The Night Waves, the Stars Talk, the Years Alone Know
“How did you do it?” Ford asked. Something about his tone made it clear to Stan it wasn’t an idle question. It wasn’t an offhand remark like the hundreds he’s gotten over the years. It wasn’t the rhetorical awe Soos or the kids sometimes gave him. It wasn’t even the admiration and frustration from one genius to another (hey—criminal genius is still genius, right?) It was asked in a low, clear voice.
No accusation, no awe, no admiration. Just a simple question, one brother to another. With an undercurrent of sadness that resonated deep within Stanley’s bones.
He knew exactly what Ford was referring to the moment he asked. He considered playing dumb, but he knew Ford no longer fell for that—not with him.
“Stanley?” Ford asked again, slight worry creeping into his tone. Stan sighed and turned to face his brother. The cool night air swayed their hair with the breeze, but nothing else was moving. It was a still night, cloudless, perfect for watching the stars. And telling a dead man’s story, apparently, Stan thought.
“Inside,” was all Stan said, turning to duck into the cabin and make himself a cup of hot chocolate before plunging into the story. (What could Stan say? Mabel had ruined him for coffee, it had to be hot chocolate now).
Ford followed silently into the galley and fixed his own cup of hot drink before they sat across the table from each other. Stan against the wall, Ford facing him. Stan sat a moment longer, rearranging his thoughts before beginning.
“From the moment after, or from the funeral on?” he asked, wanting to be absolutely sure what Ford thought he wanted to know.
“All of it,” Ford replied simply, leaning forward slightly, twelve fingers wrapped around his mug. Stan sighed but began.
“It took me three weeks to run out of food. Half of it was thrown up during those three weeks, from mold or being sick over what I’d done to you, or both. I went to town and was inspired to create the Murder Hut.”
Stan didn’t describe how there was only enough food for ten days, and the other eleven he starved himself to make it last longer. How he could barely stand when he went to town that first time. How he passed out from exhaustion after the first tour and didn’t wake up for two days, and when he ate he gorged himself on meat from a can and slices of bread until he made himself sick again.
Stan put a hand to his stomach and winced at remembering the pain of that first month. “It was…brutal,” was all he said about it. Ford looked like he wanted to argue for details, but was wise enough (for once) not to.
“I became Stanford Pines. It was easy with the townsfolk to recreate you, not enough of them had ever seen or met you enough to ask the wrong questions.”
Except Boyish Dan, and he had enough on his plate, and he wasn’t the questioning type anyway. Stan paused, thinking over how easy it was to become Stanford Pines to the people of Gravity Falls. (Too easy).
“But there was a problem. I knew that as long as Stanley was still alive, he was a danger to Stanford. I had to fake my own death to truly become Stanford Pines,” Stan continued. He had needed to fully become his brother—a man with a past with no strings attached, no mistakes to run from except for a mistake of a brother.
Stan got a bitter look on his face at that thought, and Ford seemed to be on the verge of interrupting to ask about it, but the moment passed and Stan’s features evened out as he continued talking.
“When I’d been quickly setting up the house to do a tour, I’d stumbled onto what your freaky copier did.”
Stan had a small smile on his face at that. He’d accidentally copied his arm and watched it crawl around in horror until he threw up on it, and watched it melt away into the carpet. All he’d had to clean up was printer ink and bile.
“I rigged it up to be able to scan all of me at once, then copied myself. It was a perfect match.”
Stan stopped, his throat choking on the emotion it needed to let out. The first time he’d seen his clone his legs had given out. And Stan 2 had understood completely why. Stan 2 helped him up, brought him over to a chair, and sat him down.
‘Look, bud, we both know why I’m here,’ his clone had said. ‘Let’s not go getting attached to the disposable twin, huh?’
Stanley had shook himself and nodded, standing up brusquely and saying a quick thanks. Together they’d rented a car and rigged it so Stan 2 would go down in a fiery crash, car flying off the road and into a lake, where the body would have been eaten up by the time the cops found it. But making sure to leave sufficient ID behind, like the car in Stanley’s name, and his first ID card with his real name.
It had been hard to kill himself off. But Stan didn’t waste any tears over it. He let the clone stick around long enough to bandage up his shoulder, and comb through the house for any usable papers on the portal. Stanley killed himself five weeks after the accident. Stan 2 wished him luck, and to copy again if he needed help.
“Stan 2 and I rented a car from Portland and rigged it to crash and burn in the woods near Gravity Falls. Registered in my name, I effectively killed off Stanley Pines. Just to be sure the news would spread down South to some old enemies of mine, I bribed a few reporters with my first wad of cash from the tours into making that wreck big news a few states around, so if anyone came looking, all they’d find was a dead body.”
Ford nodded, the sadness still in his eyes, but highlighted by an expectancy. This was the part he’d been waiting for, after all. What came next.
Stan took a drink of his cooled hot chocolate and cast his mind back.
“Ma called you about two months after I’d pushed you in. It had been two weeks since I’d faked my own death. She was crying. She’d heard the news of Stanley’s death, when she’d been looking for where I’d last been heard of. She said Stanley had wrecked not far from your house, did I know anything about it? Had I seen you? Had Lee finally reached out to me like he’s been trying to?” Stan paused and spat over the table into the trash.
“I’d decided on my reaction should any family come knocking the day Stanley died. I told the truth.”
Ford looked confused, about to verbalize his question when Stan cut in again.
“I told the truth. When Ma asked me about her ‘little Lee’s’ death I told her Yes, I’d heard. He’d come to see me at my request the week before it happened. We talked, we argued, he was just as much of a screw up as before. I tried giving him a chance and he blew it again. I kicked him out and I don’t care what happened to him. He deserved what he got. He ruined my life. Why should he get to live his?”
Ford’s jaw dropped in horror. Besides that he was frozen, unable to move even if he wanted.
“Ma yelled at me through her sobbing for being a self-righteous fool just like Pa. For being so convinced of my own rightness and setbacks that I never stopped to consider what I’d put poor Stanley through all those years. Then she yelled back every piece of news she’d managed to pry from Stanley and surrounding newspapers during those ten years. I listened to all of it, laughing at how she didn’t even know the half of it.
I told her ‘I knew enough. Stanley deserved what he got, and I’m not sorry he’s dead.’ Just before I hung up she told me I would, someday. But until I regretted your death, Ma said we weren’t family anymore.”
Stan had killed two birds with one stone. (Not three, Ford’s not dead, he can’t be dead, I have to get him back). His family wouldn’t be calling any time soon, and he wouldn’t have to fake being Ford to them. No chance to be caught out and taken away from the Shack, that way. No more family to disappoint.
Ford broke his frozen spell and stood up pacing, equal parts outraged and horrified. “You said all that? To Ma? Were you insane?! Why?”
Stan got a sick, humorless grin on his face as he answered, grumbling out his words. “Because I meant every word. I was a screw up and I deserved it. Stanley deserved it. He ruined everything, Ford!” Stan stood up and yelled that, shocking Ford out of his pacing into stillness once more. Stan continued his tirade.
“Stanley was a good for nothing criminal. He didn’t even graduate high school! He went from one shitty job to another, barely scraping by, just trying to survive and eat maybe three days out of seven. Every night going to sleep in his car, freezing, wishing he knew how to make it up to Stanford! Wishing he could go home! Wishing he’d never been fucking born! Stanley was a screw up who deserved everything he had coming. He didn’t deserve a home, he didn’t deserve a family, and he definitely did not deserve life!” Stan pounded the table and it rattled the two long forgotten mugs. Breathing heavily, he slowly eased back into a sitting position. He waited for Ford to do the same.
(It took about ten minutes, but eventually Ford was able to make eye contact with Stan again and sit down. The entire time Ford curled and uncurled his fingers into fists, flexing them out, and curling again. He was just trying to work through all of the information Stan had given him without exploding. There was still more to the story, after all.)
“I didn’t talk to Ma again until 1988. Pa died, stroke. Shermie called and I felt like I had to go, to make sure he was really dead.”
“I showed up in New Jersey, a band-aid over half my face, gloves on. Pretended to have a little accident so no one would ask too many questions about me looking different…if they even remembered.” Stan gave a little sigh at that but continued on. At the time he’d been conflicted enough about his family not recognizing the differences, it was better not to dwell on it again after all these years had passed.
“I met Shermie at the door. He’s nine years older than us, Ford. But he may as well have been ninety years older for all that I knew him. He and Reb had Sam by then, of course. Sam was 16.” So much time, Stan thought. He’d missed so much time with his family, his nephew already a young man. Not even recognizing Shermie when his brother had greeted him at the door to what used to be Pine’s Pawns. Then it was mostly boxed up with a “Space for Rent” sign in the corner of the shop window. He didn’t tell Ford how he’d felt tears gathering at the back of his eyes just by seeing them again.
“Shermie made a beeline for me and asked if I regretted it yet. He inherited Pa’s straight-talking, let me tell you. No ‘hi, hello, how are ya Stanford?’” Stan looked up at the cabin’s ceiling and felt his throat choking him again.
“I meant every word, Ford. But I also hated every word. I hugged Shermie and cried, not even blaming it on the dust, saying I missed my brothers so, so much.”
Stan tried to laugh but it got caught in his throat with the rest of the emotion he was suppressing.
“Shermie didn’t know what to do. He hugged me back—he may have had Pa’s style of speaking, but he was warmer than that bastard ever was—and Reb patted my shoulder. They both tried calming me down, but I—uh, I was working myself into a state, to be honest. I hadn’t cried about losing you and the rest of the family in the same month, again, since it had happened. When Ma realized I was there she appeared, looking old and tired, but not especially sad.”
Ma had approached him, looking her son over as she came forward, drawing whatever conclusions she did, standing close enough to reach out and touch, but refusing to until she asked her question, chin jutting up in that familiar way Stan saw as a front for having herself together. Stan used a similar tactic when he was on the streets. It takes a con to know one.
“She asked if I regretted it yet. I latched onto her and repeated myself over and over again, “He’s gone, he’s gone, Lee’s gone, Ma, he’s gone!” until I ran out of breath. Sam ran and grabbed a box of tissues, discreetly throwing them onto the table next to us. That kid has the biggest heart, Ford, I tell ya. Those kids got it all from him.” Stan smiled at thinking about Samuel as he’d come to know him later, and how Mabel and Dipper were just the same way. Then sobered as he recalled the next part of the story.
“Ma hugged me back and shushed me like a child. She said, ‘It’s going to be alright, Stanford, it’s going to be okay,’ and I cried harder. Nothing was okay, my brother, my twin, my only friend was gone, he’s gone and I might as well have killed him myself. And I couldn’t even tell them to grieve for you instead.”
Stan’s breath hitched unevenly throughout his telling. Ford leaned forward and settled a hand on his arm, trying to steady Stan back. After a minute or so he removed his hand, and Stan continued on.
“There was a lot of grieving that day. None of it for Pa. That was also the day I asked them to call me Stan instead of Stanford or Ford. Ma, bless her soul, agreed right away. Shermie took some time convincing. He still calls me Stanford. I got to know Sam that day pretty well. Reb brought up stories of you watching him as a child, babysitting senior year after Stanley left. Reb said a lot of things I hadn’t known.” At that Stan gave Ford a pointed look that made Ford scratch the back of his neck awkwardly.
Ford didn’t look ready to talk about why he’d suddenly spent every second not at school with a two year old, but Stan picked up enough to guess. The brothers let the moment slide past them together, ready to ignore what they had already resolved between them, no time to let apologies taint the story-telling air Stan brought to the small cabin.
Stan mentally searched for where he had left off. “I stayed in better touch with everybody after that. Nothing more than maybe a couple calls a year, but still. There were a few rough patches with even that. Don’t ask.” Stan’s tone brooked no argument on the matter, before he continued.
“What I said in the basement was true. I spent my days split between learning all your math and science junk, and selling tourists on the fake supernatural. I spent my nights toiling away in the portal room. And every spare second between that I was out in the forest and town, searching for your dumb journals.”
Stan felt a chill shudder through him. Those were the longest nights of his life. He hadn’t known it would be a labor of over 30 years when he started. He had no hope of learning all the math so quickly, but he didn’t think it would take forever, either. As the months wore on, he had felt more and more like a failure. Like he was letting Ford down.
At the mark of the first year since Ford had been pushed in, he’d let the hopelessness take him over. Then he got up the next day and worked twice as hard, renewing his efforts. Desperation colored the first five years, possibly the worst years. He had to acquire so many permits to run a legitimate shop. He had so many bills to pay. He had so much to learn about math and science. He struggled over every single sentence in every single text book in Ford’s house.
Frustration colored the first ten years, in the shack. He wasn’t sure at what point he began referring to it as his house, and not Ford’s, but it made him feel like even more of an imposter, trying to take over more of his brother’s life than he needed to. As often as he could, he made journeys out to search for the journals. Every time he came back empty-handed, splattered in dirt and drenched in sweat, the hopelessness dragged him a bit further down. He’d place his five-fingered hand over the six-fingered hand of Journal 1 and talk out his frustrations to Ford, as if his brother were there, not lost.
He clung to the thinnest lines binding him to the portal, though. He grew to know bits and pieces more over time about what he was dealing with. Deciphering the codes in all of his brother’s work, finding strange gadgets and trying not to mess everything up too bad. He could read Caesar and Atbash in his sleep. The alpha-numeric codes? Easy as pie. But it brought him no closer to his brother. He kept up with his studying, trying to understand the bare bones of the machine so he could get it working again. It wasn’t until somewhere in his second decade of work that he managed to map out the entire machine. And even that took a solid year to do. So much of it was guess work, with no way to check his assumptions.
On the each anniversary of the portal, he drank himself into a stupor. He knew it was stupid, that it wouldn’t help Ford a lick if he got himself trashed. But the guilt clawed at him the worst leading up to that day. He couldn’t stand it. He—
“Stanley,” Ford said gently, bringing his hands up to cover where Stan was gripping his cold mug. Stan realized he hadn’t spoken in a while, getting lost in his thoughts once again.
“Heh, right. Sorry, Sixer. Where was I?” Stan laughed awkwardly, wanting to move away, but also needing the comfort of Ford, physically in front of him, grounding him to the moment. Ford was back, his brother was back. The pain of those thirty years lifted a little more off his shoulders when he remembered that.
“You were saying something about the Mystery Shack, science, and my dumb journals?” Ford said with a small smile, hoping for his brother to pull out of his low mood.
Stan gave a small chuckle back, more genuine this time, and answered. “Right, right. Thanks, Ford.”
“Anytime.” Ford withdrew his hands and leaned back to his seat, giving Stan room to speak again.
“I guess this goes back to your first question. How’d I do it? Heh, well. Hope is a real son of a bitch, you know?” Stan asked, rhetorically. Ford nodded slowly anyway, and Stan continued on. “I mean, it’s a cruel thing to hold onto. Hope I can do something right. Hope I can fix my mistakes. Hope I can get you back. It’s a hard thing to hang a hat on, you know? So I didn’t hope. I just worked. Every day. Didn’t let myself dive into what-ifs too often. Drank myself to sleep every year on the anniversary. Tried to remember everything about you I could, tried to keep everything in perspective as yours, so I wouldn’t forget to be careful. I lived and I worked and I didn’t hope for anything, much.”
Stan took a slow breath, exhaling heavily, giving his brother an appraising look. “It’s no secret that despite the comfy years I spent in this dimension, you aged better. I nearly worked myself to death. And the years I spent out on my own, before that…”Stan looked away from Ford, training his eyes on the wall behind his brother but not really seeing. “Well, those years didn’t help either.”
Stan felt hands around his and squeezing once more. He allowed his eyes to focus back on his brother’s concerned (and somewhat guilty looking) features.
“Aw, hey Poindexter, don’t get that look. It wasn’t your fault. I’m getting sidetracked. Did I miss anything in your question?”
Ford’s face turned contemplative instead of guilty (to Stan’s relief – he hated causing his brother more pain on his account. The memory lapses and injuries on the high seas were bad enough. Bringing up the years they were forcefully separated by their own idiocy was still sore, and Stan hated dredging those up as much as Ford did).
Ford nodded slowly before he spoke, eyes refocusing to meet Stan’s own. He withdrew his hands and folded them before him on the table. “I appreciate your honesty, Stan. I know you didn’t tell me everything. But I think I understand what you didn’t say.” Stan saw a flash in Ford’s eyes, and he felt he knew exactly what Ford meant. They’d both had hard lives. He was sure Stanford could extrapolate a lot more about his years in Gravity Falls than Stan could about time in the portal.
“But you didn’t tell me the best part,” Ford continued on. This made Stan cock his head in confusion, an eyebrow raising and leaning back in his seat by the wall.
“What would that be, Sixer?”
Ford grinned. “You didn’t tell me about the best part of your years. Meeting Soos, for example.”
Stan shook his head. “Nah, those aren’t stories that go together, Poindexter. ‘How I did it’ was nowhere close to how he came into my life. Talking about Soos or Wendy belongs to a night of good memories.”
Ford drummed a quick one-two-three-four-five-six on the table before replying with, “Alright, another time then.”
For a moment the table was silent. Stan felt there was something else Ford was itching to say, working together the sentences in his mind before speaking out loud. Trying to make sure he didn’t say the wrong thing, like so many fights have been started in the past. Stan started to tense up just imagining what Ford would say.
“Do you think…that is to say, do you still believe what you said about yourself?”
Ford didn’t need to clarify. Stan had yelled loud enough to bring the boat down. Maybe all those years ago he’d been trying to sound like Ford, like Filbrick, how they would react to his death. But Stan kept those words next to him for forty years. They wormed into everything he did. They defined how he saw himself, how he decided to present himself to others. A liar, a worthless nobody, an imposter, riding on his brother’s coattails. Living in his brother’s house, the “better twin” still alive while Stanley burned away into nothing.
Stan believed all of that for so long…
Sometimes he still did.
Soos could act like he hung the sun in the sky, but that was only a crack in a shell with so many layers, even Stan couldn’t remember what was at his core. Meeting and caring for Dipper and Mabel broke down more walls in himself. Demolished him. He’d never cared for anything like he did for them, except for Stanford and look where that got my brother, Stan had thought at the time.
Those thoughts didn’t go away overnight. Well, Stan supposes they did, for a bit there. With the memory gun business. It was some of the first sensations to come back, after the initial flood of memories returning, sitting in his chair, surrounded by family. After the kids had gone up to bed, and Soos had gone home and Ford had disappeared for a moment, Stan had sat and thought over everything they had told him about his life. And as much love as he felt, there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that grew larger, saying he didn’t deserve that love. He hadn’t earned it yet. He wasn’t worth the time they were spending on him.
Stan had ignored those thoughts, sure they were just typical-person doubts and insecurities, heightened by his amnesiac state. But as more memories flowed in, he remembered why he wasn’t worth as much as his family told him. He’d wanted to draw away, afraid he’d ruin everything if he stayed the focus. But the kids hadn’t let him. Ford hadn’t let him. They came back to him every day, finding different ways to help and show love.
The thoughts didn’t go away completely. They got muffled and blurred out by his family.
But sometimes it wasn’t enough. Stan knew he still held all of those things close to him, the fear that Ford will change his mind, that he will leave him behind again. But he didn’t believe them like he used to. While Stan struggled to answer Ford, he felt his hands clenching and unclenching into fists, nails dragging alone the wooden table.
He looked up to his brother’s face and watched as sadness and pain at the distance they’d forced between them for years swallowed his features. He ordered his thoughts and found his voice enough to answer the question.
“Sometimes. It comes and goes.” His voice was rougher than he would’ve liked. A side-effect of not allowing himself to cry all night as he thought over his life. Even then, the thoughts started swallowing him, telling him don’t be weak, real men don’t cry, be more like your brother and Stan put his head into his hands to avoid looking at Ford for one second longer.
“Stanley,” Ford’s voice was small, but Stan couldn’t look at him. He shook his head where it was hiding between his fingers and didn’t look up, even as he heard his brother’s chair scrape back and his boots land softly and the wood of the bench creak as his brother sat beside him.
“Heh, sorry Sixer, it’s uh, the night’s really getting to me, I guess. Sorry to get weepy on ya.” Stan said, trying to make a joke, failing miserably as he sniffles through his apology, hating how weak he feels against it. Stan felt Ford put an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into a side hug. A six fingered hand rubbing soothing circles on his arm even as Stan still refused to look up.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Stan.”
They lapsed into silence once more as Stan calmed down, huddled against Ford who stayed steady beside him, occasionally saying shh and rubbing his arm. Stan was embarrassed, but Ford quietly reassured him there was nothing to be sorry for. Finally Stan looked up from his hands, eyes ringed red and dirty tear tracks on his face. He looked to Ford and saw how gentle his brother looked, like all he wanted to do was help Stan. It made Stan feel a bit more like he wasn’t worth the bother, but he shoved that thought down as his brother spoke once more.
“Stan, may I ask you to share one more thing, tonight?”
Stan thought about everything he’d said up to this point. He guessed topping it off wouldn’t hurt, not when Ford’s seen him at his most pathetic as it is.
“Sure, Sixer. Ask away. I ain’t got much else to lose, tonight.”
Ford leaned away so he could look Stan in the eyes, the arm that had been wrapped around Stan’s shoulders now just holding onto the nearest one.
“Stan, next time any of those thoughts come to you…will you let me know? I don’t,” Ford cleared his throat, and Stan recognized the red tinge around his brother’s eyes as the same emotion that’s been trying to escape his own throat all night, “I don’t want you to suffer through those alone. I know…” Stan saw Ford’s focus shift off from his eyes to the wall just behind him. “I know how devastating those thoughts are, Stanley. I don’t want you to go through that alone, not anymore. Will you do it?”
Stan felt Ford’s eyes return and make eye contact once again, a squeeze from the hand gripping his shoulder to reaffirm his request. Stan flattened his lips and lowered his gaze, thinking. Ford’s initial question came back to him, and a new answer took shape in his mind.
How did I do it? I did it alone. That’s what Stan thought. The answer he hadn’t realized was threading its way through all the bits and pieces of stories he’d told that night. Bitterly, bitingly alone. That’s how he’s always dealt with what life handed him. He’d always been alone. He could barely remember the days he had somebody to talk to, the overwhelming isolation of the last forty years far overshadowing his childhood and the last couple of months.
Ford offered him a reprieve from that loneliness, to have someone to fall back on when the days came and the words ate at him, tearing him down. All those thoughts that have been clawing at him for decades. His brother offered to take that on with him, to make sure he didn’t do it alone, this time around. But that’s how I’ve always done it, Stan thought to himself. That’s how he had to deal with being kicked out at seventeen. That’s how he had to deal with pushing his brother into another dimension. That’s how he had to deal with working on the portal for thirty years. That’s how he had to deal with every single hardship in his life, and those thoughts were no different.
Stan felt the weight of those forty years, alone, weigh on him. He bowed his head again, turning to the side and staring at the wood grains in the table. How do I even begin to learn how not to do this alone? He wondered. How do I—
“Stanley?”
Stan looked up and met Ford’s eyes once more. He’d shut down into his own mind again. He was overthinking, just like he always teased Ford for doing. But this time the problem wasn’t a strange anomaly or a math formula. It was his own messed up head. For a second Stan was tempted to push off the hand on his shoulder and walk away.
He’d come this far on his own, did he really need the help now?
But Stan knew he couldn’t do that. He probably couldn’t survive that. Not again.
“Hey, Ford?” Stan asked, as if Ford wasn’t waiting for his reply, as if his brother hasn’t been hanging on his every facial expression since he’d interrupted his night of staring at the stars.
“Yes, Stan?”
“I’m having those thoughts.”
Stan saw Ford’s lips tremble for a second before he felt himself drawn into a hug, head tucked below his brother’s chin, his glasses awkwardly smooshed against his face. He felt the plastic digging into his cheek but he didn’t care. Ford was grounding him back to the present, asking how he could help, telling him he is worth so much, he is loved so much, he has never been a burden. How he doesn’t have to do it alone anymore. As if Ford had somehow read his mind and knew exactly what Stan hadn’t said.
Stan had thought he’d spend the evening telling a dead man’s tale. It turns out it was a lonely man’s story instead. And he thanked every lucky star that now he didn’t have to be alone. That he had his brother back, that even if the past can’t be erased, it can be dealt with and moved on from. The questions of how did you do it becoming less important than the questions of how can I help?
They talked until the stars disappeared and faced the new day together.