A Sea Grunkles (st)angsty fic. Originally it was meant to be a part of the Dumb Way To (Almost) Die collab (check it out here!!) that I didn't get to finish in time. This one goes out to the wonderful @babyblankyerror and all the amazing writers involved in the project <3 so sorry it took this long. Enjoy!
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Stanley wakes up slowly. Strange. He isn't awoken by a nightmare, he hasn't forgotten where he is, or who he is. But there, in the limbo between the dream world and reality, he knows something is wrong.
Still half asleep, his right hand finds his chest. There's nothing on top of him, but it sure feels like it. It doesn't feel like a panic attack either, he'd know that right away. This is different, new, and bad. Or... maybe not new? He can't be sure.
Bad, however, he's sure of that. As the last remains of sleep fog fade away, he feels his chest tighten. With his free hand, he moves the blankets out of the way, the warmth having become more and more overwhelming by the second. He turns on his hearing aid and tries to focus on the sound of the waves softly hitting the hull, the creaks and cracks of the wood, his brother's snores. All of it together makes a symphony that he's grown fond of, and usually manages to do the trick and put him right back to sleep. Not this time, apparently.
He needs to get out of bed, now. Even if he doesn't know what is happening, he's always thought better while moving. Thinking while laying down, in silence, with nothing to do, has never been his forte.
He turns to his side, pulling his legs out of the bed and resting them on the floor. The cold sensation is welcomed, and he tries to focus on that for the shortest moment. When it passes, he rests his arm on the bed, trying to sit up as slowly as possible so he doesn't get dizzy.
As he sits up straight, he's suddenly aware of how nauseous he feels. His brain feels numb, like it isn't getting enough blood. His chest now hurts from the tension, and the hand that was previously resting on it is now grabbing, short nails digging into his skin. His stomach is twisting, and some joke about not making it to the bathroom crosses his mind, failing to soothe his racing brain. He sits closer to the edge of the bed, even though he knows his legs won't support him if he tries to stand up.
Bad, bad, bad, bad.
As the seconds pass, his anxiety rises. Definitely not just a panic attack. Not even his worst nightmares make him feel this way when they startle him out of his slumber. He’s been scared before, scared shitless, scared for his life in the most literal way. He knows what it’s like when you’re sure you’re going to die, whether it’s by staring at the barrel of a gun or by running out of oxygen with a rope around your neck. It’s a primal sort of fear, the one that sets off every single alarm in his body, making his survival instincts scream.
But this feeling doesn’t come from an external source. No, this feels way too real, too physical.
No, no, no, this can't be how I go, I can’t, I haven't even finished fixing the fucking–
A moment of clarity. The memory hits him all at once.
His eyes burn as he hits the ground with a dull thud.
∼≋∼≋∼
Stanford wakes up slowly. He doesn't know why he wakes up, really. These days (and with no little amount of effort by both his brother and himself), he either wakes up screaming or he sleeps through the whole night. But this time, he simply opens his eyes like he just closed them. Lazily, without worry. He closes his eyes again.
That sensation only lasts a second, though. The telltale feeling at the back of his neck (which Soos had dubbed “spider-sense”, whatever that meant) is tingling. It's a warning sign that he developed during his time through the portal, when he had to sleep anywhere he could, and half of the time without any kind of protection. It was especially useful at Dimension AkL945-/, where he had to search for refuge in caves already inhabited by animal-like creatures.
This sense is now coming back full force. Something is wrong. He doesn't move, but he listens. Nothing around him. He opens his eyes. No creatures in his peripherals. When he's made sure that he can move around, he follows his safety procedure with the only natural next step.
Where's Stan?
He realizes –FOOL, how did you not notice– that he doesn't hear his brother's snores. In fact, if he listens close, he can hear... labored breathing.
Ford looks out the edge of his bed and sees Stan, sat on the floor against his own bed. He has his knees up to his chest, and he seems to be breathing shallowly.
Bad, bad, bad, bad.
Ford catches himself a second before he jumps out of bed. He can't scare Stan now, not when he's clearly having a panic attack. That will only make it worse. Instead, he climbs down the ladder as slowly as his own anxiety will let him, and he kneels so he can be at Stan's level.
“Stanley?” he calls. His twin looks at him with red eyes, and Ford feels shivers down his spine. Stan looks terrified, and that seems generous. Even in the dim moonlight that shines through the small window, he can tell that he's way too pale. He's clutching his chest with a strength that can't be anything but painful. At the very least, he seems to be able to recognize him.
“Six?” he asks in the most horrifyingly weak voice Stanford has ever heard. He sounds beyond helpless; he sounds like he knows he's beyond help.
“Yes, hold on, let me...” Ford reaches for the bedside table and grabs Stan's glasses. As he puts them on his brother's face, he can't help but notice the tears in his eyes. Then, he softly grabs Stan's face and turns it to the side so he can turn on his hearing aids. He realizes with relief that they're already on. He moves his head again so they can face each other.
“Stanley, what happened? What did you remember?” Ford asks, his mind already going to the darkest places. Stan had told him too many things over the last few months, and he keeps waiting for an anecdote that won't make the previous one look like child play. At this point, he expects anything, even though he never feels prepared enough to hear about Stan’s past.
“No,” Stan replies, his voice too high for how slow he's talking. He swallows one, two times, and with each one he clutches his chest again. “Nothin’.”
Ford has to try really hard not to scoff. Stan has a habit of not telling him things right away, and it delays his recovery. He knows this, he knows shouldn't do it. But with his twin's crying face in his hands, he can't bring himself to mention it.
“Alright, Stanley, you don't need to tell me right now, but I need you to breathe, okay? It’s just a panic attack. Come on, breathe with me.”
“No,” Stan replies again, and this time it sounds desperate. Like he's trying hard to deliver his last message. Ford shakes his head at the thought. “A... arrythmia.”
Everything stops around Ford. He can't have heard that correctly. Absolutely not. His brain automatically goes the scientific route, trying to come up with an explanation. Stan is physically fit despite his age, and surprisingly resilient for the things his body has gone through. They don't have any history of heart diseases in the family. Stan is not that old. He can't, he can't, he can't–
His theories fly away like some papers pushed off a table. Who the fuck cares about the explanation, the consequence is right in front of him! He wants to refute Stan's theory, but despite his desperation, his twin seemed awfully sure of his words.
He moves one of his hands to Stan's neck, now noticing how drenched in sweat he is. His heart rate is erratic, and off the charts. It definitely seems like tachycardia.
He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing they can do. They’d need actual hospital equipment to deal with this, and they're in the middle of the ocean. The closest land is about four or five hours away, and they can’t be sure the hospital will be close enough to the coast, or remotely so. Their first aid kit has nothing helpful. There's nothing, nothing!
It's nothing, Sixer. Just a panic attack. Panic attacks can't kill you, did you know that? They physically can't. So calm down and breathe.
Stanley's words come to his mind. Funnily enough, he said them when he was having a panic attack. Not Stanford. No, he decided to use his precious, shaky breaths to calm Ford down while he was experiencing a panic attack.
Panic attacks can't kill you. A tachycardia can.
His mind is not on his side, as it tends to be. Ford finds himself now with his hands on the floor, feeling the tears about to fall, powerless, useless. He needs to think, and he needs to do so fast. He can already feel his own panic setting in, rendering him speechless first and motionless right after. Look up, look up now, he needs you—
Who would need him now? Unmoving, ineffectual, unable to even think—
“Stanf'rd...” Stan mutters, and like if a button had been pressed, Ford's head shoots up. He makes eye contact with his brother, who now has tears down his cheeks, and simply listens for any word that might come out of his mouth. “H-hold my hand.”
Something shatters inside of Ford. His first instinct is to refuse; he knows why Stan is asking him such a thing, and he refuses to acknowledge it. Even though he’s the most inclined to physical contact out of the two of them, Stan would never asks for it just like that; he simply cracks a joke, sits silently next to Ford or lifts him in the air in what they both know is just an excuse for a hug. Hell, even when he’s experiencing an actual panic attack, he just waits until Ford initiates the contact.
So no, Ford doesn’t want to hold Stan’s hand. It’s just an indicator of how desperately he needs that comfort, how unbelievably scared he is.
On the other hand, how is Stanford supposed to refuse? He knows he can’t. Not when his brother has given him a direct order, a request for something he can actually do to help. As always, even when he’s the one in peril, Stanley manages to keep them both afloat. And once again, Ford is useless.
You can be useless if you want, but don’t you dare be both useless AND selfish.
He sniffs and scoots closer to Stan, grabbing the hand he's being offered. Stan's face contorts into a grimace of pain, closing his eyes, letting a couple new tears fall. Ford watches closely, knowing he can't formulate words anymore, and whines.
“It's fine,” Stan whispers, and slowly lowers his legs until they're resting straight on the floor. The movements are painful, as made clear by Stan's expressions, but he doesn't stop. He scoots lower down the edge of the bed until his head is resting on the mattress. “Come 'ere.”
Ford stares at his brother for a second before he breaks down weeping. He should be better than this, better than to let his dying brother comfort him while he stares and does nothing to help. He feels a deep shame boiling him from the inside out, and ultimately does as he's told.
He sits right next to Stan's legs and leans back until he's resting against his brother's chest, like a kid in a mother's embrace. He can feel Stan's heart, too fast for his liking, and tries to put as little weight as possible on him. He should say something, but no sound (or not human, at least) comes out of his mouth. He feels Stan's hand on his hair, a familiar motion trying to soothe him.
“It's okay, S-six,” Stan mutters, and his voice sounds so close to breaking that Ford wishes he too had hearing aids he could turn off. “I love you,” he adds, the tears betraying his tone.
This time, Ford truly cries. Out of rage, out of helplessness, out of fear. He can't answer, or move, or think anything other than the fact that his brother is actually dying, holding him in his arms like he's the one who needs caring. But he can't bring himself to move a single inch; the moment he moves, it might be over. Stanley told him to do this. The least he can do is do as he says.
His non-human side, now becoming more prominent, nuzzles against Stan's shoulder, in a probably futile attempt to answer. To his surprise, Stan hugs him tighter, now visibly shaking. Stanford lays against his twin as he rocks them both slightly, listening to the other's heart. With the last bit of clarity in his mind, he prays to Bill himself to save his brother.
∼≋∼≋∼≋∼≋∼
It might've been minutes, hours, or 30 more years for all that Stanford knows. He hasn't fallen asleep –not like he could've– but he knows that something else took the reins while he was at his most anxious. He remembers it all, down to Stan's last words, and everything after that just becomes a blur with a 200bpm soundtrack.
Speaking of which, the noise has died down. Not to bare silence, as he realizes after a moment of pure dread, but to a steady, average rhythm. He wills his eyes to move around and notices a hand playing with his own. It's a familiar game: count to six moving each finger apart, a light tap on the last one, and count down. Count up again, two taps, and count down. It's a technique that Stanley used to employ when they were little, on the very scarce occasions he'd confess to Ford that he was not okay. He looks away from his hands after the fourth series, and looks up to see his brother's face. The other notices and smiles softly.
“Hey,” he simply says, but damn it if it isn't the most beautiful noise Ford has ever heard. He sounds exhausted, but alive. Alive.
Stanford moves away from his brother's embrace, sitting back on the floor, barely looking away from Stan. He wants to hug him until he forgets the horrible night they've both had, but he hesitates. He's not in the appropriate condition.
“H—,” Ford starts, his throat hoarse but thankfully able to make some human noises. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. It passed, so better. How are you?”
Ford makes his best ‘what do you mean how am I?’ face, which Stan clocks right away. However, he answers.
“I'm fine, I suppose.”
Stan looks down, playing with his hands, looking embarrassed.
“I... just remembered I need heart medication. For... well, you can tell.”
Ford stares at him dumbfounded. “Yes, I can formulate an idea. But... are you... out of danger now?”
“Well, we should still find a hospital. Probably shouldn't sleep until then, just in case. That's what the paramedics said last time.”
Ford nods as he talks. He doesn't want to ask questions, he just wants to get up and set the course for the nearest city. They aren't too far away from the coast of Norway, surely they can find a hospital in 24 hours.
“Sixer,” Stan calls, pulling Ford out of his own thoughts. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm okay, yeah? It probably won't happen again, I just need an ECG and some pills and I'll be good as new, alrigh'?”
Ford nods again. He feels tiny against his brother's seemingly never-ending confidence. He always has. Even after 30 years of survival training, he still crumbles upon seeing his brother hurt.
“Thank you,” Stan adds, looking straight into Ford's eyes. “You did good, man. You got me out of it. Come 'ere.”
Stan raises an arm, inviting Ford to a hug– a proper one this time. Ford accepts and moves forward, careful not to oppress his brother's breathing or blood flow. However, Stanley seems to not care as much, and he hugs Ford tightly. Ford reciprocates.
A few minutes later, when Ford is sure he's got most of himself pulled together, he stands up and sets the route to Norway.
Inspired (as per usual) by one of @babyblankyerror 's posts about Immortal Stans, I got to think how they could've possibly gained immortality, and my first thought was: was it a curse or a blessing? A punishment or a reward?
And the funniest option here was: they don't know. No clue whatsoever.
I think the Axolotl would be responsible for it, and maybe the twins would eventually find out. But when asked about it, the creature would simply respond:
You deserve it.
... and then he's gone. The brothers stand there, dumbfounded. They look at each other.
"So... does he mean it was... like a gift or..."
"I have no fucking clue."
That's it. They just have no fucking clue, and they never will. Because honestly? Could be both. Either a reward for stopping Bill and saving the universe, or a punishment for setting him free in the first place.
Ford is the most upset about it: not about being immortal, but about not knowing why. He NEEDS to know. So much so that he almost breaks their timeline trying to contact the Time Baby or anyone who could get them in contact with the Axolotl again.
Stan, on the other hand? Sure, he's curious. He'd love to know. But, like he did with the creatures of Gravity Falls, he decides it's better to let it be and just live his life in peace. It takes a while for him to convince Ford to drop it, but eventually he manages to.
Eventually, they hit the "sure why the hell not" phase.
As per usual, this turned into a whole fic lol. Check the tags for CWs, as this one is a bit heavier than usual. Enjoy <3
Nothing lasts forever.
Funny thing, that sentence, at least considering the situation. Does anything truly last forever? Ford would say the universe. Stan would say Ford's nerdiness. Both would be right. However, this was a whole another thing.
At some point, who knows how long into the future, one of them gets tired of immortality. It's been way too long, and even though they don't age anymore, other people do. Some very important people, who weren't supposed to go before them, leave. They decide to keep an eye on their family's descendants over the years, centuries, millennia. But they're still human. And humans aren't meant for immortality. They're made to live for a very short amount of time (relatively speaking) and find enjoyment in the time they have, just like any other mortal species.
As much as the twins wanted to have more time when they decided to sail together, mourning the years they lost, immortality is still too much to handle. They're grateful, of course, but... it's been too long.
Contrary to what one might think, Stanford would be the first to think about this. Of course, his curiosity about the multiverse and Earth in particular would keep him moving and motivated to always learn more, but he's also spent his pre-immortal life travelling between dimensions (which he doesn't do anymore), and that made him a witness of too many things. More than any human eyes could comprehend. And after all of that, what he craved was adventures with his twin, but not as lethal and frenetic as he had grown used to. What he really wanted was to spend whatever time he had left by his brother's side, fulfilling their childhood dream and resting. And, deep down, he wanted to make it up to him. Give him the life he took away from him and return it tenfold, because that's what he deserved and the least he could do.
Stanley, on the other hand, is pretty content with immortality for longer than Ford. It took him a LONG time to fully recover his memories (the ones that were only hidden because of the memory gun anyways), and an even longer time to wake up in the morning without the fear that he'd be back in the basement in front of a broken portal. When that time passed, having solved any possible quarrels between them, Stan felt the best he'd felt in his life. Having lived and loved and lost so much, his current life felt like a dream come true. That didn't mean he was any less grumpy or would complain less about any little thing (even if most times it'd be playful banter); it just meant that he could do all of those things and more without having to put on an act. He could just be himself while also being with his bother! Stan was ready for adventures, and god how he missed this will to live energy that he thought he had lost decades ago.
For Stanford, the realization was gradual. Little by little, their adventures weren't as exciting anymore, and he would rather sit on the deck next to Stan and watch him fish. He'd suggest watching a movie instead of making lists of things they needed to buy on the next port. And when Stanley would ask him if he was okay, Stanford would simply state that he wanted to take a slow day.
Stanley knew that something was up with Ford pretty much since he started feeling this way. You don't live for (how many centuries had it been?) without knowing a guy better than you know yourself, specially if it's your twin. They both had changed over time, but they were still them, and any little change in their personality had been catalogued in Stan's mind. But this? This was new, and Stan knew that Ford would tell him eventually, just like everything else.
Ford did not want to bring this up. After so long since he had felt like giving up, how could he even propose the idea of ending their trip? Sure, they had some houses all over the world where they would occasionally spend time instead of the Stan O' War LXXVIII, but the problem wasn't that he wanted to stop travelling. The problem was that... he just wasn't enjoying... anything. Other than Stanley's presence, there wasn't much that he could find genuine joy in. But how was he supposed to tell Stan that? It wasn't like there was a solution to his problem: they were immortal.
However, one worry overshadowed all the rest: he couldn't– no, he wouldn't put that burden on Stan. As much as they talked about everything these days, this was something beyond that. A conversation, or multiple, would not fix this. It wouldn't help either. He would not ruin Stan's immortal life by telling him that his brother was getting tired of carrying on.
Of course, that determination didn't last long. Stanley had a way of making him talk every single time, and he wasn't strong enough to keep this to himself anymore. He confessed, and cursed himself for having said it, and promised Stan that he would carry on with their journey for as long as he wanted to.
He should've expected his twin to react the way he did, and yet, he always found ways to surprise him.
"What if we try talking to the Axolotl again?"
"We haven't done that in centuries, Stanley. There's no guarantee he'll answer."
"Well, it's not like we have any other options for now."
"But... do you want to do this?"
"Sure. If it helps you find peace or whatever, of course I'll do it."
"But what about you?"
"I don't know, man. If this works, maybe I'll ask for the same dish when I get bored of this too."
Ford couldn't bring himself to understand how Stan could be so relaxed about the whole thing. He knew about his brother's... close relationship with death, so to speak. Part of him was relieved by this, but... how could he not feel guilty about it? Of leaving Stan behind, again? He hadn't felt that guilt in eons, and yet he felt like he was in his first century again.
After a good while, they managed to get a hold of the Axolotl, who happily greeted them. After a short chat, they told him their intentions, and asked him to... deliver? Ford to the afterlife.
So, you are okay with spending the afterlife apart?
"Wait, what do you mean apart?" Ford asked.
You are leaving this world separately, is that true?
"I... that was my intention, but... what do you mean 'spending the afterlife apart'? What's in the afterlife?"
I cannot tell you that. You shall find on your own.
"But... if there's... can't we find each other there?"
That I cannot tell you. I can only confirm that you will go in there alone, as per your request. The rest, you shall find on your own.
"Then... no, I'm sorry."
"Sixer, what are you doing?"
"I'm not going to risk it. It's not worth it."
"And what are you gonna do, huh?"
"Keep living. Until we both decide to leave."
"Six, I'm not gonna wait for that."
Ford stares at him. Part of him breaks, even though he knows it's selfish of him to expect Stan to put up with his gloom until—
"We're both leaving. Now."
"What?! No!"
"Why not? 'Until we both decide to leave'. Well, I've decided."
"You can't— no, Stanley, it's alright. I'll wait."
"I'm not gonna make you live a miserable life until I get tired of mine, Six."
"Well, I'm not making you miss on the rest of your life just because I've decided to end mine!"
A beat of silence.
"Sorry, Axolotl, could we have a minute?"
I will remain here when you come to an agreement, and for infinity after that. Now, wake up.
Both men gasp and sit up from their designated positions on the spell symbol they had messily drawn on the floor of their cabin in the Galician coast. They look at each other, blinking in confusion, trying to voice their thoughts however they can. Finally, Ford breaks the silence.
"I'm not going to make you do that, Stanley. Absolutely not."
"First of all, you're not making me do anything here. Second of all, I've decided on my own. I'm leaving with you."
"No!"
"Why not? Isn't that what you wanted?"
"Yes, of course, but... not like this. We both have to agree to this."
"Yes, and I agree that he should leave now."
"No, you don't!" Ford yells, exasperated. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just... Please don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. I'm okay with leaving right now."
"But you did change your mind when you heard its words. You were thinking about living for some time after I left, and now you've decided against."
"That's right."
"How... how can you be so nonchalant about this? This is death we're talking about! Actual, final death!"
"I'm aware, Poindexter."
"Then you'll understand why I'm declining the Axolotl's offer. Like I said, I won't make you put up with my low-energy lifestyle while you clearly want to keep living to the fullest. It's not fair."
"Well, like I said too, I'm not gonna make you keep living your 'low-energy lifestyle' just because I want to keep going a few more years. That's not fair either."
Ford sighs, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Well, it seems we're at an impasse."
"It looks like it."
"That's fine for me. We'll just stay alive while we come to an agreement."
Stan looks at him, his shoulders dropping as he exhales.
"Is this how you want to spend our last years, Ford?"
Ford doesn't move, but he can feel his lower lip tremble.
"No." If there was something that endless time had given them, was the ability to reach a point where the walls they used to put up were nothing but a distant memory. In more than five hundred years they hadn't had an argument that they couldn't solve right there and then, and this one would not be different. "But I can't let you waste the rest of your life with the burden that I will become."
"I used to think that same thing."
"I know."
"I know you know, because he talked about it. Even before we knew about the immortality thing. Over and over, until I got it through my thick head. No matter how tired I was, how fucking difficult it was to get up some days, and how many times I thought you'd be better off without me, I believed you. I didn't give up because you didn't let me."
"That's exactly what I'm saying. I have to keep living, for you. I want to do this for you, because you deserve it."
"Because I deserve it or because you think you owe me?"
Centuries may come and go, but Stanford hasn't gotten better at lying to his brother.
"That... is hardly different."
"Of course it is. Because you want to keep living out of guilt, and that will only make you miserable."
Ford looks to the side, rubbing his arms.
"I can't... take those years from you, Stanley. It's not right. I can't ask you to miss on your future."
"Sixer, I didn't see a future when I was 20. I didn't think I'd make it past 24. Or 29. Or 33. Or 58." The pause is deliberate, Ford knows, but it's enough to turn his attention back to his twin. "I didn't think I'd live for much longer for years, man. And I kept living out of guilt, and it made me fucking miserable. But that had a purpose. This? What you're doing right now? It has no purpose."
"Of course it does. I'm choosing to live for you."
"And I get it, man, and I'd do the same if I were in your position. But the truth is, we're past the point of living for each other. We did that when we were less than a century old, because we had to. But if we had a normal lifespan, this would be like... like refusing to die peacefully on our beds. What you're choosing is wasting your last years suffering just so I can have fun for two more minutes. I'm choosing to lay down next to you and leaving peacefully together."
Ford can feel his arms tremble beneath his death grip. Stanley is making sense, of course, but... this isn't right. He can't accept it like that. It's too much to accept.
"Stanford," Stan says, suddenly much closer to him. He puts his hands on his shaking shoulders, grounding him despite the shivers. "I've had a good life because you were here to live it with me. And whatever the afterlife is, it'll be the same. Wherever we go..."
"We go together," Ford manages to say, half-muffled by tears. He lets go of his arms and wraps them around his brother, hugging him so hard he almost has trouble getting air into his lungs. He rests his head against Stan's shoulder, letting the tears run free and into the other's sweater.
"Are you absolutely, utterly sure of this?" he murmurs, not moving an inch from the embrace. "It's okay if you want to stay for longer, it wouldn't be too much trouble for me. You wanted to try all the new restaurants in this province this week."
Stan laughs loudly, the sound reverberating in his chest and against the eldest's ear. "Ford, I'm staying because you are, not because I want to try restaurants."
Ford chuckles in response. In the blink of an eye, the wooden cabin is no longer around them; in its place, the galaxy extends infinitely around them, and he realizes his feet aren't on any kind of ground. He lets go of Stanley, keeping an arm tight around his waist, and turns around to see the Axolotl.
I assume you have reached an agreement.
"Yes, we have. But before that, could I ask a question?"
You may.
"Why were we granted immortality?"
Ford doesn't need to look at Stanley to see the look on his face, but he does regardless. His brother is shocked, but not from fear. He clearly wants to know as well.
You deserved it.
And just like that, as soon as his voice disappears, a blinding white light emerges from the creature's body. Stanley and Stanford stand, five fingers in six, and close their eyes as the light engulfs them.
A brain bug fic inspired by this absolutely stunning piece by @5tarfru1t! This would take place right before the drawing, after Stan and Ford have both been kicked out. Check out the title song and the artist that inflicted this curse on me! Enjoy!!
○○○⊙○⊚○⊙○○○
Hace tiempo que comento con la almohada
For some time, I've been sleeping on the fact
Que tal vez si para ti soy una carga
That maybe I'm a burden to you
Hace tiempo que ya no me creo nada
For some time now, I haven't believed anything
Y he notado tu sonrisa algo cansada
And I've noticed that your smile looks a bit tired
— La Quinta Estación, "Tu Peor Error"
Stan can't take the silence anymore.
Well, in all fairness, it isn't like there's full silence around him. There are little noises here and there that break it. The slow but constant crashing of the waves against the sand a few feet away. The early summer breeze blowing outside the car. The few seagulls that have stayed up past their bedtime.
The soft, barely contained sobs of his brother in the backseat.
Stan can't stand it anymore.
But he's too scared to speak up. What is he even supposed to say? It isn't like Ford wants to hear him anyway, he made that very clear when he sat in the passenger seat, barely two hours ago. He doesn't believe that the accident was just that, a stupid accident, but that doesn't even matter. Because Ford is still here, with him, both newly homeless. Kicked out into the curb. Thrown away like fucking garbage.
Well, Stan knows he's garbage. A leech, feeding off of his parents' money and his brother's success. But Ford has never done half the stupid shit he has, and he's infinitely smarter, capable of making those millions his Pa wants, with or without machine. Hell, he could probably just build it again! It isn't like he's lost the instructions, he made it from scratch! Why the hell doesn't he?
Easy answer: because he can't anymore. He doesn't have the money for the materials, or the tools, or the building space. That's all back home. And Stan can't give him any of those things. He doesn't even have a home anymore.
A particularly poorly disguised sob tugs at Stan's heartstrings.
This isn't fair. Ford shouldn't be here. And Stan should be man enough to tell him these things to his face.
But he isn't. So he settles for talking to the steering wheel.
"Stanford," he starts, unsure of the volume he should speak in. "This is ridiculous. We should go back—"
"Shut up," his twin retorts, cutting.
"You can't stay here."
"I said shut up," Ford doubles down, the tears betraying his tone.
"You shouldn't be here—"
"You think?!" his brother yells, making Stan tense up. "You think I don’t know that? Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't be here! Do you know where I should be? Talking with the West Coast Tech recruiters! Having a nice dinner with you and our parents, celebrating me finally doing the first worthwhile thing in my life! And instead here I am, homeless and broke and hungry and next to the person who ruined everything!"
While Ford catches his breath, Stan curls up further on himself.
If the Pines boys are known for something, it's stubbornness. None of them will back out of a fight until their parents get involved. They will yell and argue until it's bedtime and in the morning they will have wordlessly ended their disagreement, leaving only some lingering resentment that eventually fades out. There isn't a discussion without yelling. That's just how it goes.
In any other situation, Stan would've yelled back. But, for the first time ever, he doesn't have enough fight in him. This isn't like when he sold Ford’s book for gas money without telling him, or when Ford told that Carrie girl about how little Stan brushes his teeth so she would dump him. No, this is different. This is something that just destroyed both their lives in the most literal way possible.
Fighting is impossible. Apologizing is pointless. The only thing Stan can do is make sure Ford doesn't join him in his misery.
"I know," he starts, tentatively. "But that's exactly why you can't stay."
"What, you're going to kick me out of your car as well?"
"What? No! I'm... I'm gonna take you home."
"I don't have a home anymore, remember? And neither do you."
"No, I don't have a home anymore. If I go back right now, Pa will kill me. But you... he'll take you back."
"He won't."
"Of course he will. You can make him millions."
"Pa's delusional."
"Pa's right—"
"No, he isn't."
Stan sighs as the silence settles back between them. Before it starts suffocating him again, he re-opens his mouth.
"Look, it doesn't matter. You have to go back."
"I'm not."
"You can't live in here."
"You're going to."
"Yes, because I don't have a choice."
"Well, I made mine, didn't I?"
"This isn't a choice, Ford!"
"Oh, so you can choose to ruin my life but I can't choose how to live it?"
"It was an accident, for fuck's sake!" Stan yells, sitting up straight. Against all odds, it looks like he had at least some fight left in him. He knows Ford is pissed, he has a right to be, but it fucking hurts that his twin believes Stan would do such a thing on purpose. "It was an accident, I would've never chosen to do that, and I'm sorry! You know, I'm sorry!"
"I don't want to hear any more apologies from you." The shuffling from the backseat lets Stan know that his brother has sat up as well.
"I know!" He keeps his eyes fixed forward, unable to turn around. "But that's the point! I can't do anything for you. I fucked up, yes! But you did nothing to deserve being here! We have to go back and make Pa change his mind and un-kick you out, so you can go wherever you want and make him proud, or rich, or whatever! He will never make those millions he wants without you, and he knows it! He's just a prideful bastard." He mutters those last words, as if their father was in the car with them. He rolls his eyes internally at such a stupid thought. "We go back, we beg him to let you in again, and done! You can choose whatever you wanna do when you have a roof over your head again!"
The silence that follows his outburst would be welcomed if it weren't for how tense it feels. Even the seagulls seem to be holding their breath, eager to know how the scene will play out. It feels like there's something about to explode, equally or louder than him, and he isn't prepared in the slightest.
"Pa didn't kick me out."
There's... nothing. No big explosion that leaves his ears ringing, just a low voice that sits like an anvil on his chest the longer he thinks about it.
"... what?"
"You heard me."
"But..." No, there's no way. Stan turns around, the shock momentarily outweighing his shame. "No, you—"
"Followed you."
"No, no! You can't have... you were—"
"Pissed at you. Yes. And betrayed. Rightfully so."
Something in Stan’s brain is definitely burning, because his head hurts from thinking about Ford's words. He closes his eyes, his brother's disappointed gaze too much to take in.
"You... you did not choose to come with me." Ford silently stares daggers at Stan, who turns fully to face him. "Stanford. You did NOT choose to do that!"
When Ford drops his gaze, Stan feels dread eating at him.
"What the fuck, man?! You did— no, no you didn't! You can't have done something like that, you're not that stupid!"
Ford looks back at him, his eyes aflame.
"That's your reaction? Insulting me?"
"Yes, of course I'm insulting you, you fucking idiot! What do you mean you chose this, are you dumb?! This is—"
Nothing comes to mind. Well, several iterations of stupid, idiotic, useless, reckless, but nothing seems enough to put into words how utterly irrational this situation is. Stan has never been good with words anyway. He's always been a man of action.
He huffs, turning away from his brother, and pulls down the visor to grab his keys.
"Screw it, I'm taking you home."
"Don't you dare start the car! Stanley—"
As the engine roars to life, Ford springs at his brother, trying to get the keys.
"Stanf— Ford! Stop it! Get off me!"
"Turn the car off, now!"
"I'm not turning it— ow! Stop!"
The scene is surreal, Stan finds himself thinking. His brother is leaning over the front seat, throwing himself over Stan as if they were little kids again playing pretend sparring in their room. But there's nothing playful about this. He can feel this brother genuinely trying to push him away, hitting his arms and his face when Stan tries to get him off him. Something inside of him twists, bringing tears to his eyes the longer Ford yells at him to stop.
He can't stand it anymore.
In a swift motion, Stan turns and pushes Ford onto the backseat again, hard enough to make him half-fall into the floor. His twin is angry, but he must see something in Stan's expression, because his own face falls.
"ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?" Stan screams, catching both of them off guard. He's vaguely aware of the desperation in his voice, as he is of the wetness in his eyes, but neither of those are enough to make him stop. "WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU FOLLOW ME? I ALREADY TOOK YOUR FUTURE, YOU ALREADY HATE ME, WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL HERE?"
His twin's face turns blurrier the longer he talks.
"I don't... I don't get it. I fucked up, I broke your project and I ruined everything. You don't believe me, you think I'm an asshole who did that on purpose, and... and so does Pa. So just why... why the fuck did you do that?"
Stan sniffles, taking a deep breath. The other stares in silence.
"Just let me get you home. They'll take you back, I know they will, but we have to go back. You still can... have a good life. You can go to college somewhere else, somewhere good. But you can't stay here. You shouldn't."
Stan wipes his face with both hands, and he quickly wipes them off on his t-shirt sleeves. He rests his elbows on the front seat rest, hiding his face in his hands. His head is pounding.
The seagulls await the response.
"I know it was an accident," Ford answers, his voice barely above a whisper. It makes Stan shoot his head up regardless. "I mean it has to have been an accident. I would first believe that literally anyone else on the planet had done it. But that doesn't change the fact that you hid what you did from me. You were a coward, and it cost me everything."
Stan's eyes, which had been briefly alight with hope, turn dark again. "I... the machine still worked when I left, I swear—"
"That means nothing! It was a delicate prototype that challenged physics entirely! Whatever you did to it, any minor disruption, you should've told me instead of playing your luck hoping you'd never have to tell me that you messed up!"
Stan lowers his gaze, the shame coming back full force. Coward. It stings as much as it rings true.
"I'm sorry."
"I said I wanted no more apologies."
"I'm s— I know," Stan stutters. "But that... doesn't change anything. You can still go back home. If you apologize to Pa for coming with me, his ego will eat that up."
"I'm not going back," Ford declares.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not going to."
"You still can, if you try."
"And why don't you try?"
"Because they won't take back."
"Precisely."
"What— what does that mean?"
"You can't go back."
"I know."
"So do I."
"And what does that matter, that you can go back but I can't?"
Something in Ford's expression shifts, but it's still too blurry for Stan to see.
"I don't want to go back. Don't start the car again. Goodnight."
Without another word, Ford lies back down on the backseat, closing his eyes and crossing his hands over his stomach. Stan stares, dumbfounded, as if by looking at his brother's resting figure he will somehow understand what he was saying.
Part of him wants to pry, to make Ford explain himself, but he stops. Thinking back in their conversation, he figures that it's worth keeping this sort of peace that has somehow found its way into their new home. He believes me, he repeats to himself as he lies down on the front seat, shifting his duffle bag so the hard items inside of it don't poke his head. He thinks I'm a coward, but he believes me. He believes me.
He keeps the thought in the front of his mind as the rest of his brain keeps replaying their last words. There's something missing that he's not getting, some puzzle piece that will make everything make sense.
Or, well, he can ask Ford tomorrow. He's better at explaining that Stan is at figuring things out on his own.
It's a good thing Ford is here. Even if it's selfish, he's glad Ford is with him.
He would not want to be here on his own.
He wouldn't want to be here without his brother.
Alone. Without his brother.
Ford opens his eyes again as he hears Stan openly sobbing over the clashing of the waves.
○○○⊙○⊚○⊙○○○
Con los días se amontonan los momentos
Each day, they keep piling up
Que perdimos por tratar de ser sinceros
The times we lost trying to be honest
Y aunque no me creas, creo que aún te creo
And even if you don't believe me, I think I still believe you
Y aunque no me quieras, creo que aún te quiero
And even if you don't love me, I think I still love you
If Stan hadn't broken the perpetual motion machine, do you think Filbrick would've kicked him out?
Yes, as soon as Ford left for uni
Yes, but later in the future
No, he wouldn't have had an excuse
No, Caryn and/or Ford wouldn't have let him
No, he would've made him work at the pawn shop with him
He would've sent him to Vietnam / military school
Other / personal headcanon / bald / etc
Voting ended onOct 10, 2024
Disclaimer: I know about the duffle bag Filbrick threw at him, but you can ignore that if you want
My thoughts below the cut! (this turned into a whole ass fic lmao)
Edit: timeline here!!
My personal headcanon is that Filbrick is as much of a coward as he is of an asshole. Therefore, he wouldn't have kicked Stan when he did in canon. Probably not for a while after that.
However, he does try to send him to military school. He keeps talking about how this kid needs to learn discipline and respect, and if he's not gonna bring money to the house, then he should at least bring some honor to his family.
Stan obviously does NOT want to go. Not only because it's a pointless war ("what've the vietnamese done to us anyways?") but because he remembers his mother's face when Shermie got drafted and he will NOT make her go through that hell again. Also, he doesn't wanna die!!!! Hello?????
He talks it out over the phone with Ford, who's obviously just as against it as he is. He tells Stan that, if he gets into a PhD program, he could skip military. Stan laughs in his face. It'd be easier to jump off the plane without a parachute.
And so, he comes up with a plan. When he goes to take his physical, he tries his best to botch it. If he is bad enough, if it looks like he can't do it, maybe he won't have to. Unfortunately, the recruiters are far too used to this by now, and they don't buy it. Stan goes home with a recruitment letter hidden in his jacket.
Everything goes downhill after that. He runs away from home, changes his name several times, does some crime here and there... The military is after him, and it doesn't take rejection kindly.
Stan stays out of contact with his family for a few years. He can't risk getting them involved in this mess. They don't deserve it. So he just leaves, without saying a word, in the middle of the night. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. Not even he knows where he's going. But if it just looks like he abandoned them, maybe they'll hate him. That will make them sound more believable with the police. They aren't covering for him, because they genuinely have no idea where he is. It's the best way to keep them safe.
In that time, Ford doesn't stop looking for him. He finds him every once in a while, but only his phone number, and he knows that could give away his brother's location and get the family in trouble. So, against his deepest instincts, he doesn't call.
One, three, five, seven years pass. Stan has been around almost all the country, and is genuinely considering leaving it. Maybe going to Mexico, or Colombia. Those sound nice. Maybe they'll be nicer to him.
He's passing his time and thinking about this in a small town restaurant in wherever he's in (somewhere he's not banned from, yet), when a family enters. He doesn't make eye contact, but he can't help but stare at them: a man and a woman, probably in their 50s, with 7 kids; one must be older than him, the second one around his age, the third one a little younger, the fourth one a teenager, and the last three between 10 and 15, no more. Except for the last three, they're all taller than him, even the mother, and they have various degrees of blond hair. Their clothes (overalls and plastic boots) suggest they must work in one of the farms he's seen around the state. They don't wear any accessories, except for the glasses that the father and four of the kids have. They're talking loudly and laughing. They look exhausted from a morning of hard work. They seem happy. They... look nothing like his family, and yet, he can't help but think about it.
He can't help the sob that comes to his throat. It's loud and messy from trying to suppress it, which obviously makes it worse. He covers his mouth immediately, and at that point he notices the tears that have run down his cheeks. "Great", he thinks, "that will make it easier to hide, for sure".
He doesn't move. He wants to escape, but that will draw even more attention to him, and he hasn't even paid for the food yet (normally he'd leave without paying, but the old waitress was kind enough to give him some extra food when she saw how little he ordered). He settles for not moving, lowering his head and covering his face, hoping that no one heard (unlikely) or cared (very likely).
"Ya'lright, son?"
The voice startles him. I wasn't very deep, but it was close enough to send his body into immediate danger mode. He looks up at the man towering over him, who's standing in front of him at a prudential distance.
"Y-Yeah, yeah, no worries."
He hates how broken his voice sounds. He's spent more than enough time sweet-talking his way out of trouble, he should be better at this by now. The man looks about as convinced by it as he is himself.
" 'lright then. Can I help ya?"
Damn villagers and their welcoming demeanor. If he wasn't a wanted man, he would appreciate it. But right now, it couldn't be worse timing.
"Come get ya food, kids!" The waitress' yell yanks him out of his thoughts.
"No", he blurts out, and he turns to the man. Least he can do is show him some respect and look him in the eyes. "I'm fine, thank you."
The man smiles lightly and nods. "Okay. Welcome to the town."
Stan watches as the man goes back to his table. He wishes he had been more polite, the guy was just worrying about him, but he can't afford it. They already know his face, he can't risk anyone else recognizing him-
"Sweet Mother of God almighty."
Stan turns to his right. One of the kids, the one about his age, is looking at him like he just grew a second head. He's frozen in place, his eyes wide as plates behind thick glasses. He doesn't say a word, and it's getting increasingly unnerving. Was the bruising on his face still visible? Maybe it's more apparent in broad daylight than in the shitty light that last motel had in the bathroom.
"I'm sorry, I- Can I ask your name?"
The fuck?
"No", answers Stan. Considering how nice his dad was, this guy is pretty rude.
"Son, leave him alone." The mother seems to have manners too, good to know.
The guy does pretty much the opposite. He comes closer to him, until he's right in his path, blocking his exit. That can't be good. Stan feels trapped.
"Are you Stanley Pines?"
Well, that's about it.
Stan tries his best to stay still. This guy doesn't look like a cop, not even an undercover one. But he knows his real name, so maybe someone in his family or friends works in the police; or worse, in the military.
"Listen man, I don't know who you're talking about, but that isn't my name. See?" He reaches for his wallet. He pulls out an ID, with a very clear Jackson Cage on it. He makes a mental note to change it soon, just in case his hunch is right and this guy has connections. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to pay for my food and leave. Move."
Stan is already on his feet, but the guy hasn't moved. Stan looks him up and down, trying to appear threatening despite his face probably still being a little red from before. He also gauges how feasible it'd be to escape if things turned bad; the dude is taller than him, sure, but he's also as thin as a toothpick, and by the anxious look on his face, he doesn't seem eager for a fight. The real problem would be evading the restaurant's staff and the other costumers, which include eight carbon copies of the guy in front of him. Probably better to try to de-escalate the situation.
"I- I can't let you leave. Please. I know who you are."
This man is making it really difficult to believe he's not a cop.
"No, you don't. I'm new in town. Move."
"Listen, I-"
"Move out of my way."
"I know your brother."
The words are like a bullet between his eyebrows.
"You look just like him-"
Against his better judgement, he quickly grabs he guy and pins him to the wood in between the booth benches, arm to his throat. If he knows Ford, he knows too much. God he just wanted to have lunch.
The commotion is immediate. He doesn't break eye contact with the guy who's grabbing his arm, whose strength is frankly surprising. He can hear, however, the screams from the dad and the siblings, as well as a couple of gasps from the other costumers. This is not going to go well, but fuck that. He's escaped worse.
"Stop!", the guy shouts as he keeps Stan's forearm from blocking his airway. "Don't hurt him! Don't get closer!"
It takes Stan a second to process what he said. The first part, sure, who wouldn't shout 'stop' when you're being attacked? But the second half doesn't make sense. Is he protecting him? The attacker?
Whatever it is, it works. The family stops in their tracks, still very ready to attack if needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the three younger kids moving closer to their mother. For a split second, he feels a pang of remorse for the scene he just caused.
"Hang up the phone, Clarisse, it's okay. Please."
Stan looks in the direction the guy was talking to. Right behind him, the waitress reluctantly puts the phone down.
He looks back at the guy. He looks a little shaken up, probably from the impact his back (and his head?) made with the wooden plank, but he doesn't look scared. He almost looks... sympathetic? Stan is confused as hell.
"I know who you are", the guy whispers, low enough for Stan to hear alone. "You're Stanley Pines, and you have a brother named Stanford. I know him, okay? He's my friend. I met him a few years ago in a quantum physics congress and we've been talking ever since. He told me about his family in New Jersey, and about you. About how he hasn't seen you in years, and how he was trying to find you, to no avail."
Stan is gradually loosening his grip on the guy's neck, who takes a deep breath. He should know better, but- shit, hearing that Ford was looking for him was not what he expected. Even if he doesn't know yet if this guy is lying out of his ass, it's enough to make him doubt.
"I know you were called to Vietnam. He told me. I spent a week with him in his place when he found out, he was unconsollable. When you ran away, he called me. He knew what it meant for you and he thought he'd never see you again, whether you got caught or not. All because of that stupid war." Stan is now trembling a little, he knows it. This guy must know it too, with how close they are. If he stays here any longer he'll break down, but he can't move. Anything to hear his brother's name a little longer. "I know what it's like. Three of my cousins were drafted last year, and I know at least one of them won't be coming back home. Please... let me help you."
Stan meets his eyes. They're green and brown-ish, not unlike the immense fields he's seen in his last journey, the one that led him to this town. With the years, he's learned not to trust beautiful eyes, because they are better at hiding. These ones, however, seem serene and honest, just like his words, and he can't help but believing them. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, knows just about enough.
Stan lowers his right arm. The guy still has his hand on it, but this time is much less defensive and much more comforting. He doesn't complain.
"My name's Fiddleford McGucket, and I'm gonna help you find your brother."
______________________________
Essentially, after this Fidds calls Ford as if nothing happened (per Stan's request, since he's still paranoid about the police tracking his calls) and asks him to come to Tennessee. Ford argues that he's very busy and all, but Fidds convinces him in the end.
Obviously the twins have a dual breakdown and cry their heart out. In this AU they're much less emotionally constipated lol
Ford tells Stan that he's gonna build a house in a small town in Oregon as a part of his research, and asks him to move in with him once it's finished. Stan, of course, accepts.
In the meantime, Stan stays in the McGucket farm and helps them out as a way of laying low. He has a great relationship with his family, and they're very proud of him for what he did (i believe that the McGuckets are hippies at heart, and they're VERY anti-war, especially when it already took three of them)
I don't know how much of the canon storyline would this AU follow, but it's pretty much your average Mystery Trio AU with some different backstory
Drafted AU: a Gravity Falls AU in which Stan didn't break the perpetual motion machine and, instead of kicking him out, Filbrick sent him to Vietnam. Stan runs away. You can read more in this post.
The canon timeline would look something like this:
1969: Stan doesn't break the perpetual motion machine.
He's very sad and frustrated about his brother leaving. Instead of breaking into the school, they have a heated argument in the swings, in which Stan and Ford scream at each other until their true worries come to light: Stan is scared of his brother not having a good enough reason to come back home, and Ford is scared of not being up to their parents' (Filbrick) standards and forever being “the freak”. They talk it out as best as two 17-year-olds can, and they end up hugging and crying. They promise to always stick together, no matter what. They go home with a bond stronger than ever.
Ford leaves for uni in September.
1972: Stan is drafted.
It's been three years since Stanford left. Every once in a while, at least once a week, he calls home to catch up. He's drowning in work and classes, but he's as happy as he's ever been.
Stan is... managing. He picks up some work here and there, helping his dad in the shop, fixing some cars in the local garage and whatnot. Filbrick is not impressed though, and it gets worse when Ford sends part of his grant money. His son is so successful that he makes money just off reading books? And what's his extra kid doing? Not bringing home any money, that's for sure. More like living off his parents, for free, in their house, and eating their food. And so, he does the obvious thing; making Stan's life miserable until he decides to leave the house himself. Caryn doesn't see things the same way as he does, and she's spoiling this leech of a son they have.
One day, around November 1971, the third Vietnam draft lottery is held. Stan had managed to avoid being called for the last two (a friend of one of his dad's friends had some connections), but this time Filbrick makes sure he is called to take the test.
Stan calls his brother in a panic, and they both decide that the best and only course of action is that Stan pretends to be unable to do the physical tests. I'll expand on this in the future, I think, but basically the recruiters call his bluff and threaten to send him to prison if he doesn't cooperate. Stan gives up and passes the test with flying colors.
Stan goes back home knowing fully well he's fucked. He waits for the response. In January 1972, he receives the confirmation. The next day, in the middle of the night, he's out of the house.
1971: Introducing: Fiddleford.
Ford meets Fiddleford in a congress he attends in 1971, in which he gives a presentation on his most recent interest: the supernatural world and the multiverse. When the time for questions begins, all of them are about his perpetual motion machine. He's happy he's recognized by it, but he feels like no one listened to him and his new project. That is, until a lanky blond guy around his age comes up to the microphone and asks a question about a theory based on his. Ford is immediately taken aback by it, and asks the guy when did he come up with it. The guy simply answers that he just put two and two together while he was explaining, and it just occurred to him. Ford, who looks like he just took a peek into deep space, says into the mic: "Meet me in the room H at break".
The pure nerd energy these two emitted in the following two hours could fuel the San Diego Comic Con until California is underwater. They missed the rest of the congress and just kept talking and talking, one-upping each other's theories and finishing each other's equations. The connection is immediate, and they agree to stay in contact while they do their respective degrees.
A couple of years later, thanks to Ford's insistence, Fiddleford applies for a full scholarship at West Coast Tech. The university grants it, and his whole family is incredibly proud. Fiddleford finishes his Bachelor at Backupsmore University and moves in with Ford. They start living together on campus in 1974.
1972–1979: Stan on the run, Ford in uni.
This is basically the canon timeline redux. Stan runs away from the military service and the police altogether. He's still homeless and Ford-levels of paranoid. He doesn't contact his family in fear they'll have to pay the price for his mistakes. He doesn't call either. He doesn't leave the country, although he does come very close in '79. There are LOADS of backstory in this period, but the main point is that he's still a criminal, but much more discreet: no tricking people with faulty products, he doesn't want the authorities to know his location by putting up ads, but he does a bunch of illegal deals, betting, and drugs.
Ford is in uni and, as predicted, he's still working his ass off. He attends every single congress he can, takes as many classes as he can legally take and is overall the same maniac nerd he is in canon. Part of it is still wanting to be the absolute best student at all times, but also because he's genuinely enjoying it. The only difference here is that he also makes time to look for his lost twin, which keeps him somewhat grounded. He also has Fiddleford with him, and he helps a lot.
Ford still calls home around once a week, but he resents his dad because he knows Filbrick had something to do with Satan's draft. As time goes by, he's less and less scared of him and more upset, until he tells him to go to hell. He feels the freest he's ever been. He thinks about Stan and how proud he would've been of him for being the one who stood up to their father for once.
1979: Stan arrives in Tennessee
He arrives at the beginning of summer, around mid-June. He just escaped from a particularly tough situation, so he's trying to lay as low as possible; therefore, he hides in Tennessee, as this state shares a border with many others and it'd be easier to elude whoever is looking for him. That's also why he goes straight for the small towns, instead of the cities.
He's exhausted and broker than he's been in a while. He goes to a small town and orders something small, enough to fuel him for a few more hours. The waitress takes pity on him and serves him a bigger plate on the house. Stan could cry.
Fiddleford just finished his finals, and just as he does every summer, he comes back home to help his family on the farm. That's why he's home when he meets Stan, and not in uni.
Ford spends his summer at West Coast Tech, living on campus and doing extracurricular internships.
1979-82: Life at the McGucket's and the move to Gravity Falls
Stan lives with the McGuckets for two years, although he only lives with Fiddleford during holidays and summers (since he doesn't get married in this AU, he spends some more time studying in uni and working on his own projects). He bonds A LOT with them, and they love having him around.
In 1981, Ford finally receives a big grant to study the supernatural, and he decides to build a house in a town in Oregon called Gravity Falls. He immediately asks Stan and Fiddleford to live with him and to help him in his investigations, if they want to.
Seeing as it is a secluded area (and because he misses his brother like crazy), Stan accepts. So does Fiddleford.
???? - Fiddlestan
When is Fiddlestan established in this AU? Who falls first (and who falls harder)? When does Ford find out? Does he help any of them out? Does Fidds' family know? Your call, honestly.
[if you share your ideas i'll kiss your forehead]
I'm torn between them falling in love in the holidays and then pining through the phone while they're away, being an established couple before they move to Gravity Falls or getting together while they're there. Either way it's teeth-rotting fluff, I can tell you that much.
Don't ask me how this came to be, I have no idea. I just saw a scene from the Lost Legends comic and two hours of dissociation later, this happened. Enjoy a little Stan & Soos bonding <3
***
Whatever you do, don't think about little Soos hearing Stan cry when he thought the kid had gone home already.
A kid with no real father figure, who looks up to stan like one, hearing him sob.
Stan, who thinks he's finally managed to turn the portal on, watching the light fade again after a long day of work.
He goes back up to the Shack to get some sleep and stops by the kitchen on his way. He's exhausted from a long day of touring idiots and working on that stupid piece of metal that took his brother two decades ago now.
Where did I put the bread?
Two decades ago.
There it is. Now where is the ham?
Two decades ago.
Got it. Now some cheese...
Two decades ago.
I should put somethin' else on it.
Two decades.
Like... some mayo or somethin'.
Two.
Where the hell is it?
Decades.
SHUT UP!
A loud glass noise surprises him. He looks to his right, and there in the floor lays a broken glass. He didn't even notice it on the counter next to him, an extension of all the silverware that was piled up, unwashed, in the sink. He looks back at it, as well as all the water and soap it had inside now spread on the floor.
Two decades.
The thought sits on his mind like an anvil.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time working on that portal than he did living in the streets.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time working on this portal than he did living in his own house back in New Jersey.
Twenty years.
He's now spent more time trying to get his brother back than having his brother by his side. Almost double the time, in fact.
Twenty. Fucking. Years.
He needs to sit down, now. He's gonna fall if he doesn't, and the floor right now is a safety hazard. He finds the nearest chair and pretty much collapses on it, making a sound that almost makes him think he broke it.
Everything is spinning. His vision is not focused, and he cannot for his life stand up. He's stuck sitting on that chair until the world stops the centrifuge cycle.
Stuck.
It shouldn't be a surprise to him that he's now spent that much time in Gravity Falls, and yet... It hits him so much harder that he would've expected. Usually, he'd try to push any such thought away; he learned very early on (back in his homeless days) that ruminating on how long he'd been on his own was never a good thing. It only brought him pain and many, many sleepless nights. Instead, he'd just tell himself that he was just getting closer to his goal. His big break. The moment he'd win enough money to prove to his dad that he was wrong. That his stupid son, the extra Stan, was actually worth something. That he was worth coming back home.
But now all of that was out the window. Well, not now, but twenty years ago. When he made a stupid fucking mistake again and sent his brother to wherever the fuck he was. When he sentenced his brother to be in his shoes: alone, scared, away from home. Presumed dead-
The sob hardly catches him off-guard. It's all too much: too much time, too unfocused, too hopeless, too alone. It doesn't take long (or any time at all really) for many other sobs and whimpers to echo around the empty kitchen, filling the ever-familiar silence that permeates every single room of that house. Too much silence, for too long. How much more is he going to endure? How long until he completely gives up? Or rather, his body does? If twenty years had already passed by, what was keeping another twenty to do the same? God that was-
"Mr. Pines?"
The voice feels like a slap in the face. It isn't enough to focus his vision or make the weight on his chest disappear, but it definitely succeeds in waking him up. Instinctively, he grabs the knife he was going to use to cut the bread and looks around. Now that he thinks about it, the voice sounded high-pitched, almost like a child. Was he having some sort of flashback, or a hallucination? It wouldn't be the first time, but he isn't drunk or sleep-deprived enough for that. That he knows.
"Mr. Pines!" The voice sounded clearer this time, and louder too. It came from outside the kitchen window, that's for sure.
He doesn't move yet. He knows he heard it, but knowing what lurks in this town, and considering his head is still spinning from the breakdown and the sudden adrenaline, standing up seems like a mildly bad idea.
He hears some commotion outside, like some furniture being moved around or something. But that's impossible, it came from outside. Also, now that he thinks about it, that voice sounded a lot like-
"Knock-knock", the voice says out loud, while actually knocking on the glass window.
Now he's sure.
Wait, what the hell is he doing here?!
Stan stands up a little faster than he should have, but it's alright: still dizzy, but manageable. He goes up to the window and opens the lock. A pair of shiny eyes and a tooth-gaped smile greet him.
"Good evening, Mr. Pines!"
Stan stares dumbfounded at the child in front of him.
"That's good night to you, kid, it's..." he looks at the watch on his wrist. "Almost 11 p.m." He opens his eyes when the realization hits him. "Wait, what the f...udge are you doing here? Why aren't you at home?"
"Abuelita is with some friends tonight."
"And? You still have to be home, ya know?"
"I wanted to stay more. In the last tour of the day you always tell funny horror stories and I wanted to listen to it."
"Yes, I do that because children are supposed to be home by that time. Why aren't ya?"
"There's no bus this late on Saturdays. I forgot."
Stan tilts his head. This kid is as nonchalant as he's dense. Are all kids like this?
"Are you okay, Mr. Pines?"
The question takes him by surprise.
"Yeah, why?"
"You're all red and puffy. And you're still crying."
"I'm not crying."
"I heard you. That's why I climbed the wall."
Maybe the kid isn't as dense as he thinks.
"I'm just sweating."
"Through your eyes?"
"You'll understand when you grow up."
"Old people don't cry?"
"I'm not old, and I'm not crying."
"You look like me when I cry."
Stan opens his mouth to answer, but closes it. For how little he knows about this kid, he definitely knows he shouldn't go there. That damn Abuelita would probably kill him.
"Can I come in? I'm cold."
Stan takes a moment to evaluate the situation: he's basically on a staring context with a ten?-year-old, except that child is just a floating head through a window. Also, the kid's outside of his house, and it's nighttime. It isn't even cold out, but what does he know about that?
"Yeah, sure. Just... go to the front door, I'll open it."
"Okay!"
Stan hears a couple of metallic steps before a jump, and he realizes that the kid was standing on the trash container that is usually a couple of feet away from the window. Was that the "moving furniture around" noise that he heard? That little bastard is for sure resourceful.
Also, did he do that just because he heard him cry? God, that's embarrassing.
A knock on the door. He's fast, too.
Stan leaves the knife on the counter drawer and puts on his robe. He's still in a dirty white tank top and some underpants, and he'd open the door like that if it were for him, but it still feels weird. Let's at least pretend he still gives a shit.
He goes to the door and opens it. Even though he sees him every other day, it still surprises him how short this kid is for being 10. Was he that short at his age? He doesn't think so. That boy will probably grow up to be like 5'6", no more.
"Don't take off your shoes, it's fine", he quickly says as he watches the kid reach for his feet. "How long have you been outside? Since the last tour?"
The boy nods.
"So like two hours. Alrigh'" Stan pinches his nose. Was this kid here the whole time he was working on the portal downstairs? God he was an idiot for not noticing. "Have you had dinner?"
The boy shakes his head.
"Okay. You like ham and cheese sandwiches?" Another nod, this one way more enthusiastic. "Alright, come in. Don't run though, there's some broken glass on the kitchen I have to clean up."
"I can clean it up if you want. I'm very good with the broom. I broom my house. Abuelita says I'm very good at it."
"Nah, don't worry. Just follow me so you don't step on the glass."
"Okay."
They both make their way into the kitchen. Stan makes a sign to the kid to sit on the table, which is thankfully opposite to the mess he made a few minutes ago. While the kid does as told, he goes into the broom closet. When he comes back, broom in hand, he looks at the kid's dangling feet on the air. They're nowhere near the floor. 5'5", tops.
"So, your Abuelita isn't home?"
"No, she's helping out some friends. I don't know where she is."
"And she didn't tell you to be home by dinner?"
"She did. She left me some food, but I know she's not going to be home. Also I wanted to listen to the last tour."
Stan scoffs as he takes the knife out of the drawer again. "You really like the tours, huh?"
"Yes! They're so fun!" The kid's voice sounds even higher. "And sometimes you invent new ones, and I love them. Where do you get the ideas?"
"I don't know, they just pop up, really. I'm good at improvising, I guess."
"You should totally come to Storytelling Day at my school! And tell us some scary stories."
A soft chuckle escapes Stan's mouth. "Yeah, I'm not sure about that. I don't think your teachers would like the stories very much."
"I'd like it. Also, I could finally choose the story. I never can." He says in a sad voice.
"Why not?" Stan's mind immediately goes to his own school days. Is this kid being bullied?
"I'm not good at reading. And usually the storytellers are parents, and Abuelita is very busy. So I can't choose the story."
Stan stays silent. He knows just enough about this kid to put two and two together, and he doesn't like the result. If he lives with his grandma and his parents don't even live in the town, they're either trying hard to make some money, cowards, or dead.
"Don't sweat it, kid. Reading stories out loud is overrated. You think I wanna hear Patrick from accounting read a book he hasn't opened in 40 years? Nah. Boring." He places the sandwich, not finished, on a frying pan. Slightly toasted buns will do wonders for the flavor. "Trust me, if you want some good stories, just make them up yourself. That's how you get the story that you want."
"But I'm not good at talking to people. When they're all looking at me, it's scary. I don't want to look dumb."
Stan sighs to himself. He's had this conversation before. Nope, don't think about that.
"Look, kid. Sometimes you're scared. It's normal. Everyone is."
"Are you scared, Mr. Pines?"
Stan flips the sandwich carefully. This kid asks too much. That's what kids do, after all.
"Yeah, sometimes. Not of talking to others, but yeah. I'm scared sometimes."
What if he doesn't fix... what if the police... what if Ford...?
"But fear is what makes us move forward. If you're always scared, then you won't do anything ever. And sometimes fear is a good thing, it protects us. But sometimes it's just a liability."
"What's that?"
"A liability? Something that... stops you from doing things."
"Like a red light?"
"Sure, like a red light."
"The red lights are scary."
"Sometimes. But traffic lights aren't always red. They can be yellow, or green. Do you know how traffic lights work?"
"They change colors, and they make the cars go and stop."
"Yeah, kind of." Stan turns off the stove. He takes the sandwich from the pan and puts it on a plate. He turns around and walks to the table, placing the dish in front of the boy.
"It looks so good! Thanks!" he says before grabbing the sandwich and biting into it. He was definitely hungry.
"No worries", Stan says. He sits down and looks at the kid for a couple of seconds before he speaks again. "The thing about traffic lights is, they don't make the cars move or stop. They are just a sign, the cars move on their own. You understand that?"
The kid swallows a big bite of the sandwich before answering politely: "Yes."
"Fear is just that. A sign. If you see a red light, you're scared of it, so you stop. And that's good, because then the other cars can move without problems. See?" Stan is using his hands to try and gesture a crossing. To his luck, he kids nods. "The problem is when the light is yellow. Do you know what the yellow light is?"
"No."
"It means you have to be careful, but you can move. So when the light is yellow, you can be a little scared, but you have to keep moving. You understand?" Another nod, this one a little more hesitant. "When you're scared, you need to figure out if the light is red or yellow. For example, if you're in a very high place and you look down, it's scary, right?"
"Yes."
"That's good fear. You're scared to fall, and that's good, because if you fall you can get hurt. So, because of the fear, you move away from the high place."
"Like when I was in the falls. It was very high and I was scared I could fall into the water."
"Exactly, that's good fear. Fear that makes you safe." Stan makes a mental note not to judge this child again. He's not dense at all. "The other fear, the yellow light, is different. It's when you're scared of doing things because of the "what ifs"."
"What's that?"
"Imagine you're doing some math problems in front of the whole class, and you think "what if I make this problem wrong?" What's the worst that could happen?"
"They... laugh at me."
"Eeeehh, error. The worst thing that could happen is that a meteor crashes and destroys the school. See? That's the worst thing that could happen."
"I... I guess?"
"What I mean is, you can think "what if...?" all you want, but the reality is, you won't know unless ya try. Maybe you'll do a great job and you didn't even expect it! Or maybe you'll do the math problem wrong! Who cares? The important thing is that you saw the yellow light, stopped for a second and then decided to carry on. That's what you have to do. Always carry on."
The last part comes out quieter than the rest, and Stan knows. The kid probably noticed too.
"You understand that?"
"Yes, I think so." The kid finishes his sandwich, thinking for a moment. "So, do you think I should try reading on Storytelling Day?"
"Yeah, of course! You can practice reading in your house if you want too. So you're more comfortable or something when you do the real thing."
"...okay."
A few seconds pass, in which Stan reflects on what he just told the kid. He didn't think much about it, he acted on instinct. It's been a while since he had to give a pep talk to anyone. He just hopes he was better at explaining himself this time around.
The kid rises his head to meet Stan's eyes. Immediately, he shoots him a flashing smile. Even his eyes seem to glow a little.
"Okay, I'll do it!"
Stan rises his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Yeah! But I need to ask Abuelita to help me with the reading, I need practice."
"Can't you make some story up? Instead of reading a book. Ya know, write something and invent the rest as you go. That's how I do it."
The kid scratches his chin like he's thinking. Stan thinks it's kinda cute; he probably picked that up from some cartoon.
"I can do that, yeah. If I have it in my head, I don't need to read it. I can do it like theater, like you do!"
Stan smiles. "Yeah, you can do that. Just don't use any of my stories, ya might steal some clients from me."
"Okay! I'll make something up then. Maybe a monster in the falls! That lives behind the water, in a cave! And you can only go if you follow me, because I'm the guide! I know where the monster is!" The kid is now standing on the floor, flailing his arms, trying to explain his story. "And the monster is good, but he's shy! But he can take photos with the people, because he's a cool guy. Cool monster!"
"Okay, okay, I think you have your idea. And see? It took you no time to come up with one. I think you'll do just fine", Stan says, putting his hand on the kid's shoulder.
The kid's smile grows impossibly bigger. Without notice, he lauches himself into Stan's arms, hugging him tight while he's still sat down. Stan instinctively puts an arm around him, hugging him back. God he's tiny. 5'4", no more.
"Thank you, Mr. Pines."
"No worries, kid." Stan could cry —or rather, sweat through his eyes— again. He doesn't want to think about it much, but he knows deep down he needed that hug. Probably just as much as the boy himself.
He stays like that, sidehugging the kid, until the little man decides to let go. Stan won't admit it to his own shadow, but the emptiness that follows that move is overwhelming.
"Okay, no more talking, I need to take ya home. I don't want to suffer the wrath of your Abuelita."
The kid chuckles: "She's nice, she's not scary. Except when she takes the chancla."
"Yeah, I've had a couple of chanclazos in the past. Not looking forward to it. Go to the door and wait for me at the register. I'm gonna put on some clothes."
"Okay."
***
The drive to Abuelita's house is short and peaceful. It's summer, so the night isn't as dark as it could be, and there's still a couple of cars and people out. It is, by all means, a nice summer night.
Stan parks the car right in front of the door. The house is dark, and the blinds are open; Abuelita is probably not home yet. He turns to the kid on his right.
"Alright you rascal, time to go home. Next time, make sure to remember the last bus. I don't want your grandma to have a heart attack."
"Okay." The kid says, without a care in the world. Then, suddenly: "Are you feeling better, Mr. Pines?"
"What?"
"From the crying before. Or, the sweating through the eyes. Are you okay?"
Shouldn't ten-year-olds be a little stupid? Maybe this child won't be tall, but he's too goddamn smart.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I just- the glass I broke, it was my favorite", he blurts out.
"Aww, I'm sorry, Mr. Pines. You can have one of mine if you want."
"Nah, don't worry, kid. I'll buy another one. But, ehm, thank you. For the offer."
"Of course!"
"Okay, go home now. You have the key, right?"
The kid slips his hand in the collar of his shirt and pulls out a little key he has on a piece of string around his neck. He nods.
"Great, then come on. Go in and tell your Abuelita you're sorry you didn't eat her food, but you had dinner. Do not lie to her, huh?"
"Never!"
"Good kid. Up top." He puts his hand up. The kid enthusiastically high-fives him. "Nice strength. Now go home, come on."
"Thank you, Mr. Pines."
"You're welcome, kid."
The little man opens the door and steps out of the car. Stan watches as he walks away towards the house. It looks pretty, with some flowers on the windowsills, but very dark. It seems clear to him that the house is very empty.
God, don't think about it. Don't. Do not-
"Hey, Soos!"
Idiot.
"Yes?"
"If you write your story and read it on Storytelling Day, I'll go with you to the next one."
"REALLY!?"
"Shhh, quiet down, you're gonna wake up the whole town. Yes, I will, BUT don't start writing now. Now ya get some sleep. Tomorrow you can start it."
"Okay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Okay, okay, settle down. I'll see you at the Shack, okay? Good luck with the story."
"Okay! Goodnight, Mr. Pines."
"'Night, kid."
Great job, you knucklehead. Now you have to do some theater at a school for free.
It should bother him more that it currently does, to be completely honest. But the smile on the kid's face was... He doesn't know how to explain it, but it was something. Something big, and good. It was nice to see, and much nicer to be the cause.
On the drive home, Stan stops as a crossroad. He looks up, absentmindedly, and chuckles to himself.
Obsessed with the idea of Ford taking notes of all of Stan's newfound memories and making a sort of timeline with them so he can easily remind him of them next time he forgets.
Stan makes a huge act of trust and actually tells him some details. Ford writes it all down. Then, he never asks again. It's a good deal that benefits them both.
However...
Unbeknownst to Stan, Ford has started to... go into a rabbit hole. If they had more space in the Stan O' War II, he'd have a board with red string all over it and sticky notes, maps, theories, names. Ford writes everything down to the smallest detail he can get out of Stan.
Unfortunately, he doesn't stop there. Stanford has created a whole timeline, filled to the brim with the atrocities that his brother had to go through. Something in the back of his mind, now his own voice (for better or for worse), keeps asking the same question, over and over:
And where were you, huh?
And after enough memories retrieved, Ford can't hush the voice. So now, while Stan is busy writing something on his computer, Ford is alone in the dim light of the kitchen, going over the timeline and comparing it to his own life. Date by date, event by event.
Stan almost got murdered in an underground fighting ring in December 1971. Ford was on his way to spend his first Christmas at the McGucket's.
Stan went to prison in Colombia in March 1974. Ford was working on his third PhD in another uni as part of an exchange program.
Stan worked at a club between the winter of 1976 and the summer of 1977. Ford was looking forward to a big conference he was going to do on May.
Stan got his kidney stolen and was left for dead somewhere in 1980. Ford was catching FUCKING MOTHS in Gravity Falls.
The question resonates relentlessly in his mind again, and the answer is always the same: better than him. Warm, in a nice dorm or a house of his own. Fed, not hungry enough to be driven to crime. Living, not surviving.
Ford can't stop the tears from coming out. He can barely hold them in these days, both from happiness and from pain. Maybe he's an old man, maybe he's tired, maybe he's finally giving himself permission to feel something other than dread and panic. But, right now, he really wishes he could co back to his colder demeanor.
He holds his head in his hands, sobbing softly so he doesn't alert his twin, as Stan has a habit of turning his hearing aids all the way up whenever they aren't in each other's field of vision. He thinks he's being subtle, but Ford figured it out soon enough; even with his own advanced hearing, he can't hear as much as Stan does when the little machine is at maximum level.
Unfortunately for him, it seems like Stan has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to him.
"Okay, inspiration's over, tim— hey, what's wrong?" Stan's cheerful tone breaks the calm of the kitchen, but it stops right has he crosses the doorway.
Stanford raises his head, wiping a couple of tears, and sniffs before answering.
"Nothing, it's okay. Sorry."
"Don't give me that. You're crying, and if it was for something happy you would've told me already. What is it?" Stan replies in his usual gruff tone, a sign that he's trying hard not to scold Ford.
"I don't really—"
"Is that the notebook with my memories?"
Ford freezes, looking away. He grabs the small book and closes it, covering it with his hand and bringing it closer to himself.
"Were you reading it?" Stan asks, his tone now much more tired and —Ford can tell— slightly angry.
"I was," Ford replies, keeping his answer short so his twin won't notice the lump on his throat. It's childish, they both know it, but that's exactly how Ford feels; like a child who got caught doing something they shouldn't.
Stan sighs. "Give me the book."
Ford brings it closer to himself. "No."
"What do you mean no?"
"I mean no, I won't. I— I have to finish writing down some details before I forget them."
"For fuck's sake Ford, my last memory was two weeks ago, and we both know you'll remember anyways. Give me the book."
"I can't, I have—"
"Give it to me, now."
"No, I need to finish—"
"Give me the book, Stanford."
The lump is his throat is quickly replaced with a knot in his stomach. Stan's voice is low, paused and furious. It's all the things Ford knows his brother can be but chooses not to, because he hates being like that with his own family. He isn't even screaming, which means he's truly angry and not scared or anxious, like he often is whenever they argue. Ford stares wide-eyed at his twin, really taking in the image in front of him, and behind the rage in his eyes he can see another kind of anger. The one that says "please, don't make me do this, I don't want to be like this".
The fire reminds him so much of his pa. Stan knows it too.
"I..." Ford starts. His mind screams at him to make a run for it, but he shoves it aside. He isn't running away from danger anymore. His brother isn't dangerous, and neither is his rage. This is something he has to face, not escape from. "Please, Stanley, there's no need for this. I'm just taking some notes." There, a half-truth.
"Don't give me that crap. And don't you fucking dare lie to my face."
"I'm not... lying, I'm genuinely just taking notes."
"About what?"
"About... your memories."
His throat feels like it's about to close with every word. Stan doesn't believe him, he knows there's something more, but how is he supposed to bring it up? He'll be mad if he knows what Ford has been doing. And, above all, he'll be mad that he's kept it a secret.
A loud noise turns Ford's attention away from the floor. Stan's fist stands still against the countertop. When Ford looks again, he notices that that fist is possibly the only part of Stan that isn't vibrating ever so slightly. His brother is quite literally shuddering with rage, trying to contain it to the best of his abilities. Ford knows that, had he been almost anyone else, that fist would've surely made contact with his face.
Good fucking job, Ford. Absolutely splendid.
Stan isn't even looking at him. He's looking down, probably trying to hide his emotions. Ford has seen it before, during one of their fights, in which Stan started crying as the words left his mouth. Even though he acts the toughest out of the two, Stanley has always been the most emotionally-driven. That doesn't mean, of course, that he'd let anyone see him like this. He didn't even let Ford see him like this when they were younger. Clearly, that hasn't changed.
At this point, Ford decides it's been enough. There's no level of anger above this one for Stan: it ranges from snarky remarks, to leaving the room, to silent treatment, to shouting, to this.
Some brother you turned out to be.
"I'm sorry," Ford starts, because there's few words he knows that will make a larger impact than those. "You're right, I... here. Take it. But please, let me explain."
Ford takes a couple of steps forward, his arm extended and offering the book to Stan. His brother looks up, and Ford feels an arrow through his heart. To anyone else, that look would've made them run in fear, but Ford knows best. His brother is hurt, deeply so. It's a look he hasn't seen in thirty years, since he crushed Stan's hope and dreams at the mention of their childhood plans. He couldn't see it back then, paranoid and half-dead as he was, but Stan's face that fateful night had haunted him for decades.
"Please, take it," Ford insists, the tears betraying his tone. "Please."
Stan straightens up and grabs the book slowly. Ford steps back. As his twin starts turning pages trying to find one with text, Ford clears his throat and starts ranting.
"I know you won't approve of this, but it— it helps having another source to compare, you know? I was... trying to find some way of organizing all the memories you brought up and I thought... by comparing the dates to my own life, I could get m-more accurate times and— and organizing them would be easier. Sort of like a... a template, so to say. And then, I... admittedly, I got carried away and s-started adding some details from my own life that truly add nothing to the... well, I don't know exactly what to call it, but they didn—"
"Stop."
Ford goes rigid.
"Stanley, I'm sorry."
"I said stop, Stanford."
Stan throws the book onto the table, which makes a louder noise than Ford anticipated. Stan covers his face, sighing, and rubs his forehead. Then, his temples. Finally, he sighs again and puts his hands on his hips.
"Why are you doing that?" he asks, simply.
"I... like I said, I got carried away."
"Why did you start doing it? And don't tell me as a template."
Ford stutters before continuing. "It... it was after one of your memories, I can't recall which one. It got me thinking about what I had done that year, and... I got carried away."
Stan arches a brow. "Is that true?"
"Yes, I swear on everything, Stanley. And please, believe when I say I'm sorry that I kept this from you, I know—"
"I don't care about that," Stan cuts him, and Ford stares in shock. "I mean, I do care, because you're torturing yourself for nothing here."
"It's simply a comparison."
"I read just a couple of pages and it doesn't sound like a comparison. You write my memories like you're taking notes at a conference. Your memories sound like you're berating yourself just for living."
Ford winces. There's no denying that his pages are... clearly more subjective than his brother's. He's grown used to writing down what his inner voice screams at him, which, in hindsight, probably wasn't a good idea.
"That was not my initial goal."
"Right. Look, you can write whatever you want if it helps you, I don't care. What I do care, and what pisses me off, is that you're re-reading it at all."
Ford shoots him a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Stan says, his anger still coating his words, "that you were supposed to take notes so I can re-read them when I have a memory lapse, right?"
"Yes."
"Then why the hell are you reading it?"
"I—," Ford stutters, clearly taken aback, "because I wrote them."
"This isn't one of your fucking journals, Ford. You don't get to read my memories like they're the morning paper, you know? They're my life, and not exactly the good parts of it."
Ford stays silent. He doesn't know what to say. His brother is making sense, but he never thought about that. Once out in the open, they weren't a secret anymore.
"I didn't... I thought since we talked about them—"
"You thought wrong, then. There's a reason I don't read those after I remember them, and that's because I want to keep them buried. You told me you'd write them down to help me, not to use them like magazines whenever you're bored or want to feel sorry for yourself. It's like... like you're running around in my mind looking into all the places you shouldn't. Do you understand that?"
Moses, Ford understands. The metaphor is calculated, he knows that. Stan has had his fair share of mind-related trauma to know the feeling well, just like Ford himself. The thought of his brother feeling the same way He made him feel... All of a sudden, Ford feels a wave of disgust running all over him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— you're right, I shouldn't..." Ford rambles, the previous tears returning now full force until they cloud his words, rendering him almost speechless.
I made him feel like this. Helpless, lied to, used.
Suddenly, Ford feels two strong arms around his shoulders, and he finds himself pressed against his brother's chest. Part of him feels undeserving of this hug, given that he was the one to make Stan angry to a point he knows his brother hates. Another part of him begs him to hug back, given that it was his twin who initiated it, and therefore it is his duty to return it.
Those two parts are overshadowed by his increasing need to hug him back just because.
Ford puts his arms around Stan, hugging him as he mutters apologies. He truly feels like a kid begging for forgiveness, but he can't help it.
"I know you didn't mean to. But damn it, Ford, I don't need you reliving the greatest hits of Stanley Pines, alright?" Ford sobs in response, nodding against Stan's shoulder. "I want you to stop reading that book. It'll stay in my bedside table at all times, and I swear to God if I see you trying to get it—"
"I won't," Ford chokes out. "I promise, I won't."
"Good," Stan replies. "And I need you to stop trying to compare to life to mine. It's stupid and just unnecessary suffering."
"I just..." Ford tries to say. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. You went through so much, so fucking much that could've been avoided if—"
"I swear to God, Ford, if you even mention this being your fault I'll kill you, man."
"But—"
"But nothing. We've talked about this. If you have notes on those ten years, imagine how many I could make in the thirty you were in the portal."
"That— you were just a kid on the streets!"
"And you a human in the multiverse! Seriously, man, can you stop flagellating yourself for one second?" Stan's voice is tired, Ford can tell, but it carries much more fondness than his previous one. "We're not gonna compare lives, that's the point. So stop this, now."
Stan grabs Ford by the shoulders, the latter already feeling sad at the loss of contact. "You hear me, yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? Maybe you need some hearing aids too, old man, that might be your problem. Maybe you don't listen because of your old man ears."
Stan pinches Ford's ears. The other slaps Stan's hands away, feeling a smile on his face at the youngest's attempt to lighten the mood. As per usual, it works.
"My hearing is impeccable, thank you very much. And yes, I promise I won't bring up this topic anymore."
"I don't want you thinking about it either." Stan points an accusatory finger at him.
"That will prove to be more of a challenge, but I will try my best."
"That's what I wanna hear. No more of this bullshit, yeah?" Stan says, grabbing the book from the table. Ford's smile falters.
"I'm... sorry about that. I mean it."
"I know you do. Now go take a shower, you stink."
Ford chuckles as his twin walks out of the kitchen. For the first time since Stan entered, he takes a deep breath and exhales.
