one time when i was 12 i woke up in february feeling like shit and my dad made me go to school anyway because he was convinced i was just faking it to avoid going to school. i was tired and running a pretty high fever all day. im not trying to be all like "screw my dad" or anything, but That's Totally Not Relevant Information For This Chapter. :)
warnings: a bit of stan's potty mouth, but not as much as usual due to his pretending to be ford for the whole chapter.
Masterpost!
〜〜〜〜〜〜
The mom-and-pop general store, apparently named "Dusk 2 Dawn," sat in its lot innocently enough, as though it wasn't ridiculously big.
Or, Stan considered, maybe that was just the exhaustion talking.
Stan took a deep breath and pushed open the doors. Ford's groceries weren't gonna get themselves, and no annoyingly-large convenience store was going to get in his way.
It was fairly empty inside, something Stan was grateful for. He may have looked and sounded like Ford, but it'd been so long since their last successful switch, he wasn't really sure he could actually pull it off. If it was just a face he'd made up from looking at a few magazines, he'd have no issues coming up with a fake personality to match it, but now that he had someone to actually copy-!
Then again, considering how the handful of people watched him curiously, as if he was a stranger anyway, maybe he wouldn't have to.
He picked up a basket, strode into the nearest aisle, (the bread aisle, it turned out,) and started checking prices. Ford may have given him his wallet, but Stan knew more than most small-time shop owners gave him credit for in the art of budgeting. He was going to stretch Ford's money to cover as much as possible.
Without stealing.
Because that'd go on Ford's record, not his own, and he really didn't want to ruin that for Ford, too.
…oh boy.
He boxed up those thoughts and slid a few loaves of bread into the basket. Between Ford's avoidance of the town and Stan's usual appetite, they would probably need quite a bit to hold them over until the next time one of them could go grocery shopping.
"You passing through, stranger?" A cheery woman asked, looking up from her own shopping list.
Showtime.
Stan gulped and straightened up, altering his voice, clasping his hands behind the basket the way Ford always had, and trying to look for all the world as though he wasn't just a second-rate double wearing two pairs of pants, three tops, and a trenchcoat. "No, actually. I've lived here for-" shit, had Ford actually mentioned when he'd moved here? "-a while. I'm just not usually one for socializing."
"Oh, have you?" The woman asked, her eyes widening and her mouth turning into an "O" of surprise. "You wouldn't happen to be that spooky science guy that lives in the woods, would you?"
"Well, yes, um…?"
"Susan!"
"…Susan. My name is Stanl-ford. Dr. Stanford Pines." Stan lied. "I was unaware that that was what people thought of me."
"Well, between the lights and the earthquakes, you know how us small-town folks can get." Susan chuckled good-naturedly and lightly swatted his shoulder. "Leave us be and we'll cook up all kinds of stories! Between you and me, though, I've always wondered what you get up to in that cabin of yours."
"Really, now?" Stan asked, his mind racing a mile a minute.
"Yeah! I'd give just about anything to have a look for myself!" Susan smiled widely.
Stan almost tried to see if anyone else in the store would be interested in a ridiculously-expensive tour, but the odd sensation of his extra fingers brought him up short.
Ford wouldn't do that. Frankly, Ford would probably be pissed with him if he brought an entire tour group with him when he got back.
So, instead, Stan coughed awkwardly. "I'll, um, I'll keep that in mind. My work can be quite unpredictable, after all, and I would rather not endanger anyone for a simple tour. I'm actually trying to keep my presence minimal at the moment, but that may change in the future."
There. That sounded smart enough, right?
"Oh, that's understandable." Susan nodded. "Still, can't you talk about it a little bit?"
Stan ran his thumb across Ford's grocery list for a moment.
In his mind's eye, the countless "basic" foods stared up at him, taunting him with their sheer numbers and the fact that he had no idea where to find any of it.
He focused back on Susan and unfolded the paper. "Actually, if you would be so kind as to help me find some of the things on my list, I would greatly appreciate it. I could tell you about-" think, Stan, think, "-my latest endeavor involving, um, unicorn hair."
Surprisingly, Susan simply rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Ugh, unicorns. Well, if you need anybody to make those uppity horse-faces see sense, just give the Corduroy boys a ring, alright? They'll get you all set up. Now, while we go look for your…" she peeked at Stan's list, "…canned soup, why don't you tell me about whatcha need unicorn hair for?"
"Uh. Sure?" Stan blinked, but set off after her when she started heading down to the other end of the aisle. He mulled over how much he could say without acting out of character (or flat-out crazy) for a moment. "I have reason to believe a chaotic entity wishes to break through to our world. He enjoys tricking others into letting him possess them, then using their bodies for his own nefarious purposes. So far, unicorn hair is my best lead to figuring out a way to keep him out of our world for good."
"Ooh, I don't know much about 'chaotic entities,' but if you figure out a way to keep critters out of your garbage cans, could you send some my way?" Susan asked, leading him a few aisles over. "I'm getting real sick and tired of chasing the gnomes away from my windowsills whenever I leave a pie out to cool."
Gnomes were real, too?!
Stan tried not to gape at her, instead repressing a badly-timed shiver. "I'm sure I could whip something up."
Susan beamed, coming to a stop by a shelf of cans. "Could you? That'd be swell!" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Oh, here we are!"
Stan blinked, but started inspecting the cans for the best possible deal. He wound up deciding on the generic store brand's cheaper soups- tomato, chicken noodle, and the like- and stacking several cans in the basket on his arm. "Thanks, Susan. Perhaps next you might show me where to find the breakfast cereals?"
"Huh. Wouldja look at that." Susan remarked instead of answering. "Six fingers."
Stan's blood ran even colder than it had been already.
Half of him wanted to get all up in her face, demanding if she thought something was wrong with that.
The other half was starting to panic. Stan got away with making those demands because he was trying to be protective of his twin, and he hadn't had to since they were kids for…more than a few reasons. Ford would probably…what? Take pride in them? Shy away like he had back in Glass Shard? He didn't know how Ford would react to being confronted about his fingers anymore!
Susan kept talking, thankfully solving Stan's problem before it could even truly start. "Neat! You're definitely gonna fit in around here, Dr. Pines. We've got all kinds of strange and spooky stuff! Why, just last week, I heard from the supernatural grapevine that a shapeshifter showed up in town!"
…Wow. Ford had really hit the jackpot with this-
-hold up.
"A shapeshifter? Really?" Stan asked, doing his best 'surprised Ford' impression. Either she was talking about Stan himself, or "Shifty" must have gotten out of wherever-Ford-left-him, and he needed to know which. "Do tell!"
"Yes, really!" Susan nodded and gestured for him to follow her down the aisle. "But not one of those murderous ones like McGucket sometimes rambles on about. Word on the street is that this shapeshifter's been spotted setting up wards in the woods, wards that're meant to keep bad things out. Now, I may not know why they're here or where they went, but if you come across them, would you mind saying 'hi' to them from the folks of Gravity Falls? Whatever they're running from, the valley likes 'em enough to let 'em stay, and that's gotta count for something!"
There was…a lot…to unpack there, but the gist of it was clear.
Apparently, he'd been given a seal of approval by the very land itself…somehow. Was the sigil on his shoulder a part of it, or was this something completely different?
Whatever the case, Stan most definitely did not freeze in the middle of the aisle, staring at the back of Susan's head with wide eyes.
If he had, however, he would have shaken himself back into the present before Susan could figure out he'd stopped and turn around.
But he didn't, and that was the story he was sticking to.
"I'll, uh," Stan made a show of clearing his throat to cover up the way his Ford Voice had slipped for a moment, "I suppose I'll try to remember that."
"Are you feeling okay?" Susan asked, glancing back at him.
"Oh, uh, yeah, yeah, I'm fine."
Susan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "If you say so. Here's the cereal, by the way."
Stan gave her an appreciative nod and started putting boxes into his basket. They were heavier than they had any right to be, but he made it work.
His arm shook when he lifted it too high to try and reach one of the boxes, (off-brand Crunchy Caps, Ford's childhood favorite,) but he tried to disguise it with a chuckle. "Heh, thanks again."
They went on like this for a while, with Stan trying to keep himself from seeming tired, and Susan showing him where the various kinds of food were and giving him a crash course in Gravity Falls gossip.
So far, he'd gotten soup, cereal, eggs, milk, orange juice, bread, lunch meat, cheese, headache medicine, and a shitload of ramen.
So far, he'd found out that the Cutebikers had just moved in a few months ago and were just the cutest little family, the Northwests weren't very fond of Ford's constant questions, the gnomes were likely going to swarm in the next few months, and the Durland and Blubs boys had been spotted at the bowling alley and weren't they just the sweetest (but from one weirdo to another, keep it on the down-low please, the town didn't need any big-city types getting it in their heads to try and "fix" them)?
By the time he managed to reach the register, he was exhausted, and not just because of the freezing cold in his muscles.
The man at the register, apparently named "Pa," gave him a knowing nod. "Having a long day?"
"The longest." Stan admitted, rubbing his hands over his forearms without thinking. The store owners should really turn the heat up.
"Oh, a six-fingered man, hm?" The man named Pa (just a coincidence, that was all it was) smiled warmly and started scanning Stan's groceries. "Hope nobody's giving you any trouble over that. If they are, you just send 'em our way, alright?"
"Yeah!" Susan nodded from where she stood behind him in line. "Remember what I said about the unicorns, too!"
"I'll try." Stan chuckled and averted his eyes, catching sight of some jellybeans nearby. He quickly tossed a bag in with the rest of his groceries as another potential peace offering.
Ford really needed to get that demon out of his head and actually meet the townspeople. He'd love it here!
Stan paid and took the bags of food when they were offered to him (when had Not-His-Pa finished ringing him up?) with a smile that he really hoped didn't look as forced as it felt. "Have a good day, then."
"You too, Dr. Pines!" Susan waved to him from where Not-His-Pa was ringing her up.
Not-His-Pa nodded. "And take care of that fever of yours, sonny. I could feel it from across the counter, and you really shouldn't let that get any worse."
Great. Others were picking up on how terrible he felt.
"…duly noted."
Stan swallowed and headed for his car. He glanced at the passenger-side door for a second before shaking his head and just opening the driver's side instead. He sat down and rubbed at his face for a moment, the odd sensation of the extra fingers helping keep him awake, then reached over and set the grocery bags in the passenger side of the car.
Okay.
He just had to make it back to Ford's house without crashing the car or something.
He could do this.
Stan fumbled with his keyring for a moment, but soon got his car key into the ignition. After a moment more, he decided to crank the heat up to the warmest it could go. If he could get at least some of the chill out of his bones by the time he got back, it'd be worth the extra gas.
Halfway there, he turned the heat back off with a shivering hand and a grimace. So much for that.
It was fine.
He was fine.
He gripped the steering wheel tight enough to make his knuckles turn white in an effort to keep his arms from shaking and sending the car skidding off into the snow.
He just had to make it back.
Stan repeated the words in his head like a mantra, nearly missing the turnoff to get to Ford's cabin as he did. He managed to keep traction on the road as he veered onto the path, and he kept traction as he crawled through the woods. At least he could see where he was going this time.
At some point he was definitely going to bug Ford about shoveling the driveway, though.
Blessed warmth rippled through him for the brief second it took to cross the unicorn barrier before fading. He pulled up in front of Ford's house and grabbed the groceries, clinging to them tighter than he probably should have as he slid out of the car and trudged up to the porch. He rapped his knuckles against the door, and using his own voice, called, "Hey, Stanford, I'm back w-with food!"
Oh, great. Now even his voice was trying to give him away.
After a few moments, the door opened to show Ford wielding a flashlight. "Ah, so you are. Let me just check your eyes here quick."
Well, at least he wasn't aiming a crossbow at his face this time.
Stan nodded and stifled a yawn, shifting his grip on the food. "Go nuts. N-not, not literally, but y'know what I m-mean."
To his credit, Ford didn't try to manhandle him like he had before, only holding the light up to each of Stan's eyes and peering into them for a moment before nodding and clicking the light off. He gestured to the groceries in Stan's arms. "Let's see about getting those into the fridge, shall we?"
"Sounds l-l-like a plan to me." Stan managed a grin and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
"Did Bill try to do anything to you while you were out? Anything at all?" Ford asked, leading him into the kitchen.
Stan shrugged, trying to keep from shivering too badly. "Not that I know of, but we g-gotta do something about him, and fast. The f-f-folks in town think you're some k-kinda science hermit, but once they got a load of the whole 's-six fingers' thing, they just accept-ted you as one of their own! I think you'd l-l-like them. According to this c-classy lady at the store, the gnomes are s-supposed to swarm soon, whatever th-th-that means. She just s-said it, like it's no b-b-big deal!"
Ford paused, then squinted at him strangely. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Peachy." Stan tried to say.
"Peach-ch-chy." Stan wound up saying.
Faster than Stan could process, (though even he had to admit that wasn't saying much at this point,) the back of Ford's hand pressed against his forehead, sending a flash of ice-cold down his spine before Ford yanked it away with a gasp. "Sweet Moses, Stanley, you're burning up!"
"P-peach-chy." Stan repeated, this time with as much sarcasm as he could manage, and an eyeroll, to boot.
Ford took the groceries from him and just put the entire bag into the fridge. "You need to get out of all those layers as soon as possible. The sooner your fever breaks, the better."
Stan wanted to insist he was fine. He wanted to shrug Ford's words off. He wanted to point out that his shivering would just get worse once he didn't even have the illusion of warmth.
What came out was a pitiful-sounding groan.
"Stanley?"
Stan grimaced and leaned heavily on the table, all five (no, wait, six, he was still in Ford's shape, how'd he forget that?!) fingers splayed out. Picking his words out very clearly, trying to force his teeth to stop chattering, he mumbled, "I think 'm just g-gonna go sit down for a bit."
"That would probably be for the best." Ford's answer came to him like from the bottom of the ocean, further cementing the fact that he wouldn't be able to just walk it off this time.
Stan gave a jerky nod and turned to head for Ford's spare room, only to stumble over his own feet with a gasp. Instead of slamming face-first into the wood floor, however, he somehow managed to drop into something much more forgiving that had definitely not been there a few moments ago.
Ford grunted at the same time, and Stan had just enough time to have the mortifying realization that he'd just collapsed into his brother.
The world didn't quite go dark after that, but it was the last thing he would remember clearly for a good, long while.
so i stumbled across Shifting Bodies, Shifting Souls by captainbrooklyn aka @skywalkersinflight and was inspired
and by "inspired" i mean "my brain latched onto the idea of slightly-to-the-left-of-human stan getting into hijinks and such and then the inevitable angstfest that happens when he gets ford's postcard" and i immediately started writing fic set in this 'verse because i have no impulse control
warnings: local shapeshifter mullet stan has issues of the "why am i here? who am i? am i really myself?" variety which i'm pretty sure there's an Actual Term™ for but it escapes me at the moment. it mostly manifests in him referring to himself by his full name and only his full name for a while. also a bit of swearing from stan because he's had A Long Series Of Mostly-Canon-Compliant Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad Days and isn't retelling it and censoring it for a couple of preteens and a soos.
anyway here's wonderwall the stan twins' reunion
now on ao3
〜〜〜〜〜〜
It had been four years since the person once known as Stanley Pines had come across the probably-not-really-an-old-lady who'd somehow given him the power to become anyone and everyone else.
Or, well, it would be four years in a few months, but he wasn't going to nitpick.
He held his breath as he heard the sound of footsteps receding from his motel room, and as soon as he was sure they were gone, he slipped out of the shape of a child (small, innocent, harder to notice) and back into himself.
There was a postcard below the door.
He frowned, cautiously stepping closer to pick it up. On the back, or maybe the front (he never was quite sure which side was which), there was a photo of some picturesque forest with the stylized words "Gravity Falls" overlaid atop it.
His breath hitched.
He flipped the postcard over-
It was addressed to Stanley Pines.
It was from Ford.
The person who'd received the postcard stared at the hastily-scrawled "PLEASE COME" that took up the entire left side of it.
There wasn't anything else to go off of. Did Ford need him for something? Did Ford get into trouble of his own? Did Ford want to see him? To talk?
Maybe…
…maybe he could afford to be Stanley Pines again, just for his brother.
Just for a few days.
〜〜〜〜〜〜
For those familiar with the events that took place in 1983 in Dimension 46'\, the following days mirrored them almost religiously.
Stanley Pines drove like a bat out of Hell to reach Gravity Falls.
Stanley Pines found himself walking the last leg of his journey in the freezing Oregon winter.
Stanley Pines found his brother a paranoid, twitchy shell of who he'd once been.
Stanley Pines followed his brother into the basement.
When they were in the basement, however, their timeline once again veered away from that of 46'\ with one simple sentence, one which carried a harsher consequence than its 46'\ counterpart.
"Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've been through!"
Stanley Pines's blood boiled.
"No, no, you don't understand what I've been through!" He snapped. "I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think you've got problems?"
In 46'\, Stanley Pines followed this with the declaration, "I've got a mullet, Stanford!"
In this dimension, he followed it with an angry "I'm not even sure I'm human anymore, Stanford!"
For emphasis, so there could be no mistake that he meant it literally, he let his form flicker, startling Ford and making him go white as a sheet.
He kept going, back to his solid, original self. "Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods-!"
"Not human?" Ford's voice came out a venomous hiss.
"Hell if I know!" Stanley Pines held his arms out wide in a mockery of a shrug, viciously wishing he could have real flames come from his eyes, but knowing his ability could only go so far. "Then again, you've been out here living your dream! It's been ten damn years, Stanford, and-!"
Something in Ford's face hardened.
(Stanley Pines hadn't even realized that was possible at this point.)
"I should have known!" Ford snapped. "The real Stanley would never have come, would he?"
That…was not where Stanley Pines had expected this fight to go.
(He clung to his old identity with a new fervor. He hated it more than anyone else ever could, but if there was another creature out there that could take it for their own, if there was another creature that could hurt someone under his name-!)
His thoughts whirled around his skull, but all that managed to come out of his mouth was an eloquent "Whuh?"
Ford grit his teeth and clenched his fists. "Don't play dumb with me, Shifty! You escaped the bunker, intercepted my postcard, and took on my brother's form so you could get me to hand over my journal and the forms therein, but I won't let you escape again!"
Stanley Pines swallowed and held the beat-up journal a little closer. "Okay, um, I feel like we're running on completely different-!"
"GIVE ME BACK MY RESEARCH!"
Ford leapt at him, eyes wild.
Stanley Pines fell to the ground, the journal knocked from his hands. Ford scrambled to grab it, but Stanley Pines tripped him and snatched it up, glancing back at his brother. "Clearly, being cooped up out here has driven you nuts-!"
"GIVE IT BACK!" Ford roared, shoving Stanley Pines into the control room and up against a wall of switches and levers, grappling with him for the journal.
Stanley Pines snarled, "Oh, you want it back, you'll have to try a little harder than that!"
The two fell to the floor, tumbling one over the other until Ford lay on his back and Stanley Pines stood over him, washed out by the flashing red of the control room and unearthly blue of the portal. (When had it turned on?)
"You left me behind, you asshole! It was supposed to be us forever! You ruined my life!" Stanley Pines ground out, stubbornly forcing his tear ducts to vanish so they couldn't betray him.
"You're not even Stanley, and I'll prove it!" Ford shouted, lifting a foot to Stanley Pines's chest and kicking him back into a-!
For one, agonizing second, he only knew pain.
Fire coursed through his veins and lightning lanced through his brain, and his form flickered through countless variations before returning to what it had been. He became dimly aware of a bloodcurdling scream from somewhere nearby. He kind of wished that whoever was screaming would stop, actually. If he wanted to scream, he could do it himself, thank you.
It wasn't until he fell to the ground and the agony centered itself on the back of his shoulder that Stanley Pines came back to himself.
He realized he was the one who'd been screaming.
(If he hadn't been in so much pain, he'd be embarrassed.)
Ford seemed horrified. "W-wait, Stanley?! It really is y-?"
Stanley Pines punched him in the nose.
Ford stumbled back into the portal room and fell against a lever, and as machinery began to clank and whirr, Stanley Pines stormed after him, picking the fallen journal up almost as an afterthought.
"Some brother you turned out to be."
Smoke rose from his shoulder and the acrid smell of burnt flesh and polyester assaulted his nose.
"You care so much about your dumb mysteries that you can't even recognize your family when it's right in front of your face?"
Ford's eyes were impossible to make out with the blinding light of the portal behind him, but if Stanley Pines had to guess, he'd imagine Ford was glaring at him.
"WELL THEN, YOU CAN HAVE 'EM!"
Stanley Pines's hands shoved the journal into Ford's chest-
-and then Ford began to float.
His rage twisted into something different, something he didn't dare identify. "Whoa, whoa, hey, what's going on? Hey, hey, Stanford!"
Ford was floating towards the portal.
He flailed in the air, terror evident in his every movement. "Stanley! Stanley, help me!"
In Dimension 46'\, Stanley Pines would be helpless to do anything but watch.
In this dimension, he glanced around fearfully until catching sight of the nearby lever.
"Stanley, do something!"
An idea sprang to mind.
Stanley Pines had never before needed to make himself look like anything other than another face in the crowd, but if there was any time to change that, it was then.
He gulped and launched his right arm at the lever, stretching and stretching and stretching some more until his hand reached it, six feet away.
Good. He knew it was possible now.
Stanley Pines gripped the lever with everything he had-
-and flung his left hand at Ford's leg!
His arm grew and grew, and he saw Ford's eyes widen in shock, but then his fingers closed around Ford's ankle and he couldn't spare any thought for Ford's mental state.
All that mattered now was fighting the pull.
All that mattered now was getting Ford out of danger.
Stanley Pines screamed from the effort (and his shoulder screamed back at him in protest), but he managed to take one step back, and then another, and another, and then he was stumbling away from the hungry portal, Ford falling on top of him in a tangle of limbs.
The portal roared as it lost power, as though it was a ravenous predator and Stanley Pines had just stolen its prey.
Stanley Pines just heaved for air and painstakingly pulled his arms back to the proper lengths, shakily keeping his burnt shoulder off the ground as best he could.
"Stanley, I…"
"Zip it, Stanford." Stanley Pines snapped, sitting up and trying to get his legs under him. "You've made your point quite clear."
His legs gave out, and he groaned. "Oh, of all the shitty luck-!"
Ford pushed himself upright in the corner of Stanley Pines's vision, and Stanley Pines had to hide a wince at the horror in his brother's face. "Stanley, what happened to you?"
Accepting that his legs were going to make him pay for the stunt he'd just pulled with his arms, Stanley Pines huffed. "Do you want the short version or the long version? Because the short version is that I'm pretty sure I ran into a witch and she took pity on me."
Ford blinked.
No impassioned excitement over the existence of a witch with the ability to turn someone into a shapeshifter. No wide-eyed terror of the thing that had once been his brother. No anger over Stanley Pines meeting a real, honest-to-goodness magic user when Ford was the one who studied the weird and the anomalous. No pity directed at Stanley Pines's casual mention of the person who had apparently changed him into something just to the left of human.
Somehow, the exhausted blink was worse.
"If you want the long version, I'm getting myself some ice first." Stanley Pines grimaced, forcing himself to his feet. "I'm not dealing with this and a third-degree burn."
At that, Ford scrambled to his feet. "The sigil! Oh my gosh, Stanley, I'm so sorry, if I'd realized it was really you, I would've never-!"
"Yeah, well, you did." Stanley Pines snapped, clutching at the shoulder in question. (Was there a sigil burnt into his back now?) "Ice now, words later."
This was how the two found themselves sitting in what was probably Ford's kitchen a few minutes later.
Stanley Pines slumped against the table and let a bag of frozen peas sit against his burn, and for a moment the freezing cold let him breathe properly for the first time since being injured.
Then he shifted in place and rested his chin on his arms, levelling a hard glare at Ford and the notebook in his hands. "So. The long version started on our twenty-fifth birthday…"
〜〜〜〜〜〜
More Than He Seems?
I sent word for the man I intended to take the final journal, but to my surprise, it seems he, too, has come into contact with the supernatural! Or, more accurately, he has BECOME supernatural! (Shukdsv L vkrxogq'w eh vxusulvhg, wr eh iudqn. Zh vhhp wr kdyh edg vkl rgg oxfn lq wkdw uhjdug.)
When he first arrived, I had assumed he was the same selfish man I remembered, but he seems almost broken as he recounts his tale to me: on the night of our his 25th birthday, he was approached by a woman who I've identified as a magickal crone of some kind. Much like in the fairytales of old, she approached him for aid, and when he gave what he could to her, she offered him a boon in return.
(A sketch of a man in a zip-up hoodie, his eyes obscured by shadows. He holds a duffel bag over one shoulder.)
His boon revealed itself during an altercation with some of the shady characters he's encountered over the past decade: the ability to shapeshift! Unlike Shifty, he was not born with this ability, nor do his character or genome seem to be changing for the worse as he uses it. He prefers human faces, but for the most part, has stayed in the form that I assume is what he would look like if he hadn't gained this ability.
(A sketch of the man's face, caught in an anguished scream of pain. Three exclamation points float above his head.)
This leads me to my other point. When he came, I was aware of none of this. When I showed him the depths of my folly, he had the audaci countered with folly of his own, revealing his paranormal nature to me.
(A sigil. Specifically, the sigil on the control panel of the portal.)
I took it badly.
(R yizmwvw nb ldm yilgsvi drgs z hrtro nvzmg gl ezklirav fmuirvmwob vmgrgrvh, ufoob yvorvermt srn gl yv zm vhxzkvw Hsrugb! Lm gsv lmv szmw, R zn rnnvzhfizyob tozw gszg sv hfierevw zmw gszg R xzm mld szev hlnvgsrmt hlorw gl zmxsli nbhvou gl ivzorgb, yfg lm gsv lgsvi, sv xlfow hgroo hfxxfny gl rmuvx gsrh rh qfhg zmlgsvi rm nb olmt hgirmt lu nrh R YIZMWVW NB LDM UF dliwh xzmmlg vckivhh sld sliiryov R uvvo.)
In the fight that followed, he was injured, the portal was reactivated, and I was nearly pushed through. It was only the quick thinking of this man that saved me, using one arm to anchor himself and stretching the other to reach my leg and pull me back.
As he tells me his story now, immediately after the fact, (drgs uilavm kvzh lm srh yizmw rm zm vuulig gl ovhhvm gsv kzrm,) I believe I will not record it. Some things are not meant to be saved to the history books, and if the way he keeps skipping over large chunks is any indication, it is as uncomfortable for him to retell as it is for me to hear.
(A sketch of a bag of peas, held closed by a rubber band wrapped around the open end.)
I am going to offer him my spare room. It is the least I can do after harming him so.
(Dqg shukdsv L'p ehlqj d elw vhoilvk lq zdqwlqj wr nhhs vrphrqh forvh iru zkrp L kdyh vrolg hylghqfh L fdq wuxvw…hyhq li L lqiolfwhg wkdw hylghqfh xsrq klp pbvhoi zkhq qrw lq pb uljkw plqg.)
I can only hope he accepts.
〜〜〜〜〜〜
"…and for the past four years, I've been pretty much anybody and everybody that wasn't Stanley Pines." He finished, though he did manage a sardonic laugh. "Fat lot of good it did me. I couldn't bring myself to cut off all contact with Ma, and that's probably how you managed to find me, and now here we are."
"Here we are…" Ford murmured, unable to meet Stanley Pines's eyes as he set the notebook aside.
"So, what's this 'sigil' supposed to do?" Stanley Pines asked, tilting his head against his arms like a tired student falling asleep at his desk. "Considering I'm pretty sure it's gonna be on my back for the rest of time, and all."
Ford cringed, but answered, "It's meant to be a ward against evil supernatural beings. I've…had some run-ins with malevolent tricksters before. One was an alien with a remarkable affinity for shapeshifting similarly to how you can. The other is a triangular demon that can enter one's dreams and make deals. He desires to have a physical form of his own, but is not above possessing others to enact his schemes."
"Okay, but what's it gonna do to me, Science Guy?" Stanley Pines almost rolled his eyes.
"Well, that's the rub." Ford admitted. "We were fighting, so the sigil must have recognized you as an attacker and acted accordingly, incapacitating you while you were in contact with it. At the same time, you…"
Stanley Pines gestured with one hand for Ford to keep going. "I…what?"
"…you saved me from being lost to the portal, so you couldn't have been intending to do lasting harm." Ford breathed, as though the mere idea froze him in place. "The sigil recognized you as not malicious at heart, so while it caused you to halt your attacks, it didn't disintegrate you like it would have if you were truly malevolent!"
"Wait, it woulda what-?!"
"And then it used the less lethal deterrent as a method to imbue itself into you as well!" Ford concluded, walking around to swap out Stanley Pines's wet bag of peas for another, fresh from the freezer. "You ought to be warded against such entities now, yourself!"
Stanley Pines groaned and let his forehead drop to the table with a 'clunk.' "Whoopee. A magic whatsit decided I'm not as big an asshole as I coulda been, so instead of just killing me instantly, it fucking branded me. Is this gonna heal up anytime soon?"
"Unfortunately, it will likely take as long to heal as any mundane burn this bad would." Ford admitted.
Stanley Pines buried his face in the crook of his elbow. "Dammit."
Ford muttered to himself, turning to leave the room. "I'll have to clear out one of the extra rooms, maybe see if the spare mattress is still in relatively okay shape…"
"Wait, what?" Stanley Pines stiffened. "Stanford, you really don't have to-!"
"Perhaps not, but Stanley, I want to." Ford cut him off and sat down across from him. "Were you anyone else, were you free of the sigil now on your back, I wouldn't. I wouldn't be able to afford to trust you. As it stands, you're really you, you really came, you're safe from whatever the demon might use me to do, and you've clearly been through a different sort of Hell than mine over the past ten years."
Stanley Pines lifted his incredulous gaze to his brother's. "I'm sorry, what was that about the demon using you? Can we go back to that?"
"I told you before, I've made mistakes." Ford sighed and intently studied a dark stain on the table. "One of those was extending my trust to a being that didn't deserve it."
Stanley Pines glanced around the house with a new understanding, seeing places where a human body the size of Ford's must have been slammed into stairs and walls where before he'd just seen a mess.
"He possesses you, doesn't he."
It wasn't a question.
"…yes."
Stanley Pines…no, Stan dropped his forehead back into his arms. "Alright. Alright. Guess I'll hang around a bit longer."
It wasn't like he had anything to go back to.
"So, how do you plan on getting this asshole out of your brain?"
yall're TOO NICE TO ME and IT MAKES ME FEEL EMOTIONS
like. ok. the rundown of the past week has been this.
easter sunday! i post chapter 7 of mths and get an overwhelming positive response! i also get to order a journal 3!
monday! i get hired at a new job for better pay and (probably) better conditions than my old one and told i start next week! my dad also gets hired somewhere, further bringing the verdict household out of the monetary hole! while this is happening, i also get several more comments on mths!
tuesday! after minor technical difficulties, i get successfully onboarded to my new job! my journal 3 also arrives and i spend the rest of the day giggling like a maniac!
wednesday! multiple fic writers i look up to uno reverse card me, and this serotonin overload finally pushes me over the edge and past my writer's block!
thursday! today! I AM NOW GOING TO UNO REVERSE CARD ALL OF YOU AND RESOLVE THAT CLIFFHANGER >:D WE HAVE ALSO SURPASSED MY PREVIOUS LONGEST POSTED MULTICHAPTER FIC IN WORDCOUNT AND I'M STILL GETTING WARMED UP
warnings: none! well, there's some more probably-unorthodox burn care but that's all i can really think of.
Masterpost!
When Stanley didn't move to get up, Stanford rolled his eyes.
"Stanley, I am not carrying you all the way to your room."
Stanley didn't react, beyond taking a shallow breath. His head lolled back to show that his eyes had closed.
Stanford pressed his lips together into a thin line. "…or perhaps I am."
Stanley continued to not reply.
Stanford's mind raced. A hypothesis he'd been formulating about Stanley's shapeshifting abilities had been supported when Stanford had caught him; regardless of how large his form was at any given time or how much of it was stored via fat versus muscle, he kept the same amount of mass. Stanford, being less bulky than Stanley on the best of days, had no hope of being able to bodily pick him up, so he simply had to work with the next best thing.
He shifted his grip and managed to get one of Stanley's arms over his shoulders. Supporting his brother's weight this way was much more feasible, and Stanford half-led, half-dragged Stanley back to his room. Maneuvering through the various Piles without knocking anything over was a chore, (had Stanley not seen fit to move them?) but it still only took a few moments for them to reach Stanley's bed.
Getting Stanley to peel off the trenchcoat, sweater, and jacket was another matter entirely, and that was before Stanford even attempted to get him to lay down.
"Stanley, you need to get out of those layers." Stanford insisted, removing the glasses from Stanley's face and pocketing them.
Though still mostly out of it, Stanley grimaced and shook his head slightly. "…nuh-uh. M'c-cold."
"Yes, Stanley. Uh-huh." Stanford pressed. "Once you're no longer bundled up, you may use the blankets, if you'd like, but too many layers of insulation will make it more difficult for your fever to go down."
The prospect of blankets made Stanley blink at him in a confused daze for a moment, but then he dutifully started trying to take off his borrowed trenchcoat. His limbs didn't seem very responsive, however, so Stanford wound up helping him out of the coat, then the sweater and the jacket, and then the slacks, leaving him in only the ruined t-shirt and jeans. (Huh, so Stanley had layered the slacks over his jeans.) All the while, Stanley's shivering got worse.
And then Stanford saw the brand.
Even though Stanley was still using Stanford's face, even though they were well and truly identical at the moment, the brand on Stanley's shoulder still glowed a dim blue beneath the bandages.
Were the circumstances any different, Stanford would have gleefully delved into the potential causes for the burn's persistence. As it was, he simply shoved the rising curiousity aside in favor of easing Stanley onto his side. "Now, I'll need to go see if I still have a functioning thermometer somewhere around here, possibly some disinfectant, and then…well, hopefully you picked up something easy to digest. Canned soup, perhaps."
Stanley fumbled with the blankets for a moment, but quickly managed to pull them up over himself and give a sleepy nod.
Stanford fiddled with his hands for a moment, then squared his shoulders and strode out from the room with a new sense of purpose.
He headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge door. Thankfully, the bag of groceries was still there, untouched. He quickly took the food from the bags and placed it on the shelves at random without really looking- he'd organize it properly once he had the time- before reaching a can of chicken noodle soup.
Bingo.
He quickly found a clean, if dusty, bowl and, once he rinsed the dust out and found a workable spoon, set about using it to warm the soup in the microwave. While it ran, he shoved a washcloth and bottle of disinfectant into his pocket. He dug through the cupboards to find the household mercury thermometer he knew he had somewhere, as well. It wouldn't have found its way into any of his Piles, since its use as a scientific instrument was limited once Fiddleford had put his foot down on "cross-contamination." Ergo, it had to be somewhere he wouldn't usually check.
Stanford finally located the thermometer behind a half-empty bottle of aspirin, though the beeping of the microwave nearly startled him into dropping the darn thing. He pressed a hand to his chest for a moment to keep his heart from jumping clean out of it, then turned to collect the bowl of soup.
Soup in hand and thermometer, disinfectant, and washcloth in pocket, Stanford made his way back to Stanley's room and knocked on the door before entering. "Guessing by what you bought, you haven't exactly been staying kosher, either, so I hope you still like chicken noodle-"
A child-aged Stanley blinked blearily at him, swamped in his now-oversized tattered shirt and bandages. He didn't look a day older than twelve, right down to the gap between his teeth.
"-soup." Stanford finished with a squeak.
In the youthful voice to match his face, Stanley moaned and made weak grabby hands at the bowl. "Th'nks, P-Poind'x'r."
Speechless, Stanford could only stumble forward and set the bowl on the nearby desk. He considered drawing up a chair, but instead settled for sitting on the side of the bed. Once he was situated, he took out the thermometer. "Let's see how bad your fever is."
Stanley crossed his arms and glared at the far side of the room, but obediently opened his mouth so Stanford could get his temperature.
Hm. When they were both that age, Stanley used to put up more of a fight about whether or not he was sick.
Stanford made a mental note of the discrepancy and placed the thermometer in Stanley's mouth.
The silence that followed while they waited for the thermometer to read Stanley's temperature was…tense, to say the least. At least, Stanford felt that way. He occasionally opened his mouth to try and speak, but every time, he wound up closing it without a word.
What did one even say in this situation?
When he felt like it'd been long enough, he took the thermometer and squinted at it, only to gape at the reading it gave him. It was somewhere between two of the little marks signifying degrees, but even on the low end-!
"102 degrees?!" Stanford breathed. "Stanley, you should've stayed in bed this morning!"
Stanley hunched his shoulders and glowered at the thermometer. "…y'need-d-ded food."
"…alright, I will concede that point, but surely you could have at least said something!" Stanford pressed.
"I c-could handle it!" Stanley insisted, curling in on himself further.
Stanford just gave him a deadpan stare.
Stanley turned his frustrated frown on Stanford and held firm.
The two glared at each other for a long moment.
Eventually, Stanley relented. "…just g-g-gimme the soup-p."
Stanford nodded and set the thermometer on the desk, picking up the bowl of soup and looking to Stanley. "It's cooled off slightly, so it shouldn't be scalding hot anymore."
Stanley struggled to sit up, and without thinking, Stanford reached over to place his free hand on his shoulder for support. The glow of the brand (which was still there?!) stayed him for a moment, but he simply kept his hand away from it. Stanley looked up at him with confusion in his eyes, but shrugged it off after a moment more.
Once Stanley was more or less upright, Stanford took his hand back and lifted the bowl a bit, just enough to draw Stanley's attention. "Are…are you feeling strong enough to eat on your own?"
"I c-can do it m'self!" Stanley insisted. He grabbed the bowl and shoved the spoon in his mouth with as much indignance as his body could manage. It turned out to not be very much, but the sentiment still came through loud and clear.
"Alright, alright, I'm just checking." Stanford held his hands up in surrender and stood up.
Stanley gulped down the spoonful of soup faster than strictly necessary, and when he spoke, his voice was even higher than before. "W-w-wait, where're ya g-going?"
Stanford paused, then slowly lowered himself onto the desk chair. "I was simply moving over here…?"
"Oh. D-duh." Stanley muttered, glaring into his bowl like it had personally wronged him.
Stanford blinked, but when Stanley went back to eating rather than elaborating, he turned to the nearest notebook and flipped it open.
For the next few minutes, the only sounds came from the clacking of Stanley's spoon against the bowl and the occasional scratching of Stanford's pen across the page.
〜〜〜〜〜〜
S and I have been tackling the problem of Cipher, but after he helped with the unicorn barrier, I realized that
S Has Fallen Ill.
(A drawing that takes up most of the page. A childish-looking Stan is sitting in bed, wearing an oversized, ratty T-shirt and bundled up in a large blanket. He is holding a bowl of chicken noodle soup and eating it, though he seems frustrated with something.)
He insisted on going out to get groceries so I could focus on finishing Project Mentem, and while we did have a pressing need for food, he refused to show any signs of sickness until he physically had no choice and COLLAPSED. He has a fever of somewhere between 102℉ and 103℉. Frankly, I'm quite shocked he held out as long as he did. It's honestly rather impres
I've put him to bed and made cooked up heated some chicken noodle soup for him. I came back to find him in the physical appearance he had when we w he was a child. I doubt this was intentional on his part, as his emotional regulation is pretty much shot in this state, and this fact seems to be infuriating to him.
(Kh vhhphg lqfuhgleob glvwudxjkw zkhq L vwrrg xs wr pryh wr wkh ghvn dqg mrw pb wkrxjkwv grzq, bhw dv vrrq dv L hasodlqhg L zdv vlpsob prylqj wr d gliihuhqw sodfh, kh fdophg edfn grzq. Kh zdv qhyhu wklv zruulhg derxw vhsdudwlrq zkhq zh zhuh erwk wkdw djh. Wklv lv…frqfhuqlqj.)
(A drawing of a mercury thermometer. It seemed to have filled itself entirely, and a question mark and exclamation point both hover beside it.)
Hopefully his fever breaks quickly and he returns to his usual state soon after.
(A drawing of a bowl of soup and a doodle of a stack of sticky notes take up the bottom portion of the page. The soup has steam rising from it, and the sticky note reads, "tsecitni mqicyaak?")
〜〜〜〜〜〜
"Hey, F-Ford."
Stanford glanced up to see Stanley holding up the bowl, now empty of everything except the spoon Stanley had been using.
"M'all d-d-done."
"…indeed." Stanford set his pen down and took the bowl. "I believe I ought to get this in the sink-"
"N-NO!"
Stanley's outburst made Stanford jolt in place, but before he could do more than stare at Stanley-
"I, uh, I-I mean, maybe it c-could wait?" Stanley asked, as if there hadn't just been a frightening amount of panic in his eyes.
Stanford blinked.
That was…odd.
Certainly, Stanley and he had once been virtually attached at the hip, but that had been when they were both children, and even then, neither of them had ever been so vocal about being separated. Currently, however, Stanley was in the form of a child for unknown reasons, yet he still retained information about the past few days. Perhaps his feverish state had made his mannerisms regress into an echo of his childhood?
This would need to be studied.
…but just as a safety measure in case Stanley's fever didn't break, since taking a shapeshifting Stanley to a hospital where Bill could be active was a terrible idea. That was all. Certainly not because Stanford was worried Stanley would manage to get stuck in a childish form somehow and the two of them would inevitably dredge up old wounds they'd done a passable job of ignoring so far.
Definitely not.
Stanford carefully set the bowl down on the desk. "…perhaps it can wait. At least for a bit."
This seemed to placate Stanley, who visibly sagged against the pillow in relief. "Alright-t."
"In the meantime, we might want to see about getting those bandages of yours removed, at least for a short while." Stanford continued. "They may have done their job before, but you're now much smaller than you were when they were applied. Besides, we ought to let the injury air out a bit."
"Mmm." Stanley nodded and shuffled around so Stanford could get a better look at his back.
Stanford gingerly removed the bandages and tried not to stare at the now-shrunken sigil burnt into Stanley's skin.
(It didn't work.)
"…does it still hurt?" Stanford asked, staring at the brand.
With his good shoulder, Stanley shrugged. "Eh, I c-c-can handle it."
That wasn't an answer.
Stanford pressed his lips together into a thin line, but said nothing about it. (Yet.)
"This may sting a little." He said instead, digging out the disinfectant and dampening the washcloth with it.
"How m-much sting we t-t-talk-OW!"
The moment Stanford's washcloth touched his back, Stanley jolted in place even harder than his baseline shivers would have him shake.
Stanford winced in sympathy. "Sorry."
"What's even in th-that stuff?" Stanley burst, shooting him a wide-eyed stare over his shoulder.
"Well, it has a base of isopropyl alcohol, but I've mixed it with several magical ingredients meant to reduce the possibility and severity of infection. They're used by the supernatural peoples of the woods quite often, and this mixture has done wonders for me in the past." Stanford explained. "In a few moments, the stinging sensation ought to give way to a soothing chill."
Sure enough, as he finished speaking, Stanley visibly relaxed, the tension draining from his shoulders with a sigh. "It d-d-does wonders, huh? What k-kinds?"
Stanford managed a lopsided smile and held out his left arm for Stanley to inspect, as though they were sharing ghost stories beneath their blankets like they once had. "I once had a run-in with a pack of Kill Billies where, in my attempts to escape, I managed to scratch myself terribly on their claws. I had claw-marks running all the way up past my elbow."
"There's n-nothing like that-t here, though." Stanley noted.
"Exactly." Stanford nodded. "You can't tell."
Stanley's eyes grew round, and he huffed out a laugh. "Wish I'd h-h-had some'a this stuff in Colomb-bia."
Oh.
Right.
Just like that, the illusion dissolved.
Stanford swallowed and gently dabbed some more of the mixture onto Stanley's back, careful to trace around the edges of the glowing brand without pressing too hard against the brand itself. Stanley didn't seem to have any further adverse reactions to it, and in fact was beginning to slump against Stanford's hand.
Actually, if Stanley was that relaxed…
"I believe you should get some more sleep." Stanford decided, setting the cloth aside and helping Stanley turn around. "The sooner your fever breaks, the better."
Stanley perked up slightly, but only enough to nod and start feeling around for the back of the bed.
Stanford raised an eyebrow and helped him lean back against his pillow, carefully adjusting his position so he wouldn't rub his burn up against anything. "You just focus on resting, alright, Stanley?"
"Mm-hmm." Stanley yawned and drew his blanket back up over himself. He closed his eyes and mumbled an incomprehensible, "Dun' wanna dr'g y' d'wn long'r'n I gotta."
Stanford frowned and blinked. "…could you perhaps repeat that, Stanley?"
Stanley simply snored a high-pitched snore, already long-gone to dreamland.
Stanford…decided to avoid thinking about what Stanley might have said.
(And if he fell asleep at the desk, surrounded by crumpled up papers filled with hastily-scrawled conjectures about what Stanley may have said, and what he may have meant when he said it…well, he wouldn't realize it until the next morning.)
upcoming snippet from mths because this is probably gonna get split over two chapters and i just want everybody to see the Vibe it has when it's just split up with a line break sodjsjdjsm
no but real talk? I'm going absolutely BONKERS over here looking at how so many people just keep coming back every time I post a chapter. Like…I get roughly 300 hits every chapter. (I'm not doing the math but that's about where it is skdbskdnslsdk) That's 300 times somebody goes "oh sweet new chapter, time to read" for every single update and I, for one, just get absolutely slapped with serotonin whenever I see new kudoses and comments and such. Completely whammied with happies.
i'm trying to be eloquent but it's not working so FORGET THAT skdjskdnskdmdkdjd LET MY INTERNET IMAGES CONVEY MY EMOTIONS
