Chapter Text
There’s something oddly serene about the water today.
Ford can’t quite put his finger on exactly what it is, try as hard as he might. The waves are gentle, lapping against the hull of the boat and making the deck beneath his feet rock almost imperceptibly, the motion more lulling than anything. A soft breeze brushes against his cheeks, cards through his hair, carrying the familiar tang of salt and iodine and whistling quietly in his ears. The late-afternoon sun glints off the small waves, reminding him faintly of electricity as it dances across the water, the light scattering and sparkling as far as the eye can see, the smooth waters meeting sky miles away where the Earth curves out of view. A few clouds lazily drift across the bright blue sky, though none move to block out the sun, content to skirt the horizon in the idle breeze.
The entire scene just feels idyllic, like a perfect snapshot out of a travel brochure, almost too calm, too beautiful to be real. And yet, here he stands, leaning against the boat railing and watching the waves disappear over the end of the Earth, the boat swaying gently as if rocking him to sleep, everything perfectly tranquil, perfectly relaxed. There’s nowhere to run to, no need to hide, no adventure to chase after; today, there’s just this, the calm without the storm.
Though, he guesses the storm could be just over the horizon, an impending doom ready to strike when he least expects it. It wouldn’t be the first-time life took him by surprise. It probably wouldn’t be the last. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that life is always ready to throw another punch, and he needs to be prepared for it at all times. Even a stunning day like today could turn sour if—
“I see that brain of yours trying to work overtime, Sixer,” Stan chuckles, coming up from behind him and interrupting his thoughts. “Relax a little, buddy. Enjoy the view.” He leans against the railing just to his left, whistling low. “I mean, damn, have you ever seen the water that blue?” Ford lets out a dry laugh, closing his eyes to just feel the wind against his face, trying to dispel the negative thoughts lingering in his mind. They say that old habits die hard, and he guesses that anyone living on the run for 30 years of their life would be a little prone to imagining every worst-case scenario and never letting their guard down. It’s something he’s still getting used to now, actually getting to relax once in a while.
“I was honestly just thinking about how beautiful the water is today,” Ford says, opening his eyes again and shooting his brother a wry smile. Stan looks unimpressed, an eyebrow raising in his direction.
“Uh huh. You forget that it’s less than useless to lie to me, bro. I know you too well.” Ford snorts, rolling his eyes dramatically, though he doesn’t bother hiding his smile. Stan holds an opened beer out towards him, and Ford accepts it, the glass bottle cold in his hand. “Just forget it all for one day. The world will keep spinning even if the Pines decide to take a day off.”
“I guess tomorrow can wait until tomorrow,” Ford concedes, tilting his bottle towards Stan’s with a smirk. Stan grins back at him.
“Now that’s something I can toast to.” Stan clinks their bottles together before taking a long pull on his beer. Ford takes a sip from his, content to turn his attention back to the water and the glitter of the sun, letting himself get lost in it and the gentle rocking of the boat. It’s trance-like, he realizes, the soft, rhythmic sounds of the water slapping the hull combined with the gentle motion and the shimmering waves, like a form of hypnosis that helps to clear the worried thoughts from his mind and leaves him more relaxed than he thinks he’s ever been. Stan heaves a sigh next to him.
“This is the life,” he rasps, and Ford glances over to see that his brother is also watching the horizon, seeming as taken by it as he is.
“You said it,” Ford agrees, taking another sip of his beer. A bit of the perspiration on the outside of the bottle drips down his fingers, leaving a cool trail in its wake.
“Say, um, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Stan says, turning his whole body against the railing so that he’s leaning on his side now, facing Ford.
“Yes?” Ford says, turning his head to look at his brother, his eyebrows drawing together slightly at the mild apprehension in his brother’s appearance.
“What did Bill want from you during Weirdmageddon?”
There’s a moment, a short burst of time, when Ford’s brain processes the question. Hell, maybe it was longer than a moment, because there’s a span when he just stares at his brother, his mind skipping like a scratched record as the question turns-over in his head. He doesn’t really know how long he stands there, a momentary short-circuit before his brain finally catches back up with him and he realizes exactly what was asked.
It was an innocent question, he knows, born of an understandable curiosity. If he was in Stanley’s shoes, he’d want to know the one thing that stopped the end of the world, the one thing that almost got them all tortured or killed or worse. Of course he’d be curious. And hell, it’s not like the question is even a loaded one anymore, now that it’s all over and the answer no longer has the ability to destroy the entire universe. Now, it’s trivial, meaningless, useless in the grand scheme of things.
So why did his hands just start shaking?
“Sixer?”
Ready to talk yet?
“Oh god, Ford, I’m sorry. Breathe, buddy. Forget I even asked. I shouldn’t’ve—”
“No no no,” Ford stammers, pulling himself out of whatever depths he’d just been yanked down into, out of the screams and the unending pain and the fear that he wouldn’t be able to hold out, that the triangle bastard would break him, shoving the memories back into the recesses of his mind where he can deal with them later. “No, I’m fine I just,” he sighs, pushing his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose, just now aware of how flushed his face suddenly feels, “it caught me off-guard is all.”
“You sure?” Stan asks apprehensively.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he assures him, though he’s still having a hard time dragging his mind back to a normal pace, his brain still running at a thousand miles-per-hour, his pulse just slightly too fast in his ears. “It was an equation,” Ford tells him, letting the words leave his mouth before his stupid brain comes up with some convoluted reason not to. His brother deserves to know.
“An equation?” Stan asks, confused. “That’s it?”
“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Ford tells him. “Did I ever tell you about the True Theory of Weirdness? About how something in Gravity Falls makes the entire town act like a weirdness magnet?”
“Rings a bell, yeah,” Stan nods his head.
“Well, this equation was a mathematical model that, when employed in the real world, would in theory collapse the magnetic properties of the town and allow Bill to escape the city,” Ford says. Part of him thinks it feels good to finally tell another living soul about all this. Part of him can’t imagine why his heart is still pounding. Maybe it has something to do with all the hours spent in agonizing, unending pain to prevent those words and then some from being revealed. Maybe it’s because he still has a hard time truly believing it’s all over.
“Oh, wow,” Stan says, rubbing his chin. He glances back out at sea, as if in thought, and then Ford swears he hears him say something, the sound muffled by the breeze.
“Sorry Stan, what did you say?” he asks.
“I said, what was the equation?”
Something in Ford’s mind grinds to a halt, like a train screeching to a stop on its tracks.
“It’s pr-pretty advanced, Stanley,” he stammers, his mind struggling to switch back on, shoving back memories of every nerve ending being lit on fire, the pain never ending, screaming so hard that his throat went raw and bled, the taste of copper and fire on his tongue, that laughter— “It would probably just look like nonsense to you.”
“I can handle it,” Stan says. There was something in his brother’s tone, an indifference that seemed out-of-place, forced. He’s still looking out at sea.
“Why do you want to know?” Ford asks, berating himself for being so defensive because this is his brother for Pete’s sake. But yet, there’s that part of him, that part that scribbled all-seeing eyes and hasty warnings in leather-bound journals all those years ago that wonders, that still has a hard time trusting.
“Just curious,” Stan shrugs, still looking out at sea, beer still loosely held in his hand.
That small part of Ford, the part that almost drove him mad all those years ago, warns that there is something wrong here.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ford says, dismissing the topic. “It’s useless now. Best to just move on.”
“Oh, come on, Sixer,” Stan says, finally turning to face him. “What’s the harm now? You said it yourself. It’s over.”
He’s right. I did say that.
Didn’t I say that?
Ford looks into Stan’s eyes, finding just pure curiosity there, a quizzical tilt to his head.
If Stan really is just curious, what’s the harm?
Just tell him.
It’s not like it’ll hurt anything.
Tell him.
“Stan, I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” Ford says instead. “It’s a… hard topic as it is. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore. Please, just drop it.”
“But you said it yourself. It’s just a simple equation. Maybe you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
“Stan, I said to drop it.”
“What, do you not trust me or something?” His voice, his tone, seems annoyed, his words short and curt, clipped. But his eyes haven’t changed, that open curiosity still plastered on his face. The combination doesn’t make sense, doesn’t seem right. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, like there’s a disconnect between the two things.
This is wrong. This is so wrong.
He glances down at his own hands, counts the fingers. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12. Counts them again. 1-2-3-4—
“Pal, what’s wrong?” Stan asks.
He glances around at his surroundings, looking for anything out of place. But there’s just ocean, and more ocean, water surrounding him in every direction, the boat solid under his feet, the cabin door just behind Stanley.
What does the inside of the cabin look like? Can he remember?
“Sixer? You still with me, buddy?”
What was he doing before this conversation? He was looking out at the water. It was a calm day, the water was smooth, he was listening to the breeze and the waves.
He listens again, but it’s silent, not even the sound of the waves hitting the sides of the boat audible, though the deck still softly rocks side-to-side, as if the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for his response.
He shakes his head.
What was he doing before that? He must’ve been doing something before that. He remembers… He remembers…
Except, he can’t remember. He can’t remember waking up this morning. He can’t remember going to bed last night. He can’t remember how long they’ve been at sea or where they were last docked or when they decided to sail together or how exactly they stopped Weirdmageddon or how he escaped Bill. He can’t remember…
He glances over at his Stan, looking down at his brother’s hand, watching a drop of water from his beer bottle slide down his fingers, one finger after the other after the other…
1-2-3-4-5-
He reaches into the pocket of the jacket he wasn’t wearing a moment ago, pulls out his gun, and shoots his brother square in the chest.