saw that in the same way they bantered all too casually in the panic dash from the morning after Summerween. Their dynamic didn’t change that much, nothing groundbreaking at least from his view.

In a way it must be relieving to not feel suffocated by the guilt of it anymore, wouldn’t it? No wonder they’ve both been walking around lighter than air.

The laughter dies pretty quickly and Fids shoves Lee’s arms off to sit back against the front of the washer with a sigh. “I have been, haven’t I?”

Now this is the part he needs to be careful about, otherwise, he’s going to have to deal with someone crying and LeeFord really doesn’t want that. “Oh, it’s nothing you can’t still fix. You’re a smart guy, and Stanley happens to be very forgiving. If you could sway Ford to at least think about forgiving you I bet you’ll all be fine.”

Really, he can’t blame Ford for tossing him out. It’s amazing he walked out without a black eye. Stanley really had been restraining him all morning to keep them from fighting. Hell, Stanley should have given him one for what he said out in the driveway!

“Listen, I appreciate you clearing things up and all, but I don’t think there is a way to come back from this. I screwed up, Ford isn’t going to forgive me for this, and now because of you, I have to live with that. Guess that’s my punishment.” And a mad wife, but that’s easier to fix.

“God you three give up easily, don’t you? Hopeless idiots. Come on, I’ll help you draft something up using my all-knowing powers, and let’s say you owe me one later, deal?” The floor down here gets his pants all covered in dust from sitting on it, but LeeFord extends a hand down to help Fids up.

Fids snorts and looks at the hand for a moment.

Then he sighs, accepting it, letting himself be pulled up. “Fine, but it better not be another memory gun or I’m telling on you.”

He pauses. “Was that gun even real?”

LeeFord almost falls over into another laughing fit, with Fids cursing him out all over again.

Notes:

Also, on the topic of the upcoming sequels, I'm probably going to be doing some polls on my Tumblr. So, if you want to have a say (or just help me make impossible decisions) You can go over there if you want. I also usually post the first chapter of any one shots, or other fics, that I start over there. And just whatever funny Gravity Falls stuff I stumble across regardless of ship. (If it's funny, I'm hitting reblog. But I try not to spam.)

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)

https://www.tumblr.com/we-stan-the-stans-27

Chapter 68: When there's a Will there's a Bribe!

Notes:

Hey everyone! I'm not dead! This is great news, I bet. I'm sure some of you assumed the Ao3 Author's Curse had gotten me at long last! Nope, I'm still running from it. Pretty sure I used up all my bad luck last year before starting fanfiction. We should be clear for a while. (Gets shot, probably.) ANYWAY! I've finally got an update for you! Happy Sunday, and please enjoy! I've found my muse, some free time, and crawled my way another foot closer to the finish line.

Thanks for waiting so patiently for this update. :)

Out of all the odd things for Stanford to own, the most questionable has to be a picnic basket.

Not the stuffed bigfoot statue, or the floating preserves specimens of fairies, but something painfully mundane and frankly suspicious.

Why the hell does Ford need one in the first place?

The act of taking food somewhere to eat on a blanket, or in today’s case being the back of a car, is usually a social event. Something with other people.

Stan really shouldn’t be complaining, because Ford already having one means he didn’t have to go out and buy one, or awkwardly carry the food in a stupid plastic bag where it inevitably would have spilled because Ford’s containers are shitty quality. Sour cream, cottage cheese, and a few slightly better take out containers from the local dinner make up the options for packaging.

If he has learned anything about Ford from turning the whole house upside down, it’s that whatever he thinks something’s purpose is- he’s wrong.

So, if this basket is supposed to be used for transporting food, Ford probably used it to kidnap gnomes or something.

He made sure it was cleaned out properly before beginning to pack their dinner inside, just to be on the safe side, despite there not being any suspicious stains across the wood of the basket.

Nothing could ruin his mood today, because it's July Fourth. And the first one they’ve spent together in a decade at that. It’s kind of a big deal.

Which is exactly why he put together a dinner to pack into a basket, like an absolute sap (which he will deny being himself if accused), so they can eat in the car while watching the show. Or at least pretend to. They’ll probably end up drinking the bottle of wine, maybe do some fooling around again...

They’ve had sex- real sex that he was whole for, present, and can be sure is real -several times by now. But it still makes his chest do a weird fluttery twist to think about, just like how kissing Ford makes his face turn bright red when it’s not all harsh and rushed. He really needs to get a better handle on his outward reactions, otherwise next time he’s going to be the one accidentally giving them away.

Like when they’d gone surfing.

Stan still needed to print off the various pictures they’d taken over the trip to send back to Jersey for their parents. They’d probably want to know just how well the trip had gone.

Surfing, which turned into mostly swimming because they all sucked at it, building sand castles with their nephew, and yes Mary and Ford had done a fair amount of reading hiding under a sun umbrella because they both burn easily and are lame.

They’re all older now, worn, and different, but during their little vacation it was as if the last decade never happened. Like they were kids again, just playing in the sand.

It calmed a lot of the nerves about visiting in the first place and made the rest of the trip go a lot smoother. Ford, sharing a few select stories about Gravity Falls with their nephew, Schermie scowling but holding his tongue the whole time only on the basis that Ford never explicitly claimed it was real. Only implied.

He’d see come December just how special this town was.

Stan’s packing and reminiscing is interrupted by Ford coming upstairs, with the sound of slamming doors and rapid footsteps drowning out the quiet music coming from the living room across the hallway. He comes trudging into the room carrying several notebooks which promptly are scatters across the kitchen table.

“Oh good, you’re not busy. I need your input on which method of conception you find most appropriate. I’ve been reading various medical journals, and have found several different options. Traditionally, there’s regular adoption, but we would likely have a particularly hard time with that. Two single men, brothers at that, wouldn’t have much ground to stand on with any of the agencies. Much less applying alone, that would go over worse.” Ford plops himself in one of the kitchen chairs, spreading out the notebooks to take up the whole table around the basket.

“The next best option is surrogacy, although it is still in its infancy of development,” Ford chuckles at his own joke before pressing on with his rambling. “Give it another five to ten years and it should be more then safe for common use, just rather expensive.” He pulls out one of the medical journals, flipping through the pages of the nearest notebook to offer it to Stanley. “Here, look. I’d estimate by 1985-1986 they’ll actually have successfully managed a transfer and full-term pregnancy. See?”

Perhaps Stan should have expected this to come up again now that they are no longer being watched under a microscope by anyone. He did say ‘when we get home’ didn’t he? That would be now. Great.

It’s a little unnerving how insistent Ford is about working out details because as much as he likes kids, they’re great, it also drags up a lot of thoughts and worries he’d rather just forget about. Don’t they have enough problems?

Like, for example, if he’d be a good parent or father. Just because he’s good with other people’s kids doesn’t mean shit. They go home at the end of the day.

Your kids are there, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for the rest of forever. Even if they move out, you don’t stop being a parent. It’s a lifelong commitment. This isn’t the kind of thing anyone should take lightly, and that seems to be what Ford is doing throwing out all these ideas. Besides, Ford doesn’t seem to even like kids, so what gives?

With the basket packed Stanley accepts the notebook and sits down across from Ford, pretending to care about whatever science jargon is on the page for half a second before giving up. “You’re really taking this seriously, aren’t you? I had no clue you wanted to be a parent so badly. Since when do you even like kids?”

Ford had seemed to get along fine with Jr. in California but that could just be because they spent the whole time talking about anomalies. That always cheered Ford up and opened the floodgates for conversation.

Ford had been pleasant enough with Tate whenever he was over, but there had been this wall between them. Not cold, exactly, just separate. Like Ford couldn’t fully trust himself or was holding back. It kinda reminded Stanley a lot of how Pops had been at times during their youth during the ‘good times’, and everyone saw how well that went.

Stanley hadn’t even looked at the paper, much to Ford’s annoyance. “Of course I’m taking it seriously. It’s not just going to happen on its own.”

That makes Ford pause, “Unless of course we go the experimental route. It might take me a while to track down the magical properties necessary to change one of our primary genders, but-“

A loud laugh escapes, interrupting Ford. He can’t help it when Ford just says things like that. “Now hold on, don’t side step my first question by dragging up more. Pin that thought. But, why do you want kids? You just sort of, said we’d be having them. My memory is pretty solid these days, but I think I’d remember a conversation about that.”

Of course they had a conversation about this-

Except, when Ford tries and thinks about it, he also doesn’t come up with a specific time they’d sat down and agreed on it. Implied, yes. Lots of that. But no, talking. “I see. Well, I suppose, I may have done a little bit too much assuming due to past experience. In dimension B, that Stanley seemed dead set on having children. Both of them, from what I gathered. That’s my mistake for not asking you, properly.”

Yeah, that would track. Other Stanley probably hadn’t gone through nearly as much shit. He had a real father who didn’t screw everything up right out the gate. Someone to look to for inspiration and help. ‘What would dad do’ was a thought that guy could have, knowing the answer would pass as right most of the time. Must be nice.

“Don’t you think, maybe you’re jumping the gun a little? I mean, yeah. Kids are great. But that’s a bit bigger of a responsibility then our pet God in the living room, don’t ya’ think?” While he spoke, Stanley gathered up the notebooks Ford had just strewn about into a neat pile instead.

Their two dimensions are drastically different, but he still knows Stanley very well. Of course he wants kids, right? “Well, I wasn’t suggesting now by any means. We’ve both been through some severely traumatic experiences recently that should still be processed and worked through to the best of our abilities before bringing a whole other person into our lives. But, do you have any other problems? Are you really opposed?”

Even with something standing right in front of him, Ford is still an idiot. “Stanford. I want to hear why you want kids, before I say if I’m opposed or why I do or don’t have reservations. So far all you’ve said is ‘well you want them, so obviously they’re happening’ which isn’t a very good reason for child rearing.”

Ford stared at the pile of notebooks, stuffed full of various scientific articles he’d printed off very sneakily at the library after dodging Tina at the front desk, and considers the question seriously for the first time.

Because, yes. Stanley wanting kids is a good enough reason to have them, at least for him. How hard can it be, really? They hadn’t been that difficult as children, beyond being twins which are already a handful, and their nephew happens to be a joy to spend time with. How could a combination of their DNA, or one of, be any different?

Their parents just sucked, which wasn’t on them. They would do far better having seen Filbrick and Ma fail so spectacularly. No offence, of course. Okay, maybe a little. Especially towards Pa- Anyway.

Having kids means you have to dedicate a large portion of your time to taking care of them. The basics are food, shelter, education, healthcare, quality time, and protection from harm. But there are more things than that, of course, but to narrow it down that covers the general ideas.

Kids cost money, take up space, make messes, get in trouble, sometimes ruin your things, and often talk a lot too.

They can be incredibly annoying sometimes, testing your boundaries and patience. Especially when they’re very young. Then they grow up and turn into moody and sprouting teenagers developing into adults-

It’s a long and strenuous process, but wouldn’t it be stupid not to go through it?

If you think about it, from a scientific standpoint, their kids would be great. Even if they were only to get half of his and Stanley’s intelligence, they’ll do truly great things as long as they’re given the confidence and encouragement to pursue it. Whatever it is, as long as it makes them happy.

The answer he settles on is simple, but its also the truth in a broken-down form. “Why wouldn’t I want more of you? I mean, I know they’re not. Kids are individuals, their own people. But I love you, and they’ll share similar traits, I’m sure.”

“Besides, we’ll need someone to leave our vast fortune too someday, won’t we?” Ford nudged Stanley’s leg underneath the table, offering a small smile across the way.

It’s hardly a perfect response, but the best he’s going to get out of Ford on such short notice without giving him time to stew. Good enough, for now anyway. It’s not like the brats are going to be born tomorrow, or anytime soon for that matter.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Jr. already has a fat inheritance set up for him when Shroom and Mary croak. He doesn’t need our stash too.” Besides, there is a compliment buried in there somewhere about ‘wanting more of him’ even if that shouldn’t really be part of this conversation.

“Circling back, what where you saying about changing one of our genders? Cause I’m not becoming a chick just so we can create an incest baby. Besides, wouldn’t that have- oh, only a million negative health side effects?”

Ford gets a chance to take in a deep breathe, preparing to launch into a very informative and explanatory spiel about how exactly he could manage that, the benefits of cutting out the need for an additional person, and of course the ideas he has in mind for preventing such diseases and genetic mutations usually caused by incest-

Only for three very loud knocks on the front door to interrupt the conversation, stopping it dead.

Now who could that be?

Stanley is the one to get up from the table and head for the door first, with Ford following directly behind his brother where he is hidden from sight holding his gun at the ready, just in case.

There aren’t a lot of people who could be knocking on their door considering this is the middle of nowhere. There was one really uncomfortable interaction with some Jehovah’s Witnesses before bringing Ford back where Fiddleford had needed to scared them off with his banjo, but it's not like this place gets a lot of solicitors.   

The list running in his head is; the mayor, for some reason, Tina, for an equally weird reason because she shouldn’t know where they live (this would officially push her over into stalker behavior, which is thus far out of character), or maybe some Girl Scouts. It is that time of year, isn’t it? Or do they only sell cookies in the spring? Maybe he and Ford missed it because of Bill.

God that triangle sucks.

Instead of finding any of those people standing outside, it's Fiddleford that is visible through the glass out on the porch through the new stained glass window of a sunset over the sea. Heh, the nice thing about the glass no longer being see through is its harder for someone outside to peek in.

That gives them time to think up what to do-

Or, it would, if Ford didn’t decide to take matters into his own hand by pushing his way around Stanley to yank open the door and press his fancy-pants-science-maybe-a-laser-gun right in their ex-friend’s face.

Personally, it feels like a perfectly reasonable reaction on Ford’s part. Fiddleford is basically trespassing since he should know he isn’t welcome on their property. His stuff has been returned, the last paycheck already cashed, leaving them no other reason to see each other. Their hands are wiped, or should be.

Ford’s eyes narrow, barely moving even when Stanley grabs at his shoulders, trying to get him to at least point the gun at the ground instead of at the person on their porch. “You have five seconds to get off my property or I’m shooting you in the leg.”

Fiddleford is pretty sure Ford isn’t joking, based off the fact that as he starts to count, “Five,” one of his many fingers is already clicking off the safety- “Four,”

It’s likely not even possible to get off the porch back into his car in that time, much less down the driveway onto the county road.

And LeeFord said this would be easy. That guy is a big fat liar.

“Wait! I just came to talk! Please? I have several things to apologize for, and I think me bleeding out would really put a damper on that conversation.” Fiddleford moves the leather satchel he’s wearing up in front of himself, as if that will offer any sort of protection against a gun that can decimate trees on the highest settings.

“Three,” But Stanley gives Ford’s shoulder a squeeze, shaking his head at his brother with a quiet sigh. “Ford, put the gun down. Come on, he’s got a kid. Do you really want to be the reason Tate grew up without a father?” But, otherwise, he makes no move at discourage Ford openly from getting Fiddleford to leave or not.

Fair enough, Stanley does have a point. Going to jail for murder would ruin a lot of plans right now. So, he puts the safety back on and tucks it back in the holster on his belt before crossing both arms and settling a glare in Fiddleford’s direction. “Oh, now you want to apologize, it took you a week and a half to realize that? And to think I used to call you smart-“

“Hey now! I’m trying to-“ Fiddleford stops himself, takes a deep breathe, before trying again. Letting himself get riled up isn’t going to help things. “Listen, I did some thinking. I talked with my wife a bit, and I realized-“

“You told Emma-May!” Ford practically shrieks, throwing his hands up from where they’re crossed.

“Would you shut up you overgrown toddler, for two seconds and listen!” Fiddleford has the forethought to dodge the punch Ford attempts to throw, resulting in Fiddleford barely avoiding falling off the porch and Ford stumbling down the stairs.

“Why the hell should I listen to you, after everything you said?” It’s through pure luck Ford didn’t twist an ankle while still managing to stay on his feet down on the lawn now. Stanley is being absolutely no help at all either, just standing in the doorway watching them bicker.

“Because I’m sorry, alright! I was rude and upset and hurt, but that doesn’t excuse my use of such harsh words while jumping to such ridiculous conclusions!” Fiddleford ends up risking it, jumping off the porch side to land on the driveway when Ford heads back up the stairs in an effort to hit him again.

Having Fiddleford back on the ground makes Ford feel a little better, so he doesn’t jump down in further pursuit, settling for having the high ground over giving a black eye. “You, hurt?! Excuse me-“

“You two lied to me, alright! My two closest friends, or at least I thought so, and you never even considered being honest with me! I get it, and given my reaction I probably deserved it, but surely you can see how I might have taken the news better otherwise!?” Fiddleford ignores the rocks digging into his ass since staying on the ground seems to halt Ford from jumping off, on top of him.

“Oh, what, so now your perfectly fine with this? You magically changed your mind? If we had told you, the reaction would have been the same, except maybe-“

“Me calling you a manipulating psychopath, something you seem more then capable of on your worst days? Yeah, maybe I would have skipped all that and not insulted you as much!”

Stanley is the one to stop Ford from jumping off the porch, grabbing him around the waist and yanking him back out of the air in favor of giving his brother a shake, “Alright, that’s enough acting like children for today. Either kick him out or listen. I’m not going to waste our night watching you chase him around the yard.” He jerks a hand over one shoulder in Fiddleford’s direction, scolding Ford.

They have a glaring contest for a minute, but ultimately it seems a better use of their limited time before having to leave to skip all this and get right to the point. Letting Fiddleford say his peace, so he’ll leave them alone, and they can get back to the things that matter. “Fine.”

Ford offers nothing other then that, going back to glaring at Fiddleford but otherwise staying in place from his perch on the edge of the porch.

Conversations don’t really work being one sided, but Fiddleford can already tell he isn’t going to be getting anymore help from Stanley. Preventing a fight is more then he expected as is.

He gets up, clearing off the rocks and straightening his bag, before clearing his throat to continue down the small speech he’d prepared. “The three of us tend to take things to the extreme, and its part of why we all get along so well. Go big or go home. This also includes fights, and grudges. Our senses of right and wrong. I took it too far, even if I was upset, and I’m sorry.”

This is way more uncomfortable to do with both of them just staring at him, not saying anything, then it was with LeeFord. “I’ve always known you too are unique, so maybe this shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. It just took some marinating on it, and then talking it out, to see how pig headed I was being.”

“I can see you both love each other a lot, and although it will take more time to get used to the change, I think I can. I value our friendships too much to lose. Do you think you could ever forgive me so we could try again?” He had given Ford one, after everything with Bill. It seems a reasonable enough request since no one actually got hurt over this mistake, physically.

“No.” Ford states it clear, ending the sentence there, with his arms still crossed and stance firm. He has no interest in making amends, or giving Fiddleford another chance at friendship. Some nice words aren’t going to change that.

“Oh, come on! I forgave you for being tricked by Bill! For nearly getting your brother, and lover-“ God that’s a weird thing to say, and Fiddleford’s face scrunches up weird saying it, “killed! Honestly, it’s the least you could do-“

“I said, no! Now, get off my property before I change my mind on using the gun!” Ford is anything if not stubborn, and this grudge isn’t something he’s willing to let go of.

It’s truly unfortunate that Ford has grown, but not changed. Stanley can’t really say anything, because didn’t he just recently ask Ford to be less of a pushover? More ‘himself’ so to speak. Well. This is that.

Why do I love him again?

Here is a perfectly good and sensible apology, to both of them, and Ford is throwing it in the trash simply because. Just. Because. Or it looks that way at least.

“That was different, and you didn’t have to forgive me, just like I don’t have to forgive you. Now, leave.” Ford uncrosses his arms, briefly, to make a shooing motion with one hand, before returning them to being crossed.

A less prepared man would wipe their hands, say they tried, and let this go. But. That’s why LeeFord had helped create contingency plans. For if Ford decided to be an ass. Must be where LeeFord gets it from.

Fiddleford opens the buckle on his satchel and pulls out a simple vanilla envelope with metal tabs keeping it closed and offers it up with one hand towards Stan and Ford. “Fine, but at least open this first and read it. Then I’ll go.”

Stanley gives Ford a chance- maybe wishful thinking -to take the envelope. When he doesn’t, Stanley takes it himself from Fiddleford’s hand ignoring the glare from his brother while opening it to see what’s inside.

It’s not money, or jewelry, or much of anything at all. Just paper, which maybe he should have expected from an envelope. Boring. Or, it is, until he takes the time to read what the words on the page are saying.

‘The Will of Mr. and Mrs. McGucket’ In bold, right along the top. From there, Stanley doesn’t have to skim because a specific section of the paperwork is highlighted in yellow for his reading pleasure.

‘The legal guardianship of Tate McGucket, shall fall to Stanley and Stanford Pines, in the event of both parties being incapacitated into a coma, vegetable like state, or an untimely death-‘

There where dozens of other pieces of papers, the whole will, no doubt, but Stanley didn’t bother flipping through them all. Just to the back to see the signatures of the executor, lawyer, and both parties along the bottom. Making it legal.

This must be a new and updated version- After checking the date it confirms it was put together only a few days ago.

Stanley sucks in a deep breathe, staring at the paper to have an excuse not to look up.

Being a Godfather was one thing to a clump of cells that didn’t exist yet, but being granted guardianship of Tate? Having it in legally binding writing? If Ford and Fids weren’t looking at him, waiting for a reaction, it might have been enough to make him tear up.

As it is, the currently watering eyes must be caused by the wind. Couldn’t be anything else.

He puts the papers back inside the envelope, carefully, before roughly grabbing Ford’s arm. “We’ll be right back, give us a minute.” Stanley throws the words over his shoulder with a wave of the same hand clutching the envelope hard enough to wrinkle the paper.

Ford lets himself be pulled inside, glaring at Fids the whole time for whatever he put in an envelope to cause the argument they’re likely about to have after going inside. If anything, this only doubles Ford’s resolve not to forgive Fiddleford, for trying to drive another wedge between them by getting Stanley on his side.

Stanley drags Ford all the way to the kitchen before pushing the envelope into his hands, “Read it, and tell me what you see.”

While Ford is reviewing the paper, Stanley uses it as the perfect distraction to rub his eyes from whatever dirt got in them.

“I see Fiddleford trying to manipulate us into forgiving him by appealing to your desire for parenthood. Clearly this is a forged document meant to fool us, or maybe-“

I will not punch my brofriend. I will not punch my brofriend. I will not punch my brofriend.

Stanley flicks Ford, right between the eyes, twice, glaring at him. “When has Fiddleford ever manipulated anyone without my help, huh? And that was for the betterment of his marriage. He ain’t evil, you idiot. And he’s trying to make things right. Have you learned nothing about meeting someone halfway?”

Well. No. When phrased like that, Ford does see it as a small outlier in the data. Fiddleford was as straight-edge as you got in college, never cutting corners, and putting in the work. Scamming isn’t his style and lying isn’t either, usually.

But, his own ego still won’t let this go. Even if he can see perfectly well that this is a nice gesture-

It’s a Stanley gesture. Something more for his brother then them as a pair. That doesn’t sit right, so Ford shakes his head again. “I’m still not forgiving him. Not after what he accused me of. I don’t trust him anymore, and some paperwork doesn’t magically change that.”

What does Ford expect? Fiddleford to defeat another God on his behalf like some knight winning the honor of his friendship? “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Stanley waits, to see if Ford will let it go. If he’ll change his mind. Say something else.

When he doesn’t, it causes both of Stan’s shoulders to slump. He takes the paper and envelope back, refolds it, places it inside, and heads back towards the porch feeling more upset then when they’d answered the stupid door.

Because as much as he’d like to yell some more, he can’t change how Ford feels. And this is an all or nothing deal. It’s fair that way. Stanley has to stand with his brofriend, and doesn’t have any other choice here. They’re a team, after all.

With a heavy heart, Stanley heads back out onto the porch and offers the envelope back off the porch to Fids while Ford hovers in the doorway watching. Probably waiting for Stan to tell him to get. Again.

It’s pretty surprising when Fiddleford sees the envelope being passed back, and it doesn’t take a genius to see Stanley isn’t happy about it. That he doesn’t want to decline the olive branch. As usual, its Ford being difficult. That’s nothing new.

He takes the envelope back but doesn’t put it away, instead he reaches back into the satchel a second time and pulls out another one. This one is thicker with bubble packaging on the inside. More the size of a folder then an envelope. “You two drive a hard bargain,”

Fiddleford has half a mind to think LeeFord told Ford to hold out-

Sure, the guys unpredictable, but he enjoys the chaos. And, he likely gets a kick out of Fiddleford spending the money on this bribe. Jackass.

“Here, show Ford this one. I think it might make him reconsider.” Fiddleford passes it to Stanley and his semi-alliance is confirmed when it is dutifully brought over to the doorway to force Ford to look at what’s inside.

Stanley barely gets the first piece of paper out of the envelope and held up before Ford snatches the who thing with both hands to look at himself, leaning in almost comically with his nose close to the paper.

Which, he drops as soon as he’s done reading in favor of pulling out the smaller envelope inside- equally as bubble wrapped and packaged -to meticulously open. From inside, Ford pulls out two pieces of carefully sized wood and settled between them is a piece of glass. Really its two pieces of glass, slightly larger than a checkbook, screwed together and sealed on the corners and edges.

Right in the middle, is a piece of paper the size of a check. Because it is a check.

It also just so happens to be signed by Dr. Nikola Tesla. Twice.

Ford read the paperwork, or skimmed, and according to that this is supposed to be one of the last- if not the very last -check he wrote before passing away. At the time the once great scientist had been living out of a hotel on a stipend from his beloved university so that he wouldn’t end up on the street.

“Where did you get this?” Ford demands, looking up and over at Fiddleford with something other then anger for the first time all day.

Stanley gathers up the paperwork Ford basically threw on the ground to read for himself.

“What’s it to ya?” Fiddleford crosses his arms. “I’m just showing you, remember? We ain’t friends. Obviously, I just wanted to rub it in your face that I’ve got it. And don’t even think about stealing it, because I know where you keep that shrine and I also ain’t afraid of that guard dog of yours.” He finds the power to look amused, smirking to himself a tiny bit.

Ahh. Of course. This is a bribe.

Fiddleford is attempting to bribe both of them into forgiveness with their favorite foods. Children, for Stanley. Scientist memorabilia for Stanford Pines.

“Just showing him, you say?” Stanley had finally gotten the chance to read the paper and couldn’t help snickering to himself looking between Ford and Fids. “Damn, that’s a real shame.”

The screech is absolutely comical when Stanley takes the piece of precious glass away and starts shoving everything back into the packaging wearing a big old smile. “Well, that sure was nice of you to show him, wasn’t it? Guess you’ll be wanting it back now, won’t ya?”

It physically hurts watching Stanley put the check away and he simply can’t let him take even a step back across the porch towards Fids and that outstretched hand to accept it back.

No, this simply will not do.

“Wait-“ Ford grabs Stanley’s arm, stopping him barely two steps forward after taking a lung to halt his brother- and thus the checks -movement.

Now both of them are looking at him, smirking because they’re both bastards who suck, and Ford’s face is bright red too fast for someone who’s supposed to be bargaining.

Never let them know how much you really want it, or you’ve already lost.

“Perhaps, I could buy it from you.” He’s got a fair amount of change set aside between the house being paid off and Stanley being a very generous man. Maybe enough to buy something like this and still eat bread for a while. They’ll have to start gardening though….

“Sorry, Stanford. It’s not for sale. Especially to someone I don’t know. I’ll be taking it back now, if you please?” It takes everything not to burst into laughter when Ford jumps for the check and Stanley holds it up high, just out of reach.

Ford makes an attempt at tickling Stanley, and it almost works, until Stanley appears ready to throw the envelope on the ground as hard as possible. The glass might cut the check, ruining it, if he isn’t careful. Stanley has no idea how big of a piece of history is in his hands.

“Alright! Alright! Fine! I’ll think about forgiving you! There, happy!?” He makes another grab for the check- and this almost causes Ford to have a stroke on the spot -because Stanley throws it across the porch and over back into Fids hands with a slight smack from the catch.

Fiddleford pretends to consider it, fanning himself with the envelope, before shrugging. “Eh, I’m not too convinced. You seem more interested in the check then my friendship, I don’t think-“

Stanley isn’t fast enough this time to prevent Ford from launching himself off the porch, tackling Fiddleford to the ground with both arms around his chest. It hurts, since Fids falls back first onto the gravel driveway, but the check is safe and sound inside the double bubble wrap cocoon plus its secure thick glass case.

“Alright! Fine, I forgive you and we can be friends! It’s clear you care for us very much and are willing to go to extreme lengths to regain our friendship! Can I see the check again now? Please?” Ford is still hugging Fiddleford despite laying on the uncomfortable ground.

It’s a very rare thing for Ford to give anyone- other then Stanley -a hug. It’s about as intimate as the man gets with anyone, other then his brother-

“Okay, alright. Yes, you can have the check!” Fiddleford laughs, returning the hug briefly before offering up the check with a wide grin.

Ford almost gives himself whiplash sitting up and jerking back to look at the offered package. “I can, have it?”

“Well, yeah. Why do you think I bought it in the first place? I couldn’t give two shakes about it, but I know you sure look up to him. He’s almost as brilliant as you, and-“

As much as Stanley hates to interrupt this heartfelt moment, he feels the need to jump down and yank Ford back when he seems to start vibrating holding the check again. If he doesn’t, Stan is worried Ford might kiss Fiddleford. Which is totally not cool, no matter how awesome of a gift this is.

“Stanley! Look! I own a check signed by Dr. Nikola Tesla! The Dr. Nikola Tesla! Do you have any idea how amazing he is-“ That right there is the point in the lecture Stan tunes out, looking over Ford’s shoulder at Fiddleford instead who looks incredibly pleased with himself.

Thank God that’s over with. Now they can get back to what matters, like actually watching the fireworks!

Just as soon as Ford remembers how to shut up.

Chapter 69: Almost There

Notes:

Heyyyy, long time no see...... I'm back!!!! Or maybe I should say, I'm alive. I apologize again for dropping off the planet. At this point, I've built so much lore into the world that sometimes just thinking about this fic can give me a headache. (I overthink too much) And I just want it to be perfect (plot twist: It's not) so I take my time ensuring it's at least decent or I'll die. :)

Anyway. Here is the second-to-last chapter. I'm not going to promise when the next update will be, but I'm going to try and finish this before it's one year publishing date. (Don't hold a gun to my head, though, because I'm making no promises. ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN. Life is wild like that.)

I hope you enjoy, and thanks for coming along this journey with me. :) <}

The fish tank looks peaceful with the Axolotl walking across the substrate, marching its way towards the opposite corner and then pushing off, swimming above one of its logs up towards the top of the tank where LeeFord had dropped in a couple worms for it to eat.

Previously it had been sitting here, down on the bottom of the tank, perfectly still for almost fifteen minutes. And LeeFord had hardly moved in that time, just watching it from where he was kneeling- on a pillow because he isn’t a total moron -pressed against the glass. “Come on, I know you can hear me. Stupid….”

A loud crash, coming from somewhere down in the basement, doesn’t deter LeeFord’s determination to stare into the soul of the salamander during the short amount of free time he has left here at home.

It tends to be very limited because of the dozens of final preparations.

The noise from downstairs gets louder, like a Gremloblin is stomping its way up the stairs from the basement, bolting out onto the first floor with quieter human footsteps following close behind it.

Sounds like Ford’s supposed ‘wrapping up lab work’ before setting sail is going well.

Down the hall the the door into the basement bursting open, with broken hinges, and more loud slamming can be heard alongside some yelling that’s no longer muffled.

“I thought you said it would be semi-sentient, huh? So far, it’s just bouncing off the walls like- Is it blind! Did you-“ Fiddleford is yelling at Ford, following right behind down the hallway after their experiment, with Tate taking up the rear giggling the whole time.

“No, it’s not blind! At least, I don’t think so. I suppose there could be a cellular malformation I missed in the genetic testing, but-“ The crash of a bookshelf in the living room, not far from LeeFord, drowns out the rest of what Ford was going to say.

In the living room, bolting around looking for a way out, is a small Albertadromeus that keeps crashing into things. It’s small, barely taller than knee height, making it about the size of a large turkey. It runs around on two feet, hitting things with its shoulders rather than its small thin neck or tiny softball sized head.

LeeFord doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, acting like the dinosaur didn’t just almost knock over a shelf on him in favor of watching the peaceful water as the Axolotl glides through it back to the front of the tank, resuming their staring contest once more.

This time with a worm trying to sneak out of its mouth.

Ford and Fiddleford both manage to get the creature cornered, with Tate watching from behind with a glee filled expression as he takes up blocking the second exit into the living room directly opposite of where the two adults have it pinned in.

Before either of them can throw a net over the Albertadromeus it bolts through Ford’s legs, narrowly missing being squished between them, to bolt towards Tate. “Oh no you don’t!” He yells, jumping forward and tackling the creature to the floor while it starts screaming in distaste at being caught.

It continues to try and squirm and escape, but Tate doesn’t let go until after Ford has managed to inject a small sedative into its shoulder to put it back to sleep. Clearly more testing needs to be done before Tate can take it home and start its training.

Ford certainly can’t do it. He was mostly interested in seeing if he could regrow and hatch an egg. The raising of the creature will be more fun for Tate and Fiddleford. In fact, they might need to create a second one using its genetic code- a clone -because being alone could be what’s causing the creature so much distress.

“Jeez Louise, we’re awful lucky she didn’t get outside. Then we never would have caught her!” Fiddleford lifts Nessie, the name Tate had immediately given the poor thing upon being allowed into the basement to observe it in captivity, up off the ground with a grunt to carry back into the basement with Tate following right on his heels.

Their freshly cleaned living room is a mess of books on the floor, dirt from their boots, the dinosaur’s feet, and one of the pillows got torn open somehow. The one with the green covering, indicating she might have been hungry on top of scared.

Ford lets Fiddleford and Tate take her back downstairs for further testing before turning to look at LeeFord wearing a slight scowl with crossed arms. “Thanks for all the help.” He says sarcastically, “What are you doing inside anyway? Your supposed to be waiting for the inspector, you do realize if we miss them, we’ll have to wait months to get another appointment-“

LeeFord still doesn’t look up from the tank where Frilliam is staring him down like he’s owed money and won’t blink until he gets it. “I’m attempting to communicate telepathically with my mother, obviously. Besides, the inspector will have to come knock on the door at least once before leaving as part of protocol. I can watch and listen at the same time.” He sounds bored and frustrated.

This makes Ford pause, looking into the fish tank at the Axolotl curiously. “Can you do that?” Thus far, during the construction of their boat, there has proven to be very little LeeFord can’t do. Perhaps he can, using his all-knowing powers, speak with the great Axolot-

“No. Of course not. This is just a Salamander after all. But it doesn’t hurt to try.” He shrugs, finally giving up as Frilliam swims away to hide in the log in the back right corner of the tank where LeeFord can’t see it anymore.

Ford’s scowl gets deeper, his annoyance spiking. So. LeeFord had let the living room get turned into a mess by a dinosaur- don’t think about how it escaping was his fault in the first place -on purpose. Lovely.

Standing up from in front of the tank LeeFord picks up the pillow from under his knees and tosses it over onto the feather covered couch before straightening out his clothes. Ford’s clothes, with glasses being the only thing he’s missing.

The idea is that the inspector will be a little more lenient about a boat built by some guys out in the middle of nowhere if Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines, Mr. Twelve Ph.D. himself, is giving the tour of the boat. On paper, he’s the best candidate to sell something to a government agent.

Too bad he’s a shitty liar.

So, that’s why LeeFord is here- thanks to that electric carpet that allows him and Stanley to switch at any time -to give the tour. He knows the technical junk, how to lie, and if push comes to shove? He’s been given special permission to seduce the inspector. Hopefully that won’t happen though.

Explaining the weird contraption forming the sixth digits on both hand- fancy bionic fingers LeeFord made for the occasion -gets a lot harder if he loses the long sleeves hiding where they’re connected. But, it shouldn’t be necessary. On top of all the technical wonders inside the boat is a layer of boring regular science to hide the truth.

God forbid the government get their hands on an engine that runs on only water.

Ford looks over LeeFord in some of his clothes, double checking that nothing is missing. Button up shirt, tie, over coat, dress pants, shoes, and some glasses perched on top of his head on carefully fluffed hair. Everything’s in place. “Please, for the love of god, don’t screw this up.”

Looking around the living room again, he bringing the glasses with fake lenses down over his eyes while clearing his throat. “Relax, just worry about cleaning up this mess. It’ll be boring, and with any luck this time next week we’ll be at sea.”

The knock on the front door they’ve been waiting for interrupts them before Ford can argue any further.

LeeFord exits the living room, clearing his throat with a six fingered wave, and abandons Ford in the middle of his newest mess in need of cleaning up.

No sense leaving a dirty house behind to return to for Christmas. He begrudgingly goes to get the vacuum, crossing two fingers for LeeFord’s success.

Over the last two months they’re body has started to look like Ford’s more and more. Their ‘schedule’ had also become non-existent during the process of building the boat, and thus more and more meals have been made by LeeFord. Which meant they were heavy in protein and fiber, very nutritious.

They’ve been doing more physical labor too; lifting metal, carrying wood, and parts. God! So. Many. Parts.

This, as a whole, meant they had lost weight and gained muscle. Stanley had refused to let him keep track, but the results was that physically Stan and Ford looked more like twins then they had in a long time.

Making this little fib to the government easier to pull off.

After making sure Ford is out of sight- because Axolotl forbid they be had before the lie has a chance to start -LeeFord quickly opens the door before the inspector can raise a hand to knock a second time.

Things had been changing a lot on the property over the last several months, and the biggest one is pretty hard to miss looking through the open front door at the man unfortunate enough to be assessing their boat today.

Right across from the porch, tucked away into the tree line off the driveway, is a simple three car garage. It’s nothing too fancy- if you ignore the fact that it has ample storage for all of Ford’s crap both above and below in a basement level/attic -but it’s at least as nice as Schermie’s.

Better, actually, because there’s a stall you can put a car in with a whole lift Fiddleford installed that makes any work being done on their cars a million times easier.

Otherwise, the space is empty save for the small collection of tools Stanley moved from the trunk of the El Diablo into the cabinets and drawers along the back. It’s the beginning of a nice auto shop. One day.

For now, it functions as a safe place to store both cars while away at sea. That was its intended primary function anyway. They could work on other bells and whistles later.

The other glaringly obvious change is the boat itself, impossible to miss considering it takes up most of the space between the side of the house and the tree line of the clearing it sits in. The lawn underneath the wooden and steal platform it is currently being held on has grown wildly out of control in the places that can’t be reached with a Weed-whacker.

Just another task- after deconstructing the platform -for Fiddleford to handle once they’re gone. The yard will look fine by the time they eventually return home.

“Hello, you must be Stanford Pines?” The man on the porch is dressed in khaki shorts with a million pockets and an oversize t-shirt. The only thing that indicates a stranger didn’t wander onto the property is the clipboard and pen in one hand while the other is being held out for a handshake.

LeeFord takes it with a slightly wrinkled nose and keeps it short for good measure. “Yes, that would be I. You must be our inspector.” He’s vaguely aware of the man going off on a tangent, which probably includes a name, while he closes the door and starts off the porch using one hand to motion for the man to follow.

“You know, when I was told I’d be coming down to take a look at a personal build, I expected this to be something a little smaller. We don’t see a lot of ships this size built without a company sponsor.” With some effort LeeFord managed to pay a little attention to what the man is saying.

It would be kind of hard to do a good job showing him around and answering questions otherwise.

It’s about noon, meaning there aren’t any extreme shadows cast by the main mast and tucked sails. “If my number of degrees are any indication, it should be clear I don’t do ‘small’ Mr- sorry, what did you say your name was?”

The inspector seems too busy taking in the steal and wooden platforms built all around the ship to keep it upright during construction to notice how rude LeeFord is being. “Mr. Marlowe, but please, call me Finn.”

LeeFord lets out a quiet snort but makes no comment about the name. Fids and Ford had both previously mentioned he needed to learn when and where to keep his mouth shut. That was the exact reason he’d taken up meditation during his limited free time-

“Well, she certainly looks like a one of a kind. Not every day you see a passion project like this. How long did it take you?” Finn began walking around the boat, clicking his pen, and starting to make notes, checking things off on his thick stack of paperwork.

Without anything better to do- other then keeping the man out of the house which shouldn’t be a problem now that he’s taken an interest in the boat -LeeFord follows Finn while he does a lap. “Oh, from final design to yesterday when we finalized some electrical work it only took two months. The hardest part was gathering materials, had to have the oak wood special ordered through the local lumber yard.”

The man looks absolutely miffed, mouth falling open comically and everything short of dropping his pen.

Oak isn’t the first choice for a boat- that would be teak wood, which is native to South and Southeast Asia -but was a cheaper and more affordable option.

Teak can’t be stained without compromising the integrity of the wood. You have to wait for it to naturally darken with age. The golden honey color simply wouldn’t match the rest of the boat, for one. Besides, getting their hands on an oak tree to grow the wood in a specialized terrarium until they had enough was easier. Teak saplings are expensive to have shipped overseas.

“Two months?” Now the man gives the vessel a skeptical look, “Now that’s impossible. Even a company with all the supplies and resources for building a boat this size couldn’t finish it in anything less than two years! Working alone you’d have had to not slept the whole time and-“

LeeFord sighs and has to resist rolling his eyes, “I was not working alone. Now that would have been impossible, if not for my best friend- a very accomplished Engineer who I’ll be sure to introduce you to shortly -and my brother assisting on the project. And that’s not accounting for the months of prep learning the necessary skills either.”

A few weeks, really. Ford had only spent at most a month reading through the books their father bought as both an olive branch and birthday present. Fiddleford had still done most of the actual engineering and welding.

LeeFord has no choice but to leave out his own efforts- although it was a lot, if anyone asked -because legally he doesn’t exist.

“That’s still impossible-“

This man is quickly becoming annoying, “If you’d like, we made up copies of the design blueprints and put together a whole packet on its specifications for you upstairs in the galley. Please, come see the finished product for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Without waiting to see if Finn will follow LeeFord heads around the far side of the vessel to where the ladder leading up to the top of the platform is, taking the rungs two at a time with practiced ease he reaches the top right around the time the inspector catches up at the bottom.

The platform runs all the way around- like a dock on all sides -allowing access to any section of the deck so long as you can climb over the rails.

From down on the ground the most vibrant part of the ship is its hull. Double reinforced- and made of alien metal, easily the strongest material on the planet, -painted a dark red where the name sealed along the bow stands out in gold. The name ‘Stan O’ War II’ is done in the same color as the rest of the metal visible across the craft.

It’s not real gold- more cannibalized metal from the portal that Fiddleford was able paint in a gold finish using a lacquer -because that would be far too expensive. Buying that much gold was out of the question and would also turn them into a target everywhere they went.

That’s also not mentioning how fucking heavy gold is.

The Oak deck is stained a dark brown color sealed to protect against water just like the steel hull underneath is sealed to protect from rust.

Unfortunately, there is only so much mix and matching you can do with a boat. There is no perfect fit all design that would meet every need. So, some sacrifices were made.  

This ship is more of a pleasure cruiser then a research vessel, designed after a Hylas Yacht in the layout and general appearance from above the water line. The two levels- giving it three decks -below the waterline and the deep-V hull along with the dozens of adjustments throughout is where the boat differs from anything else you could find on the water today.

It may have a mast- like any sailboat -but it also comes with the ability to collapse it downwards into storage so the boat can run on the engine alone. Which means less wind resistance, facilitating higher cruising speeds out in open waters.  

Plus, until both Stan and Ford have a little more experience, it will be nice not having to manage the sails all the time, ultimately making navigation easier both at sea and especially at port in shallow waters.

After a lot of huffing and puffing the inspector eventually makes it up the ladder without falling and begins aimlessly wandering around the platform, inspecting the top deck without stepping onto it yet- like he expects everything they’re standing on to fall apart at any moment.

Walking around the side to where the boat would be tied up if this was a proper dock LeeFord steps onto the deck first, motioning Finn over. “Welcome aboard, please remove your shoes before setting foot on deck. I think my brother might kill you if you leave marks with your shoes before her maiden voyage.”

Finn chuckles a bit at this, slipping out of the sneakers he was wearing and not seeming to notice that LeeFord isn’t laughing about his own ‘joke’ at all. He accepts the help and then begins poking around again, just as he did on the ground tapping the hull and writing stuff down.

This time he even pulls out his measuring tape, having LeeFord hold one end while walking to the other opposite side of the boat.

He takes countless measurements and checks every hatch and storage compartment to make sure they are sealed correctly and spends an annoyingly long time inside the navigation station inspecting the wheel, controls, and various radar systems.

The more complex instruments are hidden inside the wooden counter that will expand up and out to reveal more switches and screens. Finn doesn’t need to see those to give approval though, just like knowing the mast collapses is on a strictly need-to-know basis.

LeeFord doesn’t dare leave the inspector alone just in case he stumbles across something he shouldn’t, which makes for a very boring twenty minutes while Finn pokes around doing his thing.

“Have you tested the hull integrity or taken it for a test drive yet?” Is the first semi-interesting question the man has asked in a while

“Yes, just two days ago we submerged it in the Gravity Falls Lake,” it did displace some of the water temporarily because of the boats size and weight, but no permanent damage was done. “There wasn’t a lot of space to drive around, but it was enough to power on the engine and ensure everything is in working order.”

Finn gives him another funny look, like LeeFord has said something else that he doesn’t believe.

The inspector looks around at the platform surround the boat again.

The deck.

Back at LeeFord- Then just shakes his head with a small scoff and goes back to writing on his clipboard without commenting this time.

Among the hatches in need of inspection include; the main one leading down into the galley, the hold, and the secondary hatch around the side for emergency exits from below.

With each new discovery the man seems to become more and more miffed. The livewell, the small but heavy-duty pot puller around back, the lifeboat stored back there, and the lowerable platform that looks like a small step- about three inches in heigh -but five by three-feet long near the anchor that when lowered off the back offers a simple diving pad for scuba diving.

Everything on board has at least two uses and its kind of fun watching the inspector try to classify the vessel.

Finn is older- as is evident by the struggle to get up the ladder and the entirely gray hair on top of his head -which is exactly what they asked for.

Making this appointment over the phone had been a disaster. Getting put on hold, being assigned a random inspector, and needing to put in a brand name to get past the first step on the automated system.

That’s a big problem when you don’t have one, or even just a company.  

After several days of playing phone tag and badgering customer service they had managed to speak with a real person and requested their most seasoned employee to assist with the paperwork and certifications.

“Despite the ships unusual classification and design, you are going to be able to certify it, right?” LeeFord makes the man jump from where he is looking over the pot puller- which is currently connected to the anchor mechanism until such a time arises that they have anything better to haul up out of the water.

Finn very nearly runs into LeeFord turning around, barely missing smacking into the arm of the machine. “You’ve clearly done your homework, and I must say everything I’ve seen so far is very impressive, but I’ll need to finish my inspection before I can give you a proper answer.”

Thankfully the last thing to be inspected above deck is the livewell and hold. Then they can move on to the interior.

In the same area as the lifeboat- also doubling as a secondary boat they can use going from the boat onto a beach without risking damaging the hull -is the livewell that will be used as storage (approximately the size of a fifteen-gallon fish tank) for bait.

The hold- much like the tanks used on crabbing boats for keeping the catch alive during transport -was a special request that Ford insisted on.

‘What if we find a really cool anomaly that I absolute must capture for study?!’

It was an inconvenient addition having to counteract the weight of the water in the back of the boat, but not impossible.

“I’m sorry, but what do you plan on using this vessel for again? Regardless I believe you’ll need to apply for a commercial fishing license simply because of the hold alone to cover all your bases.” LeeFord does his job, opening and closing the hold for the inspector so he can stick his nose everywhere he needs to.

“Leasure and research mostly, I have some very interesting leads down along the Mexican coast. After our maiden voyage to Hawaii, we’re going to cut back across so I can work on tracking some Blue Whales. The idea is to catch them during caving season and document a birth for the first time.” LeeFord waves a hand, like it’s something they plan on picking up at the store later.

Finally, a reasonable explanation for how Stanford had managed to afford even some of this ship. “You’re a marine biologist then?” Finn walked and talked, heading around to the hatch that would take them inside.

“Hmm, not yet, but I know a few things and will pick the rest up later.” Ford truly has no intentions of going back to school as far as LeeFord is aware. It might not be a bad idea to figure out mind reading one of these days, just for fun.

Inside the galley, right at the bottom of the stairs, is the main living space. A kitchen in one corner, the navigation desk in the other, a booth surrounding the dining room table, and a whole couch in the fourth one along with yet another table as if one plus a desk wasn’t enough.

The dining table is where all the blueprints and junk for the inspector are piled high on purpose. The less Finn actually has to inspect the ship itself, the better.

It’s all very cushy, on purpose, including a tv mounted with a VCR built into the wall above the booth.

The only mild inconvenience of the space- because it is very nice -is a large cylander pipe right in the middle of the room for where the sail collapses down for storage. There wasn’t any way to shift it, because it had to be center for balance, so it stays. At least until they can think of a better solution later.

It’s never too late to make further modifications, but right now all it needs is to function so they can go.

“These blueprints and schematics should have everything you need,” LeeFord opened a drawer, along with the electric control panel above the navigation deck built into the wall, to grab the tv remote while powering on this section of the ship. “Here, the tape of the test is already in the player. I trust you know how to operate a tv? I’ll be securing things downstairs for transport if you require further assistance, or whenever you’re ready to see the engine room.”

Before Finn can respond properly LeeFord abandons him in the galley with a pile of paperwork and a remote to finish filling out his paperwork, disappearing into the back hallway where the next set of stairs leading down are.

The galley takes up most of the main floor with a small study at the front and the hold, all that electrical junk, and a half bathroom taking up the remaining space at the rear.

Ford’s study- which is what it truly is -has already been packed up and secured. All the built-in bookshelves with their cabinet doors locked to avoid spillage during transport, and the desk chair locked in place.

Everything on a boat needs to be secured, which is an annoying aspect of life at sea.

Downstairs is where the rest of the living space is with the stairs opening up into a thin narrow hallway void of decorating’s. Nearly every inch of wall space is full of either a door or a cabinet for storage.

The kitchen upstairs is packed with special cookware- unbreakable glass, or so Ford claims -steal silverware and both pots and pans alike. Groceries are something they’ll buy directly before setting sail once there is more power beyond what they’ve fed into it from the house to keep the deep freezer from thawing or the fridge from getting hot.

Each cabinet in the hallway varies from spare linens to bath and beach towels down to emergency equipment kept in the ones near the bottom of the stairs.

The fire extinguisher and supplies that might be needed to patch a hole, should one occur, is kept upstairs near the study and kitchen. Ford is not to be allowed anywhere near their brand-new stovetop anytime soon.

The door closest to the bottom of the stairs leads into the master bedroom and bath which features a large king size bed, two bedside tables built into the wall, and more storage everywhere except the two large port windows that will look out into the ocean once the boat is submerged.

There isn’t actually anything that needs to be packed away that Stan and Ford haven’t already done, but it can’t hurt to have another set of eyes on it to ensure nothing is missing.

Cabinets inside the bedroom are full of clothes, more books, and- LeeFord pointedly ignores the ample amount of stashed lube and other sex supplies tucked away in both bedside tables -underneath the bed if where the ships safe is built down into the floor where you have to detach two cabinet doors to open it properly.

Its small, because of the hull, but holds everything important they’ll need. Cash, passports, insurance paperwork, and a gun or two. In the event someone makes the awful decision to try and rob them, it would be very hard to find anything of serious value because its all kept under the bed where you have to have a code and scan your fingerprint to open it.

Beside the master bedroom the next door down is both a guest room and a storage room. Two bunks are built into the wall on either side giving anyone inside a narrow walkway between the four beds. They aren’t made but rather filled with boxes on top of each mattress and tied down with nets to keep anything from shifting around too much.

Most of the boxes are full of Ford’s science experiments with various fishing supplies put at the top in the event Finn gets nosey wondering what’s inside.

Skipping over the third door down- another bathroom, which doesn’t really matter because it’s just a bathroom -is the last and final door down here, ignoring the engine room.

It’s another study, about half the size of Ford’s upstairs due to needing to counteract the hold in the back by putting the fuel and water tanks in the front.

It has a writer’s desk pressed up against the only wall with a port hole looking outside with a mounted lamp on the corner and the necessary hardware to secure his laptop in place when the time comes. Stanley’s space is cozier than the study upstairs with a school of fish swimming across the rug covering the floor and family pictures hanging on the wall in a row next to the door.

As nice as it is, the packing has already been done. All that’s left is the few things still being used in the house which they’ll move onto the ship just before transporting it to the Hood River, from which they can sail it out the rest of the way and out into the Pacific.

A good test run anyway in case anything goes wrong. It would cause a lot of traffic issues trying to transport a boat that big through Portland to get out to the coast.

One of the built-in storage cabinets is full sized, like a wardrobe, running from the floor all the way to the ceiling with both doors opening up to reveal a space just big enough for someone to fit inside of. It’s empty and will always remain empty, because this is LeeFord’s part of the boat.

After locking the door to the study from the inside, LeeFord steps into the small space and closes the door behind himself. It takes a few seconds, but after just a moment the wall at the back disappears, allowing him to stand upright again without having to hunch so he can continue down a hallway that doesn’t fit into the boat’s floorplan.

It’s not a very big pocket dimension, but he can always expand on it later as things go.

This new hallway is more of a void, other then the one hanging lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling, and has just one door at the end of it that LeeFord goes through.

Stan and Ford have yet to give him a proper space inside the house, but to their credit, things have been pretty busy what with building the boat, reviving long dead lizards, and spending way too much time being grossly in love for people who have stuff to be doing.

So, LeeFord took it upon himself to do it himself on the boat this time. Making a pocket dimension isn’t exactly easy, but having a challenge is good for mental stimulation. It was more challenging than any of the science needed constructing the boat.

The room is primed to become a replica of the basement once they’ve set sail and he can spend more time here. There are some books across a few tables, a corner full of boxes of crap to be messed with later, but the best and most finished part of the whole room is the control panel slash desk at the far end facing the far wall.

In the middle is a large keyboard with a thin glass screen that is currently transparent but when in use will become opaque blocking the view out the full wall of windows behind it. The rest of the console is covered in switches, buttons, dials, and a few smaller screens for displaying less important information.

Admittedly, he is going to have to tell Ford about this room eventually. Both of them, because they hate when he keeps secrets. Worrying he’s finally turned evil and plans on destroying the world or something.

But for now, this can be just his little spot. Right now, he sits down to power up the computer to check on the satellite.

You see, Ford had needed a little help setting up the Fourth of July fireworks anyway in such a short time frame, and what better time to hide the launching of a small rocket then while the sky is already lit up with a million other sparkly things for people to be focused on?

Current modern technology is too slow and wouldn’t allow for the use of the internet at sea, or most tv stations either, so he simply negated all those problems to bring the future here now. It’s cloaked, very well, so this console is the only place that connects to it, giving an air of Wi-Fi to them exclusively as well as any tv station in the solar system.

There are more then you’d expect.

Considering the twins will be busy doing boat related things, the tv is more for LeeFord then anything to keep from being too bored having to sit still all the damn time and ‘not run their body into the ground’ as Ford would say.

With a flip of a switch the large screen splits into two monitors, one tracking the satellite and the other showing the inspector upstairs thanks to one of the dozens of hidden cameras built in through their home security system.

And Ford thinks he can’t do two things at once. In reality, LeeFord can do at least four, which is why he also picks up a book. It’s incredibly convenient to watch the inspector and satellite using the bionic eye, read with the other, and use the spare hand for coding. 

The satellite pilots itself, but does require the occasional software update. Adjustments to its processor done from the ground so that it continues to avoid stray asteroids and the other space junk humans have shot up into the LEO zone.

It’s only been twenty-five years since the first ever space launch, but humans are really good at making a mess.

But, such levels of peak levels of efficiency can only go one for short amounts of time. Otherwise, they’ll both end up with a headache.

Reading the book with the slow eye is annoying anyway.

Time passes while the one hand codes and the other flicks through the various camera feeds throughout the boat, the house, and the surrounding woods. Ford, finishing cleaning up the living room, Fids and Tate cutting up fruit to fill Nessie’s food bowl downstairs, and-

A car coming down the driveway.

Specifically, Fiddleford’s car, which must mean Emma-May has arrived to pick up Tate now that she’s off work.

Without a second thought LeeFord saves the progress on the next update- which does take a minute to finish the current line- and shuts everything down. He bolts out of the room and back into Stanley’s study from the cabinet so fast he nearly hits their head on the way out.

Him running up the stairs is loud on purpose so as not to startle the inspector when he runs through the room, up the stairs, and out onto the deck just in time for Emma to get out of her car while he hangs off the side of the platform. “Emma! How did your presentation go?”

It takes a minute looking up for her to put together who’s she’s talking to, but by now has gotten pretty good at telling the triplets apart. Only one of them would be asking about her job. “Get down from there before you fall and break your neck! Otherwise, it went great, the renovations for town hall moved one step forward. Maybe they’ll finally start sometime in the next few years!”

On the contrary, the platform is very sturdy and there is very little risk of falling, even if LeeFord is half hanging off it. Everyone around him worries too much.

“I can’t! I’m-“ He has to stop himself from saying ‘babysitting my own kid’ because Finn can definitely hear all the shouting through the hatch LeeFord left open in the rush outside, “-finalizing some paperwork with the inspector! Why don’t you come up and check his work while I go fetch Tate?”

Gravity Falls doesn’t have much in the way of law work beyond the town hall where Emma works. Before she’d gotten pregnant with Tate she was supposed to go to law school. Instead, she ended up married with a kid and just enough experience to work as a law clerk instead of being a lawyer.

One of these days Fids has got to help her find time for that, because she’s way too smart to be stuck working as a glorified records clerk for the rest of her life.

She pretends to huff, like its an inconvenience, but is smiling while heading around and climbing up the ladder onto the platform. “Did you even catch his name, or have you been calling him that all afternoon?”

LeeFord huffs, already inching towards the ladder, “No, I remember. It’s Finn, like Huckleberry. You should really give it a read with your book club, it’s not bad-“ He starts climbing down the ladder, dodging the smack Emma sends his way.

“Just go get my son already while I explain the paperwork I put together!” She yells after him, accompanied by a short laugh. It’s not every day she gets to do real work, even if she isn’t getting paid for this.

Without Emma leaning over the side LeeFord can’t see her up on the deck anymore. That’s good, since out of sight means no hypothetical projectiles hitting their mark.

“I’ll leave your practice exam results in the kitchen for you to grab on the way out!” He calls back up before disappearing into the house.

There is no better way to avoid legal trouble while breaking rules then to understand their implications and meanings down to a T. Which is why that was another area of interest LeeFord had taken to focusing on outside of the boat.

Emma was the only person who had any faint interest in the subject, but it was difficult to find time to discuss because of their unpredictable free time.

Rather than heading for the basement, where everyone is, he makes a quick dash up the stairs towards their study.

***

“First, you wanted me to take one dinosaur home, and now you’re suggesting I bring a second one, just so it’s not lonely!?” Fids is watching with crossed arms as Ford takes a small tissue sample from the creature’s side, making sure to apply the fast-acting healing salve afterwards.

“It’s no different then getting a second dog. Most animals are social creatures and having a companion will certainly calm it down. They used to travel in packs of dozens, the least we could do is make it a brother or sister.” Ford waves off his friend’s concerns, rolling over in his chair from the vet table to the DNA synthesizer.

“A pair of dogs is different from two wild animals! It’s not domesticated!” Looking after the twin’s house is one thing, and yeah okay maybe one dinosaur could be fun- the towns people would certainly think it’s neat -but two?

 No. That’s where someone has to draw the line.

Tate is off in the far corner, working on a math workbook Ford put together for him upon request.

Someday, he wanted to do cool things like his dad and uncle, which apparently means math. So, he works on it dutifully without complaint so someday he can help over at the lab table. “But dad-”

“No buts! Did you see the damage that thing did to the upstairs pillows? Imagine that, but our whole house!” Perhaps they could just keep Nessie over here in the basement containment unit. He would be over here regularly enough anyway-

“You’re not giving the poor thing enough credit, have you forgotten yesterday when Tate managed to feed it by hand?” While they talk, Ford has continued going through the process of setting things up to make the clone.

“We’re lucky the thing is an herbivore or it might have tried to eat his hand!” Despite his seeming hatred for the animal Fids does unstrap Nessie from its table and carry it back into the large indoor forest they turned the portal room into for this experiment.

Its water bowl had been filled by Tate when they first came downstairs to go along with the large collection of fruits cut up in the trough along the opposite wall.

“Hmm, I will admit starting small may have been a good choice. I don’t imagine the local police are equipped to handle even a juvenile t-rex.” Ford snickers while looking through a microscope, meaning Fids comes back out into the room to both Ford and Tate laughing.

Fiddleford has given up trying to ask what these two keep finding so funny whenever he leaves the room.

After several minutes of preparing the sample Ford picks up the test tube and disappears into the other room to start the cloning machine in the room Tate isn’t allowed inside of. The observation room is fine, as long as he doesn’t touch anything, but almost the entire rest of the basement is extremely off limits.

The sound of the elevator dinging onto this floor can be heard before the doors open, with LeeFord walking out in a change of Stanley’s clothes. He is actively working on removing the two bionic fingers and the electrodes hooking them up to the central nerves system for control.

They’re supposed to be tight to the skin, but not this difficult to remove.

When LeeFord comes into view from around the corner Fids scowls, “I thought you were supposed to be upstairs, watching the inspector?”

With one of the fake fingers hanging half off LeeFord waves the concern off, “Your wife is here playing babysitter and helping review the paperwork. You know, I still don’t see why I had to do it when you’re half as good a liar-“

“Oh, I don’t know? Maybe because I’ve got the wrong face-“

“You have almost as impressive of a resume as Ford, is you ignore the whole working out of your garage prior to working under a mad scientist-“ LeeFord dodged the book thrown his direction, smiling a little too wide.

“Will the two of you stop bickering? LeeFord, here.” Ford hands him a screwdriver to continue removing the straps. “Fiddleford, why don’t you and Tate both go assist Emma in keeping the inspector occupied, hmm?”

Despite having not finished the packet Tate has already gotten up from his table, shoving all his things into the bag and shouldering it before grabbing his dad’s hand to be led into the elevator to head upstairs.

All things considered the lab had mostly been packed up, if you ignore the dinosaur experiment. Every unnecessary piece of equipment has been packed away in storage compartments on the ship with an ample amount of scrap parts stored onboard for future experiments.

The place looked surprisingly empty- clean like the entire upstairs -like when Ford had just moved in and didn’t have anything to keep down here yet. Before all the machines, lab tables, and useful junk piled up.

With the help of the screwdriver it only takes a minute to get the two contraptions that functioned as additional digits off, tossed into one of the open boxes yet to be moved along the opposite wall. “Never would have thought you’d be the one playing mum, did you?” LeeFord put the screwdriver back in its box, following Ford through the maze of rooms that make up the basement into the space where Ford had hatched the monster in the first place.

Where the machine was processing the DNA sample to create a second identical egg is progressing based on the whirling sound of the fans.

“I wouldn’t have to if you could both go ten minutes without trying to kill each other being in the same room.” Ford wasn’t actually mad though, if anything he sounded amused. “If your done with the inspector, shouldn’t you be switching back?”

Stanley had said not to pay attention to how often he was gone, but it was hard not too when these days it seemed like he was hardly around. Just because he didn’t keep track of all the long nights, days, and afternoons LeeFord was busy working out on and in the boat or hacking away at equations in the den didn’t mean Ford wasn’t.

Even the rare time Stanley was in control it was almost always at night while Ford was sleeping.

He was incredibly eager to wrap things up and start their maiden voyage, because then things would settle back to their normal. Days spent together where Ford didn’t have to check who was in the captains chair all the damn time before planting a kiss.

It was all worth it, of course, because they were so close, an inch away from being done, it had just taken a lot of sacrifice.

LeeFord crossed the room, headed over to one of the cabinets meant for glassware. Beakers, jars, and test tubes galore.

“I will, I will. I’ve just got one last thing to take care of first.” He took to rummaging around, ignoring Ford watching him as he reached into the back of the cabinet to pull out a container- without tipping over any of the glassware- that was slightly larger than a watch box would be.

Instead of being made of cardboard this one is made of metal with a single side of glass. The whole gadget hums and is cold to the touch like a mini, can sized, freezer as LeeFord puts it on the counter in front of Ford. He doesn’t bother to explain before wandering out of the room, to go switch back.

If Ford has learned anything about LeeFord, its that he enjoys confusing people on purpose. But, he does so in a way that is just within reach for them to usually figure out his stupid little puzzles.

That’s are the only reason Ford hasn’t strangled him already with how annoying he can be. Because he enjoys the chase of understanding.

No matter how hard Ford squints at the cold pane of glass covered in a layer of frost he can’t make out what could be inside. The big label on top reads ‘DO NOT SHAKE OR DROP’ in bold letters just legible enough to read.

There is no clear way to open the container without breaking the glass.

He can’t really give the equivalent of a more advanced Rubik’s Cube anymore thought, because the cloned egg is done as indicated by a quiet ding from across the room. The sooner the egg starts to incubate, the faster Nessie will no longer be alone.

It’s a long process of checking the egg- which includes taking a sample to check for any genetic abnormalities and resealing the shell -before Ford can set it in the incubator to start the growth process, thus wiping both hands of this final scientific project.

Not literally, because with all the stupid red tape they’ve had to jump through with the government they can’t leave tomorrow. Soon, within a week or so? It’s hard to say exactly when their proper documentation will come in the mail, even if rushed.

Time has always blurred and gone by faster when working on a project, and the light knock on the doorframe almost causes Ford to drop the egg. Almost.

The last two odd months had been an interesting lesson in boredom, in Stanley’s experience.

Sometimes, he helped with the boat- a fair amount, actually -certainly more then he’d expected to be capable of when starting out, but he still didn’t feel like a member of the brilliant science team who had actually put together their beautiful ship.

With him and LeeFord swapping shifts Stan spent most of his time upstairs in their office writing, other times he took up residence in front of the tv, and, on the rare occasion Ford would purposefully stay up- forgoing his beauty sleep so -they could spend time together. Usually involving staining wood, fitting something on the boat, or blowing out someone’s back.

The house had been fully broken in just in time for them to abandon it for the rest of the year.

Having time- and endless amount of it -to think, was both a blessing and a curse in its own way.

After a lifetime of being considered second rate- a sentiment that would take longer then two months of Ford looking at him like a puppy whose owner had finally gotten home from work to break -he was slow to adapt to the constant affection.

A little at a time, and being able to have an excuse to stay away from Ford because there was work to be done, helped.

Coming into the room in the basement, watching Ford jerk his head up and break out in an ear-splitting grin, caused a dull little choking ache in Stanley’s chest. The kind of feeling he was still getting used to on a day-to-day basis.

“About damn time you two swapped back! I haven’t seen you in nearly three whole days! Just this morning he was wasting your time staring mindlessly into the fish tank, spinning more of his crap-“

It’s funny watching Ford get all mad on his behalf, but Stanley barely pays it any mind in favor of pulling his brother into a hug to muffle the actual words into a barely intelligible mumble until the topic drops entirely. “First off, it was barely thirty-six hours, and secondly do you mean about how he’s basically a demi-god? You really need to slap him for me one of these days before his head gets too big. He gets that from you, you know.”

Ford can hear the amusement in Stanley’s voice but is too busy melting into the hug to argue. They’ve done enough of that for one lifetime, especially given their recently limited time together. It’ll be unbelievably nice when every second isn’t metaphorically counted. “And another thing,”

Pulling away, Ford grabs and holds up the sci-fi ice cube. You can’t hold it for too long without burning your hand due to its temperature. “We’re about to leave! What business does he have giving us more loose ends to tie up?”

The wide and impish grin Stanley is wearing is charming, but only complicates the problem.

“So, you’re telling me you don’t have a single clue what’s in that box? Because if you say you give up, I’ll tell you. We figured you’d want to at least try to crack it before dropping the surprise.” Stepping back Stanley crosses both his arms, waiting for Ford to officially give up.

Both of Ford’s eyes narrowed, “That’s not fair. A simple cold cube isn’t much. It could be anything. You have to give me a real hint.”

Luckily Stanley had already prepared for this, “It’s something you’ve run experiments on before and has to do with our first real mission after Hawaii.”

“We aren’t secret agents Stanley, anomaly hunting isn’t a ‘mission,’ think of it as more of an expedition. Sort of like what archeologists do, with less rocks.”

“You do realize your completely missing the point of the hint, right?” Stanley reached over and gently guided Ford’s head so it was tilted forward and down to look at the box again.

Ford has to set it down on the lab table to avoid risking frostbite.

“This thing is my hint for our third stop then, after California and Hawaii.” He doesn’t expect Stanley to provide any follow up context given this was supposed to be some sort of surprise.

After a long silence, “Are we going somewhere cold?”

Not even close. “Nope.”

For good measure Ford turns the cube over, but can’t see anything else of interest beyond the note on top. LeeFord had made whatever was cooling the interior completely seamless. There wasn’t even any condensation or vents. “I can’t think of any anomaly that could fit inside a containment unit of this size, much less require such a chilling atmosphere to survive….”

Using one of the work gloves from one of the drawers Stanley picked up the cube with one hand and started dragging Ford out of the basement with the other to head upstairs.

Emma and Fids were certainly capable of occupying the inspector, but they couldn’t just abandon them to do the entire rest of the tour on their own. “Come on, you can have a conniption out on the porch within shouting distance of the boat.”

“I’m thinking, Stanley.” It was amazing how much of that he could do of that in a day given proper nutrition, sleep, and breaks. Not that he would admit that to Stanley since it would only cause him to double down on their schedules.

Ford still let himself be guided through the house and brought outside to sit on the porch.

If it wasn’t somewhere cold- such as the artic or Antarctica, which their ship was more than prepared for should their travels take them there, -then the real hint had to be whatever creature was frozen inside the box. The one he couldn’t see, probably on purpose, because of LeeFord’s design.

With a heavy sigh, Ford stops staring at the box to look back at Stanley instead. He was looking at the boat, happier and more relaxed than Ford could remember seeing him in decades.

Granted they had been apart for ten years, but-

It didn’t do himself any good to think about their past mistakes all the time. All it resulted in was more guilt and dread, which made Stanley feel bad thus creating a feedback loop where they both ended up feeling awful and neither of them were happy.

They’ll work on that too, later.

Everything was perfect now, with all the little pieces falling into place so they could have their dream. Something that had seemed so impossible and childish was shaping up to be only a little impractical. The cost of owning a boat is still rather expensive, despite cutting out the cost of fuel.

It helps that the Stan O’ War II is considered brand new.

The metal, being sourced from off planet won’t even think about rusting until shortly before the Sun explodes near the end of its lifetime. That cuts down on maintenance, but they’ll still have to do regular as they come repairs on the engine, sails, and that’s not even mentioning the wood.

Wood and water mean rot and there simply isn’t a sealant yet invented on Earth to prevent that within a lifetime. It’ll need to be replaced eventually. LeeFord had given an estimate of four years to figure out a better solution, so maybe by the time the deck would need to be redone they’d have more options? Either way, it’s a hassle.

Whatever the total cost of a boat is, your supposed to expect to spend about ten percent of that every year to maintain it. That simply isn’t feasible for their ship, given the insurance estimate they’d gotten of it being worth about one point two million dollars.

Given the built-in safety features, durability, and his education accreditations, that company had been willing to give them the lowest rate out of all the agents that came out at a whopping fifteen hundred dollars. Per month.

It’s something they can manage by jumping through some hoops, but it’s a very good thing they no longer have a mortgage. Or a power bill. And they never had a water bill because of the well on the property to begin with. The only thing they’ll be paying towards the house from now on is property taxes.

If they needed to, they could even rent out the place while out of town most of the year.

Best to cross that bridge when they get too it.

Under the safety of the porch, with the view from the boat mostly hidden by Stanley, Ford reaches over to hold Stanley’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “I give up, why don’t you tell me already before the suspense kills me?”

Sometimes, no matter how long Stanley stares at the boat, he still can’t wrap his head around the glaringly obvious fact that its real. It’s here. And its not going away.

Ford wasn’t lying- not that he really thinks he would after everything -and the rug isn’t about to be tore out from under him with a finger pointing and laughing.

Just looking at the bow, with the gold name and two matching handprints somehow artfully worked into the design, still makes him tear up a little every fucking time. Thankfully no one ever points it out.

He clears his throat, turning to look back and Ford and making a whole show of passing off the glove and box to Ford as an excuse to wipe at the rain that had somehow only landed on his face. “You ever heard of the Nagual?”

Ford obviously hadn’t, so Stanley carried on. “They’re a sort of folklore I think, from what I remember, known as a Mexican shapeshifter. They function kinda like a Werewolf? Limited to a human being able to change into their form at night- not limited to any specific one day, or having anything to do with the moon and all that bullshit -which I guess isn’t really like a Werewolf.”

All the words kind of blur together and Stanley has to stop and take a breath at the end before pushing on. “When I was down there, in Mexico, I heard about them. A couple times, and I’m no expert, -the library has shit for information on them, pretty sure your house has more stuff about folklore then any library we’ll ever visit -but…”

Pulling away the hand Ford was holding Stan picked up the cube again and tapped it, “I said we’d deal with Shifty- that’s a really shitty name to give your grub child by the way -and this is kinda my loose plan. I mean, where else would he feel even sort of welcome then with people who could change like him? Beats being stuck with all us boring normal humans, am I right?”

Without even thinking about it, Ford’s eyebrows have knit together in a look of concern all on their own, carefully taking the cube back from Stanley. Now hyper aware of the danger currently sealed inside. Don’t drop indeed.

“You want to just, let it go? Just like that? Have you considered the amount of damage he could do once full grown, given he kinda hates us? And how on Earth did you even cage him like this? Shifty wasn’t this small last I checked.” 

“Well, not right away. Duh. I figured we could do a little road trip, or something? He wasn’t too fond of LeeFord trapping him, even with the promise of a better life when waking up, but….” Stanley just sort of shrugged, looking at the cube with a conflicted expression.

“It’s still a kid, and I think maybe if you try again with a little better intention then trying to gather as much data as possible, things could go better. If he’s happy and we make it right, why would he even want revenge anyway?” Fiddleford had thought it was stupid too, right around the time he’d mentioned relocation.

Stanley had decided not to tell Fids anymore after that because all it did was upset him in a way that hadn’t seen since the night they first met. The less he knew about a shapeshifter running loose on their planet, the calmer he would sleep at night.

A laugh escaped, before Ford could stifle it. He still tried with a hand moments later. It sounded completely ridiculous, impossible, and like a good way to always have another threat hanging over their heads for the entire rest of their lives.

But Ford did trust Stanley, more than anything. How bad could it hurt to at least try?

“You’re crazy, you know that?” Ford pretended not to hear the yelling coming from over on the ship, gathering up the cube and quickly tucking it under the coach on the porch before anyone on deck could see.

“If I’m crazy, you realize that makes you clinically insane?” Stanley gave Ford’s hand one more squeeze before hopping off the porch.

If anyone else said that, Ford would have drawn his gun. As it was, he simply smiled and put a lot of effort into behaving as the inspector called for him. They still had a little more work to do.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Journal Two AU