Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Who is that??” Dipper asked, his brow knitting together as he gawked at the short, compact figure that- only seconds ago- crossed through the glowing maw of the wrecked portal.

“I- I don’t know,” Stan sputtered. “This isn’t- wasn’t who I thought would…”

The figure was dressed in all black, a thick scarf and a small pair of metallic goggles entirely obscuring the face. Thick, wild brown hair poked out from the front of the jacket’s hood. They began to walk towards him and the rest of his family as the shimmering blue light from the portal began to die out.

“I dunno ‘bout you, but that looks like a kid to me, dudes,” Soos whispered to Dipper and Mabel probably a little louder than intended, hand cupped against his lips like a megaphone.

The four watched in uncomfortable silence as this mysterious fifth person crossed to their side of the basement, their heavy boots forming clear footprints in the dirt. They stopped in front of the red leather journal. The first of the author’s journals, the journal Stan had kept in secret down here all this time. Slowly, the figure reached their pale hand towards the cover. They splayed their fingers out over the gold foil six-fingered hand, revealing…

That they had six fingers as well.

Dipper’s mouth went slack. “What..?”

“The author?” Mabel whispered. “That’s the author??”

The two glanced at Stan, searching for answers, but their Grunkle’s expression was close to unreadable. What they could tell was that he appeared just as surprised and confused as they did, his eyes blown wide and his mouth screwed into that sort of anxious frown he got whenever he couldn’t figure something out.

The small figure (the author??) picked up the journal, hugged it to their chest with one hand, and then used the other to pull back their scarf and goggles. Instantly Dipper saw that Soos was right. This mysterious person was a kid. A young boy, probably right around his age. He wore thick glasses. Untamed brown waves- just a little longer than a usual boy’s haircut- framed his face. Oddly, Dipper found that the shape of the boy’s nose reminded him a lot of the Pines family nose. At first a part of him just dialed that to coincidence, but the more he thought about it the resemblance he found within this boy’s face to his own was quite interesting. His small mouth was set into a scowl as he looked around the basement, to the wrecked portal, and finally towards Grunkle Stan.

“Ford…?” Stan whispered, breaking the thick sheet of silence. “Wha… what ha-“

“What happened?” the boy- Ford- said in a clipped manner. “Time. Mistakes. Years of my life, stolen away. It’s a long story, Stanley, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m in the mood to relive it at this time.”

Dipper, Mabel, and Soos watched in utter confusion as the two continued to converse in familiarity.

“So like… Mr. Pines knows him?” Soos wondered out loud.

“It looks like it,” Dipper replied, continuing to watch the pair talk. The kid seemed really upset with Stan, and from what he could hear was chastising him for activating something. Activating the portal, maybe?

Mabel pulled at her brother’s arm. “But this makes no sense! If he’s the author,” she said, jabbing her finger towards the black clothed kid, “then why is he so young? The journal was from the eighties, Dipper. The roarin’ eighties!”

They watched as Stan opened his arms, as if desiring to hug the child. Ford hesitated for a moment, scowl returning to his face, but soon it softened and he accepted the affection. Their Grunkle wrapped his hands around the kid’s small frame as tightly as he could.

“I know you’re still angry with me and everythin’, but I really missed ya’,” he said. Dipper could swear he could see a stray tear in his eye.

The corner of Ford’s mouth tilted into a smile, just for a second, but it was there. “I don’t like the risky move you made, restarting the portal,” he said, shooting a slight glare towards Stan, “but I… I am glad to be home.”

“Sorry Sixer, ‘m not apologizing for that. Never would, never will.”

“You always were a stubborn ass,” the kid said with a short chuckle.

Stan’s face froze. He pulled away from the hug, his expression twisted into pure horror.

“Whoa, whoa, Ford! Watch your language! Not around the- oh,” he interjected himself suddenly, scratching awkwardly at the nape of his neck. “I, uh… I guess I never thought ta’ introduce everyone.”

Now it was Ford’s turn to panic. His eyes shot wide open, finally noticing the other three people standing around the basement. “Stan, you didn’t tell me there were children down here!” he replied, his voice raising into a slightly higher register.

“You’re a child now, Poindexter. It takes one to know one,” he said matter-of-factly, and ruffled the disgruntled kid’s hair. 

Ford swatted his hand away in indignation. “Please don’t patronize me.”

Stan rubbed his hands together, and then gestured towards the boy. “Anyways. Kids, Soos, this is- well, this is my twin brother. Ford. He’s kinda, eh… smaller. Than usual. Ford, this is your family. Shermie’s grandkids…”

Chapter Text

Ford sat in the shadows of his old sitting parlor, trapped deep in a labyrinth of thought. Two bare feet dangled over the edge of the couch. Thanks to his diminutive stature his legs couldn’t reach the floor, and it was making him feel ridiculous. A pity he’d never acknowledged what a blessing being taller than 4’9” was before he fell into this predicament. And what a dreadful, annoying predicament it was. He found it hard enough pushing himself to extremes beyond the portal as an adult, trapped in an unforgiving world where he often wouldn’t have food to eat for days and had to constantly remain vigilant of the agendas of those around him. But traversing this road in the guise of a child?

Sometimes he truly wondered how he was still alive.

He’d tried his best to move past the set back then. He’d tried his best to keep his morale up, his wits about him despite his clear disadvantage. He’d tried to ignore dwelling on the logical repercussions. However, the unspeakable reality was that— barring supernatural intervention— he was stuck like this forever, a man with decades of life experience reverted in form to an age no older than the great niece and nephew he’d met only yesterday. Ford fancied himself a master of denial towards this fate before his brother activated the portal and unexpectedly dragged him home. But now, everything and everyone around him just served to prove how wrong this all was, how wrong he felt in his own skin.

Thirty years.

He’d been gone for thirty damn years, long enough for Stanley’s hair to grey and the skin of his face to crease and sag with age. He was supposed to look like him. He was supposed to age alongside his brother, and now no one would ever think to guess they were twins.

His wrists faintly quivered as he lay his palms out flat on his lap. He stared at his hands intently until his eyes watered and he was forced to blink. The skin was too smooth, too young and unblemished. Long ago a small part of him marveled at how the adjusting of his biological clock erased the decades of wear and tear, but now he’d do anything to see his old healed over wounds and scars. Anything...if only to remind himself that those past fifty or so years were real. He wrapped the scarf he brought back with him through the portal— plum purple in color— tighter around his neck.

A knock on the door rapidly shook him away from this maelstrom of thoughts. Hastily, he shot to his feet, thoroughly embarrassed at the thought of someone seeing him dangle his legs on a too-deep couch.

“Come in,” he said, cursing internally at just how small his voice sounded.

The door opened, and as expected in waltzed his brother. “Hey. Those clothes the kids found for ya’ working out fine?” Stanley asked whilst appraising his new duds.

A few minutes earlier, Mabel enthusiastically offered to lend him any of her dozens of homemade sweaters. After searching through her (alarmingly massive) inventory, (seriously, how does a child find the time to knit a new sweater every single day?) he eventually settled on an azure blue one, with a big floppy cowl neck and a constellation painted in glitter. Dipper lent him a spare pair of shorts, and shoes to try on. Immediately succeeding that, the kids scuttled away into the forest claiming they were trying to find ‘a magical cure’ for his condition. He appreciated their care and enthusiasm, but knew from experience they would return empty handed.

“Mostly,” he said, tugging at the neck of his sweater. “The shoes don’t fit.”

“Well of course they don’t,” Stanley murmured quietly, glancing down at Ford’s bare toes pressed against the wood floor. “Dipper’s got small feet. We’ll have to get some new ones for ya’. We can do that now, actually— I’m not givin’ any tours today, the Shack in the state it is.” 

Ford shook his head rapidly, feeling his heart rate increase exponentially at the idea of having to venture into town. Within the past few years he discovered his perceived vulnerability due to appearance skyrocketed amongst large crowds, and always tried his best to avoid them at all means. He couldn’t even count on both hands how many times he’d evaded capture for the trans-dimensional child slave trade.

“N-no need,” he said, words strained from the lump forming in his throat. “My boots will more than suffice.”

“No. I’m not about to let ya’ clomp around in those dusty ol’ things all summer.”

“Well, what’s wrong with them? They fit perfectly fine.”

“They’re combat boots, Ford! The toes are solid metal. There’s utterly no reason for you to be wearin’ such heavy, ridiculous shoes in a place like this, lookin’ as young as you do, no less. And since no other shoes here fit, I’m taking you to the store and buyin’ you new ones!” His brother paused thoughtfully, scratching at his ear. “Oh uh... or stealing. Whatever gets me the most bang for my buck, y’know?”

He dug his fists into the folds of the sweater, ignoring both the last comment made and the rush of hurt that filled his chest at his twin’s untimely reminder of his condition. “While I appreciate the thought, I’m not sure you understand the sheer scope of how uninterested I am in going to town right now, Stanley.”

Stan tilt his head, peering at Ford with a searching gaze that reminded him far too much of the countless alien creature he caught gawking at him whenever he lingered in a market place for too long.

“What, you’re scared of what they’ll think? About you?” he asked evenly. “You’ll be fine, poindexter. They’re all idiots, remember? I can tell ‘em anything I want and they’ll eat it up. Probably wouldn’t make the connection you’re worried about anyways.”

“Bu—“

“But nothing!” Stanley poked him in the chest. He squirmed under the touch. “You need a pair of normal, everyday shoes. You’re coming with me and that’s final. Get your boots on for now, and meet me by the car.” 

Ford stood motionless until his brother left the room, staring at the open door for so long he couldn’t rightly say how much time had passed.

“Dammit,” he muttered. In haste, he reached for his socks and boots and yanked them on, knowing that despite his deep-set reservations at venturing into public, it was preferable to go willingly rather than be dragged along by his stubborn twin brother. 

And who knows? If he behaved, perhaps he could convince Stan to buy him a pair of sturdy kid’s hiking boots instead of sneakers.

As he feared, the Gravity Falls Mall— lovingly referred to as ‘Gravity Malls’ for bad humor’s sake— was full to the brim, and within minutes he’d developed a faint headache from sensory overload. The florescent lights were tinted a cool white that irritated his eyes. A myriad of scents— ranging from smoked ham to odiferous body washes— assaulted his nose without reprieve. The radio playing in the background mingled with the din of the shoppers, all the sound quickly fading into a single cacophonous orchestration. Without warning a taller figure shoved past him, causing him to stumble straight into his brother’s side. He shot a dark glare at the perpetrator, and tightened his grip on the compact dagger concealed in the pocket of his shorts. In response Stanley held him by the shoulder more firmly than before, and continued to lead him through the throngs of civilization.

However, past his own shot nerves and the carelessness of the people he shared this space with, he was surprisingly able to find some degree of amusement in this endeavor. Ford rolled his eyes as he read some of the store marquees. Most of the store names seemed just as quirky as the townsfolk who shopped there. Immediately to his left was a store proudly called Overalls Are Cool Now, which sold— as one might expect— nothing but various styles of overalls. Nearby were the shops Build a Beaver, (some sort of kid’s stuffed animal store), Edgy on Purpose, (punk teenagers probably accumulated here en mass), and— he had to stifle a laugh at this one— Beebly Boop’s Videogames.

 Odd wares aside however, the greatest mystery about this mall was probably how it avoided being flipped upside down by the portal’s activation.

“You know, I’m faintly surprised that this mall is in as good of a condition as it is,” he mused out loud after thoroughly searching for signs of damage and finding next to nothing, “considering that strange earthquake that happened yesterday. 

His brother quirked a knowing eyebrow. “Huh. That is interestin’. Perhaps it's because the epicenter of the, uh... the earthquake was so far from this side of town that its effects simply didn’t reach here.”

Epicenter, as in the portal itself, currently sitting in the basement of his house a few miles away. Good point. This must mean the portal’s affect upon gravity weakens with distance due to the interaction of the Dimensional Slippage Principle, he thought. Though he supposed if he had successfully carried out the tests on his creation back in the eighties he’d have considered this already. Nonetheless, his lips curved into a slight smile at Stanley’s logic.

“The potentiality of that is quite valid.”

“Oh, y’think so?” Stan was positively beaming at his praise, his face more alight with life than it’d been for a long while.

He hummed in positive.

They reached the foot of the escalator before long, and Ford hesitantly stepped on. While riding the step to the second floor however, he couldn’t help but notice some people on the escalator glancing towards him. Their expressions weren’t exactly what he’d deem predatory, (yet), but their lingering gaze unnerved him enough that he buried his hands further into the pockets of his shorts and pressed himself ever-so-slightly closer to his brother.

As he did so, Stan squeezed his arm. “You okay, Ford?” 

He nodded, forcing down a heavy swallow as he tried with no success to ignore the harmless actions of the townsfolk around him. He utterly despised how useless attempts to mask his fear were in this hormone flooded adolescent body. No room for subtlety existed in his expressions now.

“Well hang in there, Sixer. we’re almost there.”

Once they reached the second floor’s landing, he noted with annoyance that this section of the mall was no less busy than the last one. Nuts 4 Hardware, a home improvement supply shop, seemed to be holding a lucrative sale. A literal riot of people crowded past the doors, the store not able to contain the sheer amount of chaos occurring within its walls. He supposed it made sense, given that a portion of the town had been shaken to pieces yesterday. As he continued to survey his chaotic surroundings, he noticed he began to feel slightly... disconnected from the present, his limbs seeming as if they were moving on automatic rather than acting on the whims of his mind. Ford rapidly grabbed a fistful of his scarf in response, stroking his fingers against the grain of the soft worn fabric to ground himself.

Before he knew it, his brother and him had arrived at their destination, a store called Brown’s Shoe Fit. Stan steered a disgruntled Ford towards the children’s shoe section. Much to his dismay, a fair number of townsfolk diverting their attention towards them to greet his brother, who apparently had forged a more positive rapport here than he’d previously realized. Once their gaze fell upon him, however, their friendliness turned to neutral curiosity. He squirmed where he stood, and leaned close to his twin to whisper to him. 

“Just so you know, if anyone asks... I’m not gonna be your son or grandchild,” he grumbled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

His twin chuckled at this, his warm gravelly laughter filling the store and turning heads. Frantically, he tugged at his arm to regain his attention.

“Stan! Would you cut that out? I’m serious! See what you’ve done? Now the entire store is staring at us!”

“I’m- uh,” he began, clearing his throat once he’d quieted his amusement enough to speak again. “I’m sorry to hand this to ya’, sport, but that’s probably exactly what people will think.”

“Then fix it! Lie to them. You said it yourself these townsfolk would believe anything you say.”

“Well yeah, but—“

“Surely it wouldn’t be that difficult for the so-called ‘My Mystery’ to cook up a suitable ruse about my sudden existence?” Ford queried pointedly, making air quotes with his index and first middle finger as he called upon his brother’s newest moniker. He then began to sort through the displays of shoes for something suitable, glancing up periodically to monitor Stan’s facial expressions.

“I mean sure, I can do that if you really want me to, but...”

The question hung in the air far longer than either brother was comfortable with. Notably, Stan displayed the same air of uneasiness as that time their seventh-grade algebra teacher asked him to the board to solve an equation but he’d been horsing around throughout the entire lesson. 

“But what?”

“I...” His brother paused, visibly considering his words. “Ford, why are you so against being introduced as my grandkid? You know that would make the most sense. It’d be easiest to forge in the future, too.”

He groaned, pressing his face into his hands. For god’s sake, this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right here, right now! “Never mind, just- figure out another plausible backstory, will you?”

Stan’s mouth hardened, causing the lines on his face to become so pronounced that for once, his age was truly evident. “Y’know what, I’m getting real tired of you dodgin’ or bein’ stubborn ‘bout every simple thing I ask or sa—“

“I said never mind!” he snapped in a half whisper, pouring as much resolve and authority as was possible into his adolescent voice.

“Geeze, okay, okay!”

His brother threw his hands up in defense, and left the aisle to give him some space.

Ford took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reveled in the sudden peace and quiet the man’s absence brought. Thoughtfully, he began surveying the available stock of shoes. He picked up a small pair of children’s boots and ran his fingers over the tread, bending the rubber to test for flexibility. After a few minutes he found two suitable pairs in his size, and wandered towards a plastic cushioned bench to try them on.

He’d only pulled one boot over his socked foot when a woman about Stan’s age with voluminous grey hair coiffed atop her head approached with an overbearingly enthusiastic smile. Her face was caked in heavy makeup, and she appeared to have a lazy eye.

“Awww, well who’s this cute lil’ cutie face?” the old woman said in a drawl.

Ford slowly scooted away from her, not immediately recognizing her as any sort of threat but not desiring conversation with one of these... mindless townsfolk. He wrapped his arms around himself, hoping to appear closed off enough that she might give up and walk away. Annoyingly however, he could sense her persistence. He narrowed his eyes, preparing himself internally for a round of pedantic small talk. There was always a certain condescending manner in which older generations conversed with children he found, and being on the receiving end of that was never a pleasing way to spend an afternoon.

“Never seen you in town before! They call me Lazy Susan. What’s your name, hon?”

“I’m no—" 

“Oh would ya’ look at that! If it’s isn’t my gal Susie,” Stan cut in suddenly as he returned to the aisle, blessedly rescuing Ford from any awkward encounters.

Susan pulled her lips back, smiling toothily at his brother. Half of those teeth were severely yellowed from age. Discreetly Ford made a face.

“Well hi, Stan! I was just talking to this cute young child right here,” she said. “Is he yours?”

“Yeah,” he said, brows pursed. Ford could nearly see the gears in his head turning, trying to come up with a suitable lie that would satisfy both his request and the woman’s voracious curiosity. “Yeah, he’s mine. This is my, uh... well, he’s... kinda Dipper and Mabel’s second cousin! Just came to town to visit.”

“Oh, is he your grandchild then?”

He shot a dirty look at Stan that might as well have been laced with poison. Stan shrugged and mouthed, I know, I’ll fix it. He then jabbed his fingers towards the boots that sat beside him, motioning for Ford to continue trying them on.

“Wow, I never knew you had children,” Susan continued, oblivious to the non-vocal conversation going on around her. “I always kinda assumed you were a... y’know, a bachelor. Wink!”

Ford doubted it was physically possible to roll his eyes any further without rolling them backwards in his skull. He untied the laces of the second boot quickly, keeping a wary eye on the scene in front of him. The older woman seemed harmless enough, but he deemed it smarter to be proactive for once than reap the consequences later. 

“No no, he’s actually not mine, he’s my brother’s,” his twin lied effortlessly, plastering on a wide showman’s smile. “I’m his great uncle too, y’see?”

Great uncle? Okay. He could accept that for now.

Not delighted at the prospect of listening to the two gossip about him for the next passage of time however, Ford allowed their voices to fade into obscurity. He pulled the boot— a black lace-up— onto his foot, tugging at the lip to draw it over his heel. Wiggling his toes to test the fit, he quickly determined that this pair proved workable. He stood up and walked a few paces in them. They were appropriately snug, but not uncomfortable to wear. His fingers made quick work untying the laces, and he moved on to the next pair he’d pulled from the shelf, brown this time. Thankfully, at the edge of his peripherals he noticed Susan finally bid farewell and toddle off for another aisle. Good riddance, he thought, wrinkling his nose.

Stanley sat down on the bench next to him, letting out a heavy, weary sounding sigh. The plastic cushion sank under the added weight. His brother watched intently as he fumbled with the thick laces of the second pair of boots, pulling them taut.

After surveying their surroundings, Stan’s head owlishly swiveling from left to right, he leaned forward to whisper. “Hurry up and pick somethin’, would you,” he muttered, low tone doing nothing to conceal the roughness in his voice. “I’m losing my window.”

Ford pressed on the boot’s front, finding the tip of his toes. “Dare I ask what you mean by ‘window?’” he queried, raising a brow.

“My window of opportunity, of course!” his brother replied, bestowing him with a wide shit-eating grin. “The cashier’s gone to the back and there’s no tellin’ how soon she’ll return. These shoes ain’t gonna steal themselves, Ford.”

He could feel his face flush red with frustration. “F-for god’s sake, Stanley! You’re not stealing any shoes.”

“What,” Stan said with a bark of laughter, “you worried about the police catchin’ me? The only two policemen in town? The sheriff and his deputy are so distracted by their mutual pining that I could pickpocket both of ‘em and they wouldn’t notice, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m- listen, I’m worried because it’s wrong! It’s a crime.”

“Naw, it’s a crime that these shoes are marked up this expensive. Now shut your yap and let’s get movin’! Which ones have you tried on?”

“Um—“ he paused to grab the first pair of boots— “just these two. Thankfully they both fit well, but I’m at a loss as to which I prefer.”

“Oh great,” Stan groaned, burying his face into his hands. “I can’t believe I forgot how picky you always were about shoes.”

Ignoring his dramatics, Ford placed his foot over his opposite leg so he could compare his two choices. “I suppose I would prefer black, but the brown ones I’m wearing have a sturdier sole and do feel like they’re more durable...”

“Come on, sounds like the ones you’re wearin’ are good enough, let’s go!”

“Peculiarly, the brown ones are less expensive,” he continued musing out loud, hoping the ice in his glare would convince his twin to sit back down and release his arm from his grasp. “I suppose price would also be important to consider, right, Stanley?”

“Uh- Ford?”

“But if I bought the black boots I would get an extra pair of laces. Might be helpful.” He smiled wryly, at this point only seeking to press his brother’s buttons. Or to corner him into paying the cashier like any self-respecting adult. While lost in the multiverse he could excuse petty thievery in a matter of life or death— which in his case, it often was— but in his home dimension surrounded by CCTV cameras and noisy bystanders to witness such an act? Shoplifting shoes, of all things? Inexcusable.

“Ford, the sales woman is coming back.”

“Hmm....”

“Ford, I’m beggin’ you. I’m literally begging you to choose. I didn’t even bring my wallet!”

He picked up the black boot, and brought it close to his face as if he were attempting to solve some nebulous, vexing equation that had woven itself within the stitching. “Perhaps I should try on the first pair again to compare the two...”

Without forewarning Stanley ground his tightly closed fists into the plastic cushion of the bench. Ford’s entire body seized up in response to the unexpected motion and suddenly he found himself trapped within an insufferable second of infinity, hidden between ill-timed words and reminders of this unwanted fortune.

“Sweet Moses, stop actin’ like a damn child and just pick a pair!” his brother snarled, eyes ablaze with ire and his brow dropping a dark shadow onto his face. 

Dazedly, Ford wiped Stan’s stray spit off his cheek. All the light and vigor drained from his body in an instant. He threw the black boots back onto the shelf, collected his original pair in his arms, and—  without sparing a single glance at Stan— began to stride towards the entrance of the store.

Everything that occurred after that passed by without much conscious input or recollection.

At some point, he was vaguely aware of collapsing into the back seat of a car— that anciently old El Diablo, red, its luster worn down from years of loyal service— and of painted blurs of green, brown, and blue whirring past his window. And he supposed he faintly recalled a few things... impassioned shouting, bumbling apologies, (‘M sorry, god I’m sorry I didn’t think didn’t mean to say that I didn’t mean to—), strong arms hefting him up like a rag doll... even through the impressions these stimuli left were hazy, as if they originated from miles away.

Ford.

Fingers wove through soft fabric.

Ford, talk to me, please!

This familiar motion, once a source of comfort, left him empty for once.

Ford. Sixer. Come on, listen ta’ me, please! I said I was sorry...

The gravelly voice faded into the recesses of his mind, crushed by the memory of the words that had shattered his morale once and for all.

A child. He called me a fucking child.

Is that all anyone could see of him anymore?

He hugged his original boots closer to his chest. Could feel the weight of the stolen ones on his feet. His eyes grew damp, and for once in his long, fatiguing life he didn’t even bother wiping them dry.

Chapter Text

“Sweet Moses, stop actin’ like a damn child and just pick a pair!”

…

“Ford.”

No response.

“Ford, talk to me, please!”

He could see his brother’s small body curled up against the door in the rearview mirror. His face entirely blank, his eyes trained on some landmark of interest outside the window but bleary, unfocused. His jaw clenched.

“Ford. Sixer. Come on, listen ta’ me, please! I said I was sorry…”

_______________________________________

The moment Stanley Pines set his car into park alongside the Shack, he heard the rear passenger door swing open and little feet storm up the steps of the gift shop into obscurity. He didn’t even have to see his brother’s no-doubt tear stained eyes to gain explicit confirmation of what he already knew. After all— while his grasp of some of the more unique quirks and intricacies about his twin had faded over forty plus years of estrangement— the one detail he knew he’d never forget was the sound of Ford crying.

Notably, the few times Stan witnessed him cry when they were kids, he actively avoided making a spectacle of his emotions. ( Men like me sure as hell don’t cry , his pa had constantly chided them.) Unlike other children in their age group, Ford’s sobs always remained strained and purposefully held back, as if he were ashamed at himself for crying in the first place. From the sound of it Ford’s anger and hurt still materialized precisely the same way now. It was almost as if the clock had reversed and suddenly Stan too was twelve again, watching his twin run away in muffled tears after getting his face busted up by one of their childhood bullies.

Almost…

After all, this time it wasn't the bully Ford was running from.

“You an’ yer stupid mouth sure messed up this time,” he muttered bitterly, yanking his keys out of the ignition.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, a gnawing hollowness settling in his soul. Cloud cover smothered the sun. A hopelessly stubborn part of him wanted nothing more than to immediately chase after his brother and console him as he always did in their youth, but that desire was quickly overrun by whatever sense of reason he still possessed. He’d only make things worse if he followed now. He always did make things worse.

Guilt raged within his mind like a hurricane, uprooting insecurities and blowing old emotional wounds to the forefront of his consciousness with terrifying force. He did this to Ford. He made him cry. In his utter carelessness he jabbed at what he imagined was one of his greatest insecurities: that ultimately— even in mind and spirit— he was nothing more than the childlike appearance chance forced upon him. That all his years of experience were for naught, that somehow he’d... regressed. Stanley wrung his hands together so tightly he nearly popped his joints out of place, his mind cycling between tides of self-hatred and incomprehensible shame at the memory of watching the light of his brother’s soul eclipsed by his thoughtless comment.

Old bones creaking with trepidation, he exited the car and began to make his way towards the Shack. A few stray raindrops splattered atop his head in the seconds before he reached the covered porch. He strode into the gift shop, in search of any physical sign of his brother. However, the vending machine door was closed. Same with the entry to the house. Stan halted for a moment and listened, dimly wondering if he could pick up auditory clues as to where his brother went. As much as he’d love to avoid confronting his guilt for as long as possible, deep down he knew that this would threaten to completely overturn what little camaraderie they had left. (Because at present, the sad reality was that their relationship was riding on a thin wire no more dependable than a pathological liar in an interrogation room.) He doubted he’d forgive himself if he lost Ford all over again merely a day after getting him back.

His eyes slid with disinterest over the shelves of useless overpriced wares, focusing momentarily on the rain— now falling steadily outside— and then the keypad of the vending machine. Mind now firmly set on finding his brother, he strode towards the hidden passageway and entered the code. Miraculously, Ford hadn’t changed it.

At least, not yet.

Stan crept down the steep staircase, gently running his hand over the faint six-fingered handprint immortalized in glowing ink on the cracked stone. Despite not understanding his reasons for it, his twin was obviously drawn to this place in some manner. Yesterday evening, he had to fight to convince him to sleep anywhere except the thin cot he’d shoved in the corner of the basement lab. And early this morning Ford exiled himself downstairs long before anyone else woke up, only venturing to the main floor at, presumably, the insistence of his growling stomach. He’d bet his first dollar in sales that Ford holed away to his ‘lair’ in this instance, too.

The closer the elevator dropped to the basement however, the more tongue-tied he felt. What was one supposed to say in situations like these? Had he already made a fatal mistake, stalling for as long as he did? Or were the wounds still too fresh? How did he know that he wouldn’t bungle everything up all over again like he always seemed to do whenever he interacted with him, or that Ford would even be receptive to an apology? How long would he have to tip-toe around him, interact as if he were only fragile glass?

By the time he reached the lab, his skin felt clammy to the touch and his nerves were twisted into a steel ball. A sum of him just wanted to get this over with, like ripping the soiled dressing off of an infected wound, and yet he couldn’t deny that insidious voice within his core that desired nothing more than to run away. When had he ever improved the quality of his life by bending on his knees and groveling for forgiveness anyways? In his experience, ‘sorry’ hadn’t driven him any further than the Stanmobile running on two flats and fumes.

Besides a few computer backlights that were active and a few dull red lamps fixed around the perimeter, the lab was dark. Stanley felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he inhaled the stale air. Euugh. Despite spending years of solid time down here, he’d never gotten used to just how damn creepy Ford’s sci-fi mystery basement felt. It didn’t take a genius to figure out his brother hadn’t hidden down here, however. Rather, the lab was empty and near-silent, except for the faint whir coming from one of the old IMB computer’s fans. He peaked into the portal room out of curiosity, finding much the same. Though interestingly, it appeared someone had begun to dismantle the machine.

The twisted metal frame was detached from its girders and wires, with a choice few parts cannibalized and scattered across the bedrock. So this must have been what kept Ford so busy early this morning. Stan didn’t understand how his brother managed to disassemble this much that quickly considering his size, but leave it to him to figure out a workaround, he supposed. He couldn’t help but sulk at the sight of thirty years of his work lying in ruins, even though he knew he’d succeeded in the end.

As he turned to leave, a glint of reflected light coming from Ford’s bundled up overcoat on the desk caught his interest. Tentatively, he approached the small mangled coat. Whatever caused the light to bounce astray, it appeared metallic. Intrigue brewed within him as he captured the edge of the object with his index finger and thumb.

“Let’s see what you are,” he murmured, pulling it into the rosy glow of the safety lamp that was mounted over the entrance to the portal room. The object was a nondescript metal tin the length of his hand, with a clasp on one side. He unlatched it gently.

Inside were… photographs, mainly. A few scraps of paper with windswept notes or sketches on them. The photos were mostly polaroids, but a couple were fashioned out of a holographic material that projected the images into the air. Stan filtered through the contents, his gaze lingering with awe on a rather impressive photograph that depicted— he assumed— the night sky on an alien world. A lot of the objects inside the tin were similar, each acting as a small window into Ford’s travels: images of exotic, almost unearthly landscapes, rough sketches of creatures even stranger than those contained in his journals, a thin strip of blue dyed cloth, an elongated, pointed tooth. His hands brushed against a slip of paper covered in tallies. Written below those lines were a series of numbers ranging anywhere from fifty-five to sixty-four that had long since been scribbled out and replaced with a question mark.

The edge of Stan’s lips slumped downwards the longer he thought about what that hesitant question mark really meant. He set this piece of parchment aside to look at the next object in the tin.

To his surprise, Ford was actually pictured in the next photo— an adult Ford like he remembered, but appearing far older than he'd last seen him in 1982. In the photograph, his brother stood with his arm slung around another man’s shoulder, a wide smile on his face. His tousled hair had gone almost completely grey— peppered with silver around his ears— and deep creases lined the corners of his eyes and the contour of his cheeks. The wrinkles suited him, honestly. Made him look distinguished. Nonetheless, Stan’s heart dropped in his chest at the sight. He held the thick paper with white knuckles as the significance of this hit him. This was close to how Ford would have appeared if he hadn't been reverted into a child. Now obviously, Stan only needed to glance into the mirror to imagine what his brother would have roughly looked like at sixty two, but actually seeing the way age settled on his face- even merely memorialized as a polaroid- was its own shock to the system.

Stanley stared at the photo for a long while, committing the image to memory. He flipped to the next photo.

His eyes blew wide. His wrists trembled as he held the last object in the tin with nothing less than reverence, than proof that perhaps he and Ford might still see eye to eye more than he initially realized. That maybe, they still had a chance to truly be brothers again.

“Oh Sixer, you old sap…” he said in a half-laugh, trying to blink away his tears.

In the tattered, faded image he held, two young boys stood proudly on a wrecked sailboat at the edge of the sea, shirtless and sunburnt.

_______________________________________

The rain still pummeled away at the roof and walls of the Shack by the time Stan returned to the main floor. He frowned for a moment, distantly wondering if Dipper and Mabel brought anything to keep them dry while they tromped through the woods, but these fears quickly faded. They were resourceful kids. He knew they’d fare fine. He couldn’t say the same for Stanford, who hadn’t uttered a peep for the past goodness-knows-how-long.

As he quietly made his way through the hall, his eye lingered on the door of the spare room his brother slept in last night. The door was shut, but he could swear he heard something rustling inside. A hunch brewing in his gut, Stan knocked on the ornately carved wood.

“Hey, Ford?” he called softly. “You in here, buddy?”

As expected, no response.

He bit at his lip, considering his options: steel his nerves and face him while the wound was still fresh, or bide his time and risk destabilizing what little of a relationship he had with his brother all together. Inhaling steadily, he placed a solid hand on the door and pushed.

“Ford?”

He found the man in question huddling on his side against the couch cushions, his face hidden away and his legs curled tight to his chest. Both pairs of boots- shoplifted and his original- sat together on the floor, lined up perfectly side by side. Stan almost hated himself for letting his mind linger on such thoughts after what he’d said earlier, but... when juxtaposed by the size of the couch, Ford looked every bit of his apparent age. Slight. Defenseless. Perfectly childlike, like he were peering through a looking glass into the shadow of their glory days.

And yet there was a clear dissonance between the brother he remembered then and the person who wore his face now.

“I’m not in the mood for your excuses,” his brother muttered bitterly, burying his head further into the cushion.

“I- uh, I mean I’ll leave if ya’ really want me to,” he replied, scratching at the nape of his neck. “But just for the record, I didn’t come in here to make excuses, I came to—” Stanley swallowed his pride— “to apologize.”

At those words, his twin turned to glance at him with a dry, withering expression, mouth slackened and eyes hooded with distrust. “All right, cut to the chase. Which fey kingdom do you originate from and why did you replace my brother?”

The doubt of his sincerity sent a spike into his chest. “Come on,” he insisted, opening his hands. “It’s me, I swear.”

“The Stanley I know doesn’t apologize for anything,” Ford said bluntly, further narrowing his eyes.

Both brothers fell silent at this statement. Truthfully, Stan couldn’t argue with its accuracy. He took the occasion to drink in the sight of the brother’s face- to truly see him as he was in this moment- Ford’s seemingly youthful yet haunted gaze caught in Stan’s own. He tried to ignore the recognizable trail of dried tears that crossed his cheeks, or the lingering dampness of his eyes. They were messed up, the pair of them… old men with a lifetime of troubles to sort through and now on top of that, appearing generations apart. But Stan desperately wanted to make it up to him. His heart sank at the idea of his twin truly believing that his rare, vulnerable word- his apology- wasn’t sincere.

“Listen,” he began, slowly sinking to rest on the couch, adjacent to Ford. “The last thing I ever want ta’ do is hurt you. But I have ,” he said, voice wavering slightly. “And I hate seeing you like this, especially when- uh, w-when I know it’s ‘cause of me. I know it may not be worth nothin’ to you after everything I’ve done to ya’ over the years, but... I am sorry. You deserve better. I’ll try better.”

He took a breath, and he could swear the rainstorm outside paused alongside him within the span of that inhale. None of the oscillating emotions expressed in his brother’s features were anything he could easily recognize. The quirk of his lip or the incline of his brow possessed no meaning, for at this precise instant in time, Stanley simply couldn’t determine whether Ford intended to throw him out of the room, break into tears, or envelop him in a hug tighter than a person his size had any right of giving.

Instead, Ford sighed deeply, hunching over on the couch and cupping his cheeks into his hands. “I really appreciate that,” he said quietly. Then, his words bleeding into one another: “Of course, it’s not fair to say this was entirely your fault. I could have at least attempted to communicate my needs beforehand, o-or not have reacted so strongly, o-”

“Ford. Ford . Who’s sayin’ sorry here? Stop hijacking my apology, you nerd.”

This made his brother laugh a little, softly, but an unmistakable laugh. The sound of it touched Stan’s heart in a way he couldn’t quantify in words. Dimly, he came to the realization that this was the first laugh he’d heard out of him in over forty years. But same as the seasons changed, same as all the days Stanley’s bombastic, dramatized work persona slipped away past closing to be replaced with a long withered melancholy, so too did Ford’s brief moment of peace pass. A shadow passed over his countenance.

“I only wish I could find my place in all this,” he said in a broken whisper, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

Stan frowned, feeling the creases in his face deepen. “W- whatdya mean?”

His brother shrank into himself, pulling his knees to his chest.

“All that happened earlier only served to prove in my mind that everything’s just… wrong. It feels wrong. Changed. Put simply, I- I guess the world’s moved on without me.” Confession released to the world around him, he buried his head from sight once more, and took a deep, shaky breath to- Stan assumed- calm himself down from a cliff’s edge of emotional release.

“Oh, Sixer…” He attempted to lay a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, but to his disappointment Ford shrugged away from the affection entirely. “Come on, there’s gotta be some way we can fix this, right?”

“There’s no way to reverse this,” he said, voice cracking with emotion. “Trust me, I’ve tried nearly everything, but I’ve still been like this for three goddamn years."

“Three years?” Stan exclaimed, face painted with a polarized mixture of horror and remorse. “And this was when you were alone in that space sci-fi dimension?? Threatened by enough danger ‘round the clock that you were forced ta’ keep a damn gun at your hip at all times?”

Ford nodded slowly, eyes meeting his for an instant before flitting away.

He pressed his face into his calloused hands, roughly rubbing at his temples. “Sweet Moses. How the hell did you stay alive?”

“Honestly? I can’t rightly say.”

The two sat in relative silence for a while after that, allowing each other’s mere presence fill the gap their lack of words left. Outside, the storm continued- rain pouring in rivulets down the glass pane of the window. At some point, Ford had let his legs back down, allowing them to lightly swing over the side of the couch. Stan sat hunched forward, leaning on his elbows. He couldn't say for certain at this point what Ford’s opinion of him was, but in all honesty he supposed this was the vital difference between the predictable, amicable brother who existed for thirty years in his daydreams and the real item. Perhaps it was better not knowing.

Whatever the thoughts the man held towards him however, he was fairly confident that hatred was not one of them.

“Stan,” the man in question said eventually, wringing his hands together. “Can I tell you something?”

Hearing his name pass through his twin’s lips, he instantly perked up. “Yeah? What's on your mind?”

“Despite what I said yesterday, despite the anger I held towards you then, I'm really, really glad you rescued me…”

As he spoke his voice faded into obscurity, masked by a crushing sense of fear that no person bearing the childlike appearance he possessed had any right of knowing. He crossed his arms tight around himself, chin sinking into the folds of the dark maroon scarf he hadn't taken off since his return home. Fledgling tears dotted the corners of his eyes. Before those could gain any traction, he blotted them away with tightened fists. Watching this, Stan froze, worried that even the slightest movement or uttered syllable might be enough to burst the emotional dam Ford evidently wanted to remain closed.

Luckily, Ford himself chose to orient the direction of their talk once more, taking the conversational anxiety off Stan’s shoulders completely.

“It comes to my attention that I haven’t been forthright with you yet,” he said, staring at the wooden floor slats- and knowing him, likely analyzing the patterns formed by the grain to keep his mind stimulated. “About- well, about how all this came to be.” He gestured broadly at himself, at his gangly twelve year old body.

“Now, I don’t wanna force ya’ to talk about somethin’ that obviously bothers yo-”

“No. No, it’s okay... I want you to know. You deserve as much.”

“You sure?” Stan confirmed.

His twin nodded resolutely, and curled up on the couch so that he was facing him, legs crossed one over the other. His eyes peered as far up as they could reach, a clear signal that he was searching through his memories, beginning to piece together his past from the scattered recollections those neurons held.

“Not to complicate the story with superfluous detail,” Ford began, nervously clasping his hands together, “the events that lead me to this point started with… well, with the desire to construct a weapon powerful enough to eradicate an enemy who was hunting me down throughout dimensions.”

“And this enemy was, what, strong enough that your normal weapons wouldn’t do the trick?”

He gave a short, staccato nod. “Correct. Essentially, to destroy them, I needed to find a way to destabilize their very molecular makeup at a quantum level. I knew how to build it, but one of the required components could only be found in a single dimension, colloquially known by its inhabitants as the ‘Do-Over’ Dimension. And yes- where you think this is going is probably right” he said, jabbing his finger at him, and Stan knew at that moment that his attempts to conceal the fledgling dread he felt was all for naught.

Ford began gesturing with his hands as needed as he continued to explain his experiences. “You see, the problem with this dimension is that their time stream was fragmented. The very nature of time was in constant flux. Here, time could move forwards or backwards in any sequence without pattern or warning. Inhabitants might experience hours, weeks, or even entire years of their lives completely over again, all while still retaining full memory of every cycle. Even visitors to this world weren’t absolved from its effects”

“And you willingly stepped into a place like this?” Stan asked his twin quietly, brow furrowed.

“I had no choice. Like I said, this dimension was the only place I could find the specific isomer of a rare element stable enough to use in my weapon. I knew the dangers of entering far in advance… and yet I went anyways.”

“So, you made a gamble.”

“Put bluntly, yes. It was a gamble against the universe that the time stream would remain relatively stable during my visit. One that, ultimately, blew up in my face. Ironically however,” Ford continued, his eyes narrowing with deep irritance, “the Do Over Dimension hadn’t experienced a Great Rewind for centuries until the one I was caught amid.”

Stanley watched as his brother limply fell backwards, meeting the rear cushion of the couch. Frustration and bitter anger painted his face when simply recalling his story; as such, Stan couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to live through such a traumatic experience. Slowly- so as to not spook him with unexpected movement- he slung his arm over the couch back.

From outside, a distant roll of thunder sounded alongside the July rainstorm.

“And I was so close to completing my mission!” he growled, shaking a tight fist that likely had little half-moon indentations in his palm where his nails were. “I had the element in hand, I was only hours away from exiting the dimension… when without any warning, time slipped about fifty years into the past, and I found myself physically reverted to the size of a eight or nine year old kid. What’s scary is that despite my misfortune, I still got lucky. For any visitors to the dimension who weren’t over fifty years of age, they would have simply perished. Ceased to exist.”

“Well damn,” Stan muttered, right hand pressed to mouth and left still lightly slung around his brother’s shoulder, resting on the seat cushion.

“Damn is right. I had a hard enough time traversing the multiverse as an adult, so to add this as a hinderance?” Ford looked up, meeting his gaze. “It was hell. Most days I barely managed to get the nutrients I needed to remain healthy in this growing body. I’m sure I’ve fallen close to malnourishment more than once. Adding onto that, physically defending myself the way I used to became a near impossibility. And thanks to the constant threat of… of the interdimensional child slave trades, I feel like I can’t trust anyone in a crowd anymore.”

Fresh teardrops prickled at the corners of his eyes as he spoke, glistening in the dim lighting of the parlor. Ambient light from outside shone through the blue and green stained glass window. It cut a clear path through the shadows cast by the rest of the room, illuminating one side of each of the brother’s faces. With a soft, sympathetic sigh, Stan let his hand drop onto Ford’s shoulder. Letting him know he was there beside him as he blinked through the tears.

“I’m sorry you had ta’ go through this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ford said with a shrug, voice thick in that way it gets when one’s deliberately trying to hold back the full brunt of their emotions. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just… time, really.”

It’s not your fault, his mind echoed his words. And inwardly, he’d love to believe that were true. He’d love to delude himself that he were entirely blameless. But as much as he wanted to take Ford’s statement to heart, all he could see was the memory that had replayed in both his nightmares and in every waking moment he spent fixing the portal, flickering through his subconscious with a frightening vivacity. The force of his hands against Ford’s chest. His terrified screams, “Stanley! Stanley please,” shredding his vocal cords in unbridled desperation. The almost sickeningly blue glow of the portal swallowing his brother whole while he, in his worthless, wounded body couldn’t do anything more than gape in abject horror.

Frankly, everything that happened to the guy on the other side was his fault, far as he was concerned. But fat luck trying to convince Ford of this. Ford, whose abject blame of the universe only served as deflection from the blame he truly placed on his own actions. Stan wasn’t an idiot. He recognized what guilt spiraling looked like.

He glanced towards his twin from the corner of his eyes, and gave his shoulder a pat. “Well I’m sorry for ya’ anyway.” Another relevant thought from earlier today entered his mind then, and he turned towards him inquisitively. “Hey, so don’t feel like ya’ gotta answer this if it’s anythin’ too uncomfy, alright? But... why were you so adamant on the townsfolk not thinkin’ I was your pa, or grandpa, or whatever?”

While it was subtle, he could visibly see the muscles in Ford’s shoulders flinch at the movement of their conversation to this topic.

“Okay, we uh, w-we can talk about something else then,” he said hastily, pulling his arm back to allow him some space. Or perhaps it was time to leave him alone entirely. “Guess I shouldn’t ‘ave brought it u-”

“It’s because you’re my last connection to the past,” Ford blurted out suddenly. “Of who I really am. I don’t- I didn’t want that perverted by having to spend every day in public living a lie. Not now. Not when I’m like this,” he said, gesturing broadly down at himself.

Stan frowned at the unclear wording in his statement. “What do you mean, ‘perverted?’”

He stared down at his six fingers, wringing them together. “Well, I uh- sometimes, these past three years… I often found myself in a place where it felt like my memory almost- I guess, like my mind wanted to forget. Over time, it became hard to remember that I’d ever had any other childhood. And now,” he said more quietly, looking for all the world as if he wanted to slip through the floorboards and away to his basement, “faced with the reality of having to grow up all over again, I- that still scares me.”

Stan nodded slowly, thinking he understood the scenario from his perspective a little more. He placed his hands firmly on either side of his twin’s shoulders, looking at him earnestly.

“Ford, no matter what we tell those townsfolk, you’re my brother. First off. You better believe I’ll remind ya’ every day for the rest of my life, if I have to. And that’s never gonna change, y’hear? It doesn’t matter to me if ya’ look like a kid, ‘cause far as I’m concerned, you’re still you. Still as nerdy and annoying of a twin bro as I remember, anyways! Hah!” he exclaimed, and gave Ford’s head a noogie, fist ruffling through his untamed brown locks.

His brother let out a giggle, pushing his hands away in protest, and for the first time the smile on his lips truly reached his eyes.

“But hey,” Stan continued, expression growing genuine again. “From now on, whatever explanation we give ta’ other people about ‘who you are?’ We’ll figure that out on your terms. I won’t force ya’ to behave a certain way in public or in private because of some perceived ‘relation.’ That fair?”

“Yeah.” Ford nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“Good. You… d’ya want a hug?”

He held his arms open. To his delight Ford accepted the offer of affection without hesitation. He wrapped his smaller arms as tight around his middle as possible, and buried his face into his shoulder.

“Stanley?” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Beyond the walls of the Shack, the rain stopped.