Chapter Text
Stan—if that was truly his name—still didn’t know what to make of the Man, capital M.
Sure, the Man seemed to enjoy Stan’s company, at the very least. Stan could still feel the phantom touch of strong arms around him, the voice rumbling in his ear. You’re our hero, Stanley. You wouldn’t want someone you hated pressed to your body—not so firmly, tightly, heat seeping through your clothes like a furnace.
And as a bonus, children—teenagers, Grunkle Stan, the little girl’s high-pitched voice echoed in his head, just like in the moment she had corrected him, which unfortunately for her case only proved how very young she still was—seemed to be fond of Him. That would earn anyone a few points in Stan’s book. He fucking loved kids. Like those two. Especially like those two.
How did he know that, if he wasn’t sure of his own name? It was like riding a bike, he supposed. There were things you could never forget, engraved in your muscles—your heart—forever. Such as instinct. Impressions. Feelings.
Grunkle. That was what those twins called him and the Man. What did it mean? Grumpy Uncle? He very much doubted he and the Man were connected. The same thing in the back of his mind that knew bacon was delicious but that adorable little pig was off limits whispered to him that the mundane and Stanford didn’t mix.
Perhaps the children called them that in the same way Mabel called herself Waddles’ mom, or how toddlers might see their teachers as aunts of sorts. (Ah, yeah, the names were coming back to him now.) The twins looked a bit too old for that, but heh, what did he know? One look at his wrinkled hands was enough to understand he hadn’t been that young in a long, long time.
The Man also didn’t look young, but he did look handsome. Very handsome. A silver fox in his prime, tattoos and scars, the whole damn package. Stan didn’t understand why he insisted on wearing turtleneck sweaters covering his torso. If he had that body—the body he was sure Stanford possessed after observing little things here and there, rolled up sleeves and graceful moves, shoulders pulled back in a too-perfect straight posture—he wouldn’t be hiding it. The babes would flock around like sheep.
Huh. Where did that come from?
No matter. The point was that he wouldn’t be hiding it.
But that wasn’t the strangest thing about Stanford Pines, the name his brain now associated with the Man. Far from that.
The strangest thing about Stanford Pines is that he had a thing with Stan. A thing for Stan? He didn’t know if he would be so lucky. But every time Stan looked at him, he was either 1) staring at nothing with a glassy, far, faraway look in his eyes that told Stan he couldn’t possibly be paying attention to anything in his surroundings, only to immediately answer Stan’s random question of the hour before any of the kids even opened their mouths, or 2) staring right back at Stan, only to look away the very second their gazes met.
(Stanford’s eyes were dark. That was the first thing he noticed. At first he thought they were jet-black, before seeing the sunlight reflected onto them. Deep brown, like coffee without cream, and every bit just as intense.)
Stan noticed his six-fingered fist clenching by his side every time it happened, as if controlling himself. From what, Stan didn’t know, but he hoped it wasn’t a violent urge of some sort. Something told him that a punch from that man would hurt like a bitch.
Stanford Pines was also prone to brooding. There was no better word for it. Stan would go so far as to say he liked to brood, but that didn’t make sense. Most humans seeked contentment—it was one of the few things he was almost sure of remembering from the blank state that was his current mind, but it didn’t fit with the puzzle that was Stanford.
Stan pitied him, for whatever it was that haunted him, but—he couldn’t lie—he was more than a bit curious.
When he asked the girl, Mabel, about the reason behind Stanford’s strange behavior, it caused her to burst into tears. The boy, to his utter frustration, hadn’t been more forthcoming, saying only (in a very cryptic, sad tone that didn’t fit a child his age) that Stan should ask the man personally.
Stan didn’t want to ask the man personally. He was not a coward, no sir, and the twins had told him he was—or at least used to be—good with people, but he would eat his weird hat if Stanford’s closed off, mysterious aura didn’t intimidate most strangers. And that was what they were now, right? Strangers?
So he asked his employee (ex-employee? something else? family?) Soos instead, only for him to also burst into tears. Sheesh.
Stanford it was, then.
The first evidence had been the drawing.
On the fourth day after his decision, while Stan had been focusing on building—no, reuniting the courage that he very much already had, to go and talk to Stanford—he ended up being approached instead.
A six-fingered hand sneaked from nowhere as he prepared his morning coffee, making him almost spill hot liquid onto his hand.
“Stanley,” he murmured as Stan adjusted his hearing aids, voice steady and deep and smooth as fucking always. Of course it didn’t get rough with sleep. Not like them lowly mortals. “Good morning.”
Stanley.
Stanford was the only one who called him that.
Stanley, Stanford. Why such similar names? Mere coincidence? It couldn’t be, unless the fact he and Stanford looked so similar could also be explained. Stan thought it could be explained, probably, but so far not a living soul had offered the explanation. Perhaps all white men in their sixties roughly looked the same.
“Stan,” the man repeated, softly, in that tone no one else managed to imitate, drenched with some kind of emotion Stan still struggled to identify.
“Ah! Good morning! You… you startled me.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said easily. “Mabel has recently scolded me about that. She said I can be a little scary.”
“No, no, I don’t mean like that! I’m a tough guy!”
“I understand. I’m sure you are.”
“It was unexpected, that’s all,” Stan explained, forcing a few chuckles. “A reflex, heh.”
Something pained crossed his aged face, and Stan didn’t understand. He didn’t know what kind of words provoked which kind of reaction in Stanford, nor how, nor why. He only knew he could never elicit the right one, no matter how mushy the comment or funny the joke. Another epic miss.
(He didn’t know why he still tried at all.)
“Then I should have announced myself more clearly.” There was not a hint of humor or sarcasm in Stanford’s tone. “Forgive me.”
Stanford had already apologized many, many times before. So much that sometimes Stan wondered if the man wasn’t eagerly waiting for another opportunity every time they talked, another excuse to do his favorite thing in the world after brooding.
“Forgiven,” Stan said, almost as a reflex, and before the man could add anything more, “but what do you want?”
Stanford opened his mouth. Just slightly. Then closed it. Then licked his lips, pink tongue darting between the perfectly aligned teeth than Stan could never dream to have. Then swallowed.
“Stan, do you know who I am to you?”
“No.”
He flinched, then, almost imperceptibly. Stan supposed that was the expected answer, but predictability didn’t lessen suffering.
“The children haven’t told you?”
“I was told to ask you.”
To his surprise, instead of answering, Stanford grabbed his hand, placing it between his two wider, warmer ones. A folded piece of paper.
Stan opened it. It was a child’s drawing, in a style he soon recognized as belonging to the Mabel girl. Two figures clearly meant to represent Stanford and him, holding hands. A big pink heart in the middle. FAMILY.
“Forgive me, Stanley, but I can’t—I’m not ready to talk about our past yet.”
Stan sighed, running his fingers over the paper. He could see the love the girl had poured into it, and he wished he could remember her, her and Stanford and the rest of the family, but he couldn’t—
Huh.
There were three creases in the middle, neatly measured, as if designed to fold in a certain way. But what even... oh! He could feel color rushing to his cheeks as drawing Stanford and drawing Stanley kissed each other. That kid!
He raised his eyes to ask Stanford about it, or perhaps crack another joke destined to failure, but the man had already left.
(His aids had been working perfectly, this time! Perhaps the guy really was that sneaky.)
The second evidence had been the waitress.
The twins had already left for Piedmont amongst tearful goodbyes, the separation made ten times worse by the fact Stan still hadn’t recovered his memories. That hadn’t been necessary, in Stan’s opinion. He didn’t need all his memories to love those kids, and he had told them as much—which, for some reason, only made them cry harder, including even Dipper. (The boy seemed to have some hang-ups with masculinity.)
Mabel had made Stanford promise that he would take “good care” of Stan, and Stan couldn’t help but feel a pleasant shiver at his spine when Stanford agreed so passionately.
Stan still didn’t know what the man was supposed to be in relation to him, and that was a problem. Sure, they seemed to share some degree of familiarity, or else the man—Stanford, Stanford, call him Stanford—wouldn’t treat him that casually. Not casual to Mabel standards, of course, but casual to Stanford standards.
A little touch here and there, a brief brush of their fingers carrying surprising warmth by summer’s end and enough electricity to make the short hairs on Stan’s nape stand on end. Stan wondered if the guy was touch-starved, but for some reason couldn’t bring himself to touch Stan like… like Stan wanted him to, truth be told.
He would attribute it to shyness in any other person, but Stanford wasn’t shy. Introverted, sure, but not shy. Stan knew better than to associate him with anything even remotely meek.
Stan had been observing him, listening intently wherever he was mentioned in conversation. All he could gather was that Stanford was the author of… journals? And also a genius of the likes people who actually read books would only ever see in their books. Stan would bet all his money—which was apparently a lot—that they were taking care not to mention anything that could potentially upset him within his earshot.
Which was very, very frustrating.
And very… suspicious. Why, of all people, Stanford was the one he knew the least about? Why were they careful to not mention too many things about Stanford, specifically? What was up with that?
The first Friday night after the kids’ return to Piedmont, after Soos and Wendy had left to their own homes, Stanford took him to dine at Greasy’s, a local restaurant. Just the two of them. Not a date, obviously. Stanford hadn’t said it was “not a date,” but Stan knew it was best not to assume. Or get his hopes up.
So no, it was not the date that he took as his second evidence, but the waitress.
She was alright, as far as women go. Lazy Susan, the name tag said, an obvious reference to her left lazy eye. A charming hairstyle, brightly colored makeup, somewhat plump. Old, but not older than Stan. A big smile on her face.
“Hello, Stanleeey.”
A really enthusiastic type too, apparently.
“Hello to you too, babe.”
“Dr. Pines,” she acknowledged, still smiling, but a little less.
“Miss Wentworth,” Stanford’s raspy voice greeted beside him, with a tone Stan had never heard him use. Half suspicious, half angry.
Did Stanford have beef with this Lazy Susan, of all people? The mere idea was so funny that Stan couldn’t suppress a chuckle. Susan’s interest was caught by this, and she turned towards him with a considerably warmer expression.
“What’s the town’s hero going to want?” she asked, handing Stan a menu full of deliciously greasy foods that would give an old man heart failure.
“You can choose anything you want, Stan,” Stanford informs him. “Eat all you want. Don’t worry about the money, I’ll be the one to pay.”
Huh. Wasn’t Stanford always protective and concerned about his eating habits? Maybe this was a date, after all.
“No need to pay!” Susan declared cheerfully. “It’s all on the house for you!”
Woah. Generous lady.
“Thank you, sugar pie!” Sugar pie? Where did that come from? And why could he see Stanford’s fist clenching from the corner of his eye? “Why don’t you bring me something you know I’ll love? Your choice, toots! Surprise me!”
“Only the best for Stan Pines!” She held up her left eyelid, letting it fall closed again. Some sort of manually operated wink…? Stan couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her eye. An accident of some sort, perhaps.
Dr. Pines… Stan Pines… Incredible that Stan had never noticed it before, but he and Stanford shared their surname too, didn’t they? Pines. Not even a common one. It made sense, if what Stanford said about them being family was true, but then why—
“That will be all,” Stanford cut in, a little bit too rude for Stan’s taste. For Susan’s too, apparently, as she scowled. “I’ve already eaten at home.”
As she left, humming a song that Stan recognized to be Disco Girl from Icelandic pop sensation BABBA from Dipper’s favorite hits selection (the boy had made him listen to it in an attempt to recover his memories) and getting safely out of earshot distance, he couldn’t resist his curiosity.
“What’s your issue with her, man?”
Stanford looked away, avoiding Stan’s gaze like he had done all those times Stan had caught him staring. “She is the waitress, not your romantic date. She should act like a professional instead of throwing herself at you like that.”
“Throwing herself at me?”
“Oh, Stanley. She was flirting with you.”
Stan replayed their interaction in his head. True enough, she seemed somewhat interested. How embarrassing. He’d bet that old Shack that his past self, the supposedly smooth-talking bastard with all the people skills, wouldn’t have missed something like that.
Was Stanford… jealous? Why?
The only way it would make sense was if he felt their relationship was threatened by Susan, right? But she was just a stranger to Stan, while Stanford was his… his family, Mabel’s drawing had informed him.
Family, with a heart and smooches.
Family, with the same surname.
Perhaps there was something else Stan was missing.
The third evidence had been the kiss.
Their afternoon was as uneventful as all the other afternoons, somewhat chilly now with the beginning of fall. After the sky had been painted yellow and orange and pink and lilac, bathing the house in a warmer light through every window and door in a natural show that took Stan’s breath away, he sat beside Stanford on the porch—a mug of hot cocoa in each hand, front row view to the woods, growing hope in his heart.
It seemed to him the perfect day for a love confession. Perhaps Stanford thought that too.
“Here.” Stan handed him his mug, red to match the sweater. “I noticed your sweet tooth. Found the recipe in an old book in the kitchen. From one ‘Caryn Pines,’ whoever she is. Yellowed pages.”
Stanford didn’t even acknowledge his words, staring straight ahead as if he could burn a hole into a tree with the intensity of his gaze alone.
“Stanley, I have been beating around the bush for long enough. It’s time I clarify some things.”
“Like?”
“The true nature of our relationship. The history behind it.”
Oh. Finally.
Stan had been suspecting the truth for a while, now, as Stanford’s glances grew more and more frequent, but he couldn’t very well act on it if it made Stanford uncomfortable.
“Please, comprehend this one truth: I love you. I truly, deeply do. If after listening to the entire tale you do not wish to continue with our—our bond—Stanley, I will let you go. It will hurt, immensely, and I shouldn’t be telling you this like the selfish bastard I am, but—”
“Breathe.”
Stanford did a rapid intake of air that couldn’t really be called breathing.
“When we were children, as close as close can be, we had always planned to grow old together. Sail away on a boat, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.”
Childhood sweethearts? No way it was that romantic… this was straight out of Duchess Approves…
“And then?”
“Stan. We—before I tell you the next part, you must know my feelings for you have never truly changed. I carried your picture in my pocket, close to my heart, as the most important person in my life—it’s here, in my pocket, still—”
He made a motion to take it out, but Stan caught his hand. It was cold and slightly sweaty. Stanford, always so confident, was nervous. He shouldn’t be.
“No need. I understand.”
Stan could relieve some of his suffering. The sooner, the better.
“Stanley, you can’t possibly—”
Stan kissed him.
Stanford went still against him, frozen in place even as Stan cupped his face in both hands. That was to be expected. His husband had probably lost all hope of romance after Stan lost his memories. He was lucky Stan caught on so quickly, making the first move—slipping a warm tongue past his unresponsive lips, licking his palate, wet and intimate.
That drew a choked groan out of Stanford. Good.
And just when Stan was beginning to question himself—to wonder if, perhaps, he hadn’t terribly miscalculated—the man reacted.
Reacted by pushing him against the wall, an honest-to-god growl muffled by Stan’s mouth, a large six-fingered hand cushioning his head from the impact. He kissed like a man on a mission, focused and rough and desperate as if Stan’s saliva was fresh water to quench his thirst, clinking their shitty glasses and almost knocking their teeth together. It was warm—so warm—and wet—so wet—and fast—so fast Stan couldn’t really breathe.
He pushed against Stanford’s chest, but the man didn’t budge, pulling Stan closer, locking his arms behind Stan’s back, and holy shit, he really was strong. Drawing Stan’s lower lip between his teeth, drawing a moan out of Stan, drawing—
A coughing fit.
Stanford finally released him, then, surprised by Stan’s obvious struggle against his lips.
“Can’t—breathe—”
“Oh, Stanley, I’m so sorry!”
“Nah, just give me a moment.” As his breath steadily returned to normal, he wondered for how long Stanford had been wanting just that.
A kiss. From his memoryless husband. (It must have been incredibly painful, to wait, with all that love stuck inside.)
Stanford was hovering, clearly still concerned, and Stan felt his heart warm at the sight. His poor husband deserved someone taking care of him, too.
“I understand, Stanford. Can I be frank with you?”
Stanford nodded almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for that question too, waiting for it for a long time even though he had been caught off guard by Stan’s well-timed boldness.
“Of course,” he still felt the need to say, the rich depth of his voice softened with a different kind of breathlessness that seemed to come from his own emotions. “You can treat me however you wish, Stanley.”
“I understand what we are to each other,” Stan finished. “Family, you said, right?”
“Yes.” Stanford smiled. “I’m relieved to know you’re fully aware of that.”
“No thanks to you! You were unnecessarily enigmatic about the whole thing, I must say.” Stan was surprised by his own guts. Okay, he had just kissed the guy, but that had felt right. To get so openly angry, though—that was new territory. Ford was still scary, and yet Stanford was his husband. He had chosen to marry Stan, warts and all, and that mere thought was encouraging. “I mean, maybe you were too shy to spell out that we were married, but—”
“Wait. You—Stanley—” Stanford’s eyebrows were drawn together again. “You… you’ve concluded that you’re my husband.” He enunciated each word very, very slowly.
“Yeah. It wasn’t that hard.”
Stanford’s eyes widened.
“I… see.”
“Did I get it wrong?”
“Stan, we’re… not actually married.”
Huh.
“But… you’ve said we’re family. And we share the same surname.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re obviously in love with me. Or at least… attracted to me?”
Stanford squeezed his eyes shut.
“Yes,” he rasped.
“So unless you’re incestuous or something, what—oh! We… we didn’t actually reach that step, right? I just thought, because of our shared surname—Pines—”
“An understandable assumption—”
“—but that was to make things more respectable, got it! I mean, I don’t think the people of this town would judge two unmarried men living under the same roof, since apparently people can marry woodpeckers and raccoons here, but maybe that’s the thing, right, that they’re so nonchalant about animal loving but not about human loving! Humans are different anyway, of course, and… and a lot of prejudices are… rooted through generations… or… or something! I know this somehow, even though I don’t know much—I mean—I don’t remember much, since I knew but don’t know anymore! Because I’ve lost my memories! And obviously you know that I’ve lost my memories, you apparently suffer a lot because of that, I don’t know why I’m reminding you of this, but…” He was rambling. Anxiously, desperately rambling.
“Stanley.”
“I thought we were married, but there’s no problem if it’s a more informal thing,” he rushed to add. “It makes us no less family! Hell, the true family is the one who loves you! And I get the need to not be judged by the locals, I do! I mean, it’s not like we’re brothers, even though we look so much alike, in that strange way I bet every old man looks alike, but whatever, I get it! It could affect your career, right? Stupid me, just now I’m remembering… you have a PhD! You’re part of the scientific community or whatever, of course you want to be more presentable, even if… even if you don’t actually want me to be your husband. We can still pretend to be married, if you want. Dr. and Mr. Pines… I like the sound of that. Cool. Very cool.”
“Stanley, stop.” Stanford’s voice was firm, almost commanding.
Stan did.
“Stan, we’re not married…”
Stan’s disappointment—his hurt—must have shown on his face. It must have been enough.
Something flashed in Stanford’s eyes, behind his glasses. They seemed to shift through several emotions with an impressive speed Stan couldn’t for the life of him follow, before settling on a single, perhaps the strongest, one. Determination, he recognized, as Stanford’s brows knitted with the force of it.
He dropped to one knee, sudden but swift as ever, taking from his pocket… a caramel chocolate bar. Then a roll of pink bubblegum tape. And then, finally, a little colorful package. A lollipop ring.
“...but we can be.”
Stan chuckled, nervous and relieved and happy. Truly, deeply happy.
“Where did you get all that candy?”
“Emergency supply to cheer up Mabel.” He ripped the package open. “Do you grant me this honor?”
“You know this probably won’t fit on any of my fingers, right?”
But as Stanford extended his hand, reaching out for Stan’s own, it was gladly offered. When Stanford struggled to fit it on Stan’s fat little finger, he gladly helped, too, drunk on the exhilarating feeling of—amusement? hope? love?
Love, Stan decided. He was in love, like a sappy, foolish teenager.
He looked down at Stanford, ready to tell him that, and yet his new fiancé seemed… he didn’t seem happy. His expression was uncomfortable, almost… guilty? Yes, definitely guilty—Stan knew that particular expression on him with the back of his hand. Blaming himself for Stan’s memory loss again, most likely.
Stan cleared his throat. The loudest he could.
Stanford startled, blinking rapidly, before putting the other candies back into his pocket and getting up with far more grace and speed than their age should allow.
“Stanley, I—I had something in mind before you—before our kiss. I hope you’ll agree with what I have in mind.” He sounded nervous, again.
“Go on.”
“Weirdmageddon—the apocalypse I told you about—has been contained, but I’m detecting some strange new anomalies near the Arctic Ocean,” he explained slowly, showing a holographic map of what seemed to be Earth on his strange fancy watch. “I want to go investigate it, but… I think I might be too old to do it alone.” He smiled, charming and playful once more, but Stan could still see the nervousness behind it.
There was no reason for it, though.
Stan knew what was truly being asked, and he already knew his answer. It was one of those things engraved in his heart, after all. Whoever he had been before his amnesia—that man would have promptly agreed to it.
Wherever we go, we go together, a boyish voice supplied in his head.
Green sea. Warm sand. Shrill seagull calls.
A sunset, just like this one.
Safe.
Familiar.
“You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”