#onlyonehalf

[itrhymeswithtable]

“While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?”

Mabel frowned, crossing her arms. “I just- I thought- I wanted you and Ford to be happier.”

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How do you feel about Stan and your relationship at the present time? Are you okay with it? What needs to change? //this is a hard one I know but you asked for it//

My muse has just taken a Truth Potion, send “Spill it” plusa question and they will answer.

“Three questions, eh? You’re an inquisitive one. Well, if Imust answer, I’ll keep my answers succinct. For the first question, I’ddescribe the relationship as rightfully strained; if you asked Stan, he wouldn’tacknowledge that there even is one anymore. For the second, no, I’m not ‘okay’with it, and never have been for forty years. For the third, I’ll take theliberty of going into further detail.

One change on his part would be to find the need toapologize for things he has done. Accidents or not, there has never been anapology for my never being told about that project’s destruction, for the humiliationI endured at all my college dreams being wrenched from me, for being betrayed by the one person I trusted implicitly,for threatening to burn two years of my life that I had just entrusted to someone who had norightful claim on my trust at that time, for pushing me into a thirty-year exile in relative hell, and, despite how I clearly had nearly lost my mind topanicked fear over it, for ignoring my warning to never open the portal again. Muchmay have been different or could be different if the knucklehead had ever feltor will ever feel the need to apologize for the pain he causes, whether byaccident or on purpose.

A change on my part, I suppose, would be…an attempt to lookat situations through his perspective instead of solely my own. I find his point of view rather baffling, mostly, but that doesn’t give me the right to dismiss italtogether. But…I am tired of trusting someone who’s thrown it into my facemore than once. If he truly wants reconciliation, he’ll have to earn my trustagain; I won’t give it away so freely, carelessly this time.”

@onlyonehalf

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@onlyonehalf

Stanley shuffled into the living room with his coffee, settling down in his armchair as he took in the room. Dipper and Mabel had already sorted out their presents and were ripping into them with joy, and he sat back satisfied that the morning had went well for the kids. Turning to look at the tree near him, his eyes caught a gift placed underneath that, upon further inspection, read “To: Stanley– From: Stanford”. Confusion rang in his brain, and he opened the gift quickly to see what on earth this was. Inside, Stan glimpsed a wooden carving, and a note that instructed him to ‘finish unwrapping outside’…? /What the heck does that mean?/ Stan thought curiously, putting away the note and holding up the carving to see it fully. A sign. It read ‘The Mystery Shack’ in fantastical lettering, with the additions of various supernatural creatures expertly etched into the wood surrounding the letters. Obviously completely done by hand.  “Woah… Didn’t know you were so good with wood carving, Poindexter! Ha, funny you should make an ode to the tourist trap takin’ over your home. Also– nice job with the monsters– that’ll get suckers rollin’ in for sure, heh heh!”

Even as he awaited Stanley’s opening of his gift, Ford surveyed the scene before him, a smile forming at the relative tornado of wrapping and tissue paper accompanied by joyous cries. For the first time in thirty years, the author could celebrate the holiday instead of warily looking over his shoulder for potential threats; for the first time in forty years, he actually had a reason to celebrate the season. However, this newfound sense of safety was mired slightly by his nerves over his gift for Stan, over what he meant by it. Would his brother understand? If he did, would he ever accept an offer his twin had thrown back in his face months before?

As Stan finally spotted the gift, Ford took a breath, the friction increasing between his palms as he rubbed them together. A relieved exhale came in response to Stan’s words, although he noted how his note had been disregarded. “Well, I’ve developed it slowly, here and there; it’s a rather difficult medium to work with. The gift isn’t for me, after all; it’s my house, your home.” His lips thinned briefly, yet he gave a wane smile, rising to his feet before quirking a brow upward.

“As much as I know you hate reading, much less following the instructions, I put them there for a reason. Are you going to come outside with your gift, or are you content with an incomplete gift?” Striding toward the front door, the researcher leaned against the doorframe, hand stuffed into a pocket as his fingers rolled over the smooth surface of a height-altering crystal.

This plan has to work…it’s my last chance.

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Lean on Me (AU)

@onlyonehalf and @callmehotpants

Graduation night had arrived, the pinnacle of high school’s scholastic achievement, yet its events held a far different quality than Stanford Pines had ever expected. Oh, he had predicted his delivery of the valedictorian speech; he had even planned and practiced the speech months before the confirmation of his achieving the honor. What he had not predicted was that a singular empty chair would distract him every moment of his speech, his gaze consistently drifting toward that seat alphabetically placed next to his own. Someone, apparently, gained a sickening sense of satisfaction by placing that unnecessary chair in the auditorium.

The teen thinned his lips, obstinately finishing his speech before taking his seat next to the empty one. No…I won’t let him ruin this moment for me too. It’s bet–…it has to be this way. Even in his renewed determination to push away any thoughts even remotely connected to Stanley, Stanford began to ruminate on yet another face he had missed as his gaze had swept over the “M” section; certainly, Carla and he had spoken less since the science fair incident, but he had believed she would be here. Lost in his pensive musing, he had nearly tuned out the various chattering of the surrounding students until two familiar names caught his attention.

As small a town as Glass Shard Beach was, it did not come as a surprise that gossip spread easily, especially with such events as first, a hippie musician’s van run into a ravine by an enraged Stanley Pines—that I can believe, easily—but second, a sudden flight of not only the same hippie musician, but also Carla McCorkle. Now that…that is strange. Why would she leave without a word, a letter…a phone call? Unless…this Thistle Downe character is more than he seems—or less, in this instance. Throughout the remainder of the ceremony, a light frown remained on Stanford’s features, a plan formulating that he acted upon as soon as the graduation ended.

Several hours later, the teen sat in his room, staring exasperatedly at the record player that played the rather terrible, yet harmless music of Thistle Downe. I’ve listened to this song multiple times, I’ve slowed it down considerably, yet nothing…could my suspicion of subliminal messages be unfounded? Yet Carla’s behavior doesn’t make sense without some other factor; what am I missing? Ugh, I’ve listened to this song every which way, forwards, backwards—wait. Backwards—Ford, honestly?” Groaning at his near-sighted approach, Ford placed a finger on the record, spinning it backward only to be greeted with the monotone command of “Come away with me, come away with me, come far away with me.”

“I knew it!” He hissed, any satisfaction in the discovery that proved him right overwhelmed by the outrage of Carla being used, hypnotized for that—that piece of garbage’s pleasure. Indecision played upon his features, for as much as he desired, needed to free her from the musician’s grasp, how could he? First, he had no idea where exactly Thistle had traveled, or would travel; taking a bus haphazardly across the country was not a feasible option, neither in time nor in money. Second, how could he explain or be allowed to take the journey? He knew his parents would not condone this use of his time, especially his father. I know all this, but I can’t let it go. I know—I hope she would do the same for me if our places were switched. I’m going to find a way, somehow… An uneasiness settled within him, his eventual pacing only halting when a distasteful, but feasible option dawned upon him. Well, there’s only one person I know with a car, a motivation, and a left hook that would clean that hippie’s clock…you have to do this for her, Ford.

A heavy sigh preceded Stanford’s flurry of motion, a duffel bag soon filled with the record, a couple changes of clothes, a blanket, a smaller messenger bag, what money he had stored beneath a floorboard, a copy of The Hobbit, and, after a moment’s hesitation, another blanket, a pen, and blue, leather-bound journal. Stopping by the bathroom, the teen gathered necessary toiletries, repeating the process with non-perishable food items. A quick yet detailed note soon lay upon the kitchen counter, elaborating that earlier that evening, he had been approached by a college scout, a man that gave him an offer he could not refuse. By offering him an opportunity to view various colleges across the nation—expenses paid—Stanford believed the man could be a means to gain a more prestigious college, perhaps even earn a scholarship through circumstances during the summer. Noting that he would be absent for a considerable time, he promised to call if he could. There—that’s the best I can do for now. The prospect of future money should help Dad ‘cope’ with my absence.  

A final glance given to his hom—no, house—Stanford exited the front door, his mouth set in a grim line as the early morning darkness settled around him. His steps turned toward the shore, a silent hope repeating in his mind. You had better still be in in town, knucklehead, or this quest is already looking bleaker than I’m expecting it to be.”

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@onlyonehalf

Stan’s brows narrowed in confusion as he overheard an unfamiliar child’s voice sounding from the gift shop of the Mystery Shack. Touring hours were closed…

The old man rose out of his armchair, walking swiftly to the front of the house to see who was there. He balked at the middle of the room, however, as his eyes caught sight of a small child exactly resembling his twin brother- when he was a child? Stanley’s mouth hung agape, a million things running through his mind but none of them making it to his throat. Instead, he let out a scream.

“What kind o’ sick joke is this?!”

Stanford’s initial unamused irritation with his certainly well-hidden twin faded as that twin appeared to be nowhere in sight…or within hearing range. Maybe…this isn’t Stan pulling one over on me; maybe I really have been…abducted by an extraterrestrial with an odd fixation with human antiques? I don’t understand…unless I’ve just been…kidnapped by some creepy person who wants a child of their own for some reason. But why wouldn’t they have taken Stanley—no, it’s good they didn’t take Stan, at least he’s sa—

A man’s scream ripped through the silent air, the boy reacting in kind as he spun around, flashlight chancing to shine at the man’s features while his higher-pitched scream continued.

“Eyahhhhhhhhh!”

Rapidly backing away, Stanford nearly tripped over an exhibit, choosing to stand still for a moment, his breath halting as the gruff, angered tone of the stranger sounded. “Er-um-i-it’s not a joke, sir, at least I don’t think it’s very funny, if it is one. I didn’t mean to be here, and I don’t know where here is, and if you’re not the one that brought me to your—basement, I think—then I would really like to go home now. Just—please, let me go, because I promise I haven’t touched anything or done anything wrong. I have no idea how or why I got here.”

His hands raised in a placating gesture, eyes pleading for understanding with a hint of fear. “I’m sure you’re a very nice man, but I really have to go home. Could you please tell me where I am? That way, I can leave your house even faster, s-sir.”

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💓

Send 💓 to my muse to hear about someone they love dearly. @solverofmysteries​ & @onlyonehalf

“He can be a cantankerous, obstinate fool at times...only at times, however. Mostly, he’s merely a cantankerous, obstinate man that hides a sentimental sap underneath his many layers. Those kids mean the world to him...those he considers family usually do. Blunt as he may be, his latter sense of judgement is fairly accurate.”

Dangerous know-it-all, eh, Stan?

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continued from x @onlyonehalf

Only a few moments after the last words slipped past his lips, Ford noted the speechlessness of the other, a dulled guilty pang flaring in his chest, yet this feeling was soon lost in his own anger, his own hurt and pride mingling in a toxic mixture, burning beneath his lips. Despite his own livid nature, however, he instinctively drew back as Stanley rose, a cautionary space between them. I haven’t forgotten what happened in this very house thirty years ago, after all…I won’t be taken by surprise by his wrath this time.

At another time, with another person, perhaps Stanley’s words would have incited him to reflect, to reevaluate his approach or even his viewpoint, yet, still, even after their rift, his brother had the capability of influencing his emotions and words the most. “YOU LEFT ME FIRST!” Ford spat, reason and the calming reassurance of intellect forgotten as reactive speech dominated his mind. “You BETRAYED me, at a time I needed your support more than ever. It wasn’t about the mistake, Stanley—it NEVER was just about the broken project. Do you really think that family was the same, was able to be lived with, after you were gone? Ma couldn’t even look at me afterwards; she only ever saw YOU. Oh, and Dad, he was such a joy to live with when you were there; imagine how it was without you. I can’t tell you how many times I heard how I ‘should have made a better machine, one that wouldn’t have been so easy to damage.’ I practically ran out of that house after graduation and never looked back.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Ford clenched his fists, tension evident in his frame as the other paused; a brief thought of concern for the twins who had been sleeping above their heads passing through his mind before he returned his focus to the topic at hand. A fractional portion of his mind noticed the other’s worn features, an internal worry niggling his conscience, yet he had already begun to release years of cloistered thoughts, emotions. The chance that they would address this topic again before summer’s end was slim to none; he had to speak now or remain silent.

“…I don’t condone everything that contributed to your feeling that way, but I don’t think you realize how- how liberating it was for you. To have no expectations placed on you- can’t you see how much easier that is?” His tone, still raised, took a more frustrated note than one of outright hostility. “You can’t fathom that pressure; it doesn’t matter how intelligent you are, unless you prove it over, and over, and over again. Any achievement, once you’ve made several, becomes not enough on its own merit; again, and again, and again you have to succeed. That expectation of your intelligence becomes all that’s seen of you, all you’re measured by; better has to become best, and best has to become great. You’re right when you say my intellect was what was noticed, but it was…the one abnormality that was acceptable, praised, even. That college wasn’t just something I wanted because it interested me, Stanley; it was something I needed to achieve the final proof of the one thing going /right/ for me in life. I needed to prove to the rest of the town –the world–that my existence had worth, and that was…the first and only time Dad ever said he would be impressed, after all the work I’d done over the years. …I had to prove you right for standing by me when no one would.”

His gaze shifted to the floor for a moment, reliving that day’s emotions as his nails dug into his palms. A strain entered his speech, a continuation of allowing what had been left unspoken. “Do you have /any/ idea how humiliating that day was? My work, my one asset looked like a joke in front of so many influential people; it was a perfect reflection of the joke called my life that I’d always been the butt of. Once again, there was only one person I could depend on…except I couldn’t that day.”

Ford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in turn. Steeling himself to continue, he treaded in the treacherous minefield his emotions could be. “You know, it wasn’t the fact you broke the project that caused me to…react as I did. It’s that you didn’t /apologize/ for it; you didn’t care what it represented to me. You just- thought everything was okay as far as you were concerned- I wasn’t going anywhere. That’s what angered me. …I was going to set sail with you after college, you know…I intended to raise the capital needed to travel. I just felt I couldn’t run away from the world’s stigma before beating it.”

Pursing his lips, the author turned aside, tone finally quietening. “You’re not a screw-up, Stanley; your mistakes haven’t threatened the entire world. Mine have. Rest assured, for the scar I gave you, I’ve paid thirty-fold. You may not know who you are anymore, but…at times I wish I could forget who I am.”

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"I'm not going to leave you the moment you do something I disagree with."

Perhaps for the very reason that those words from hisbrother would have resonated within his soul forty years ago, they only mockedhim now, a taunt that ended what guarded reserve Stanford had accumulated sincehis disappearance.  Having emerged fromthe basement to brew yet another cup of coffee, he turned sharply to faceStanley, the strain of exhaustion mingled with stress coupled with the gall ofthose words causing him to snap,

“Oh? Really—you really have the nerve to say something likethat to me now, after what happened?!Where were you then, on that day of the project? Or oh—oh—“

His eyes flashed, anger yet a fractional hint of hurt withinhis gaze. “Is this directed toward me, then? Is that what this is?! That I justcast you out or left for no legitimate reason,‘more sinned against than sinning,’ eh? If you think that—“

Ford advanced, setting the mug on a side table beforepointing toward the other’s chest, voice lowering as he shook with indignation.Well, let’s have it out now then…maybenow I’ll be able to say my share—and he’ll listen instead of sending me away into trans-universal hell.

“—then you’re buying your own con.”