Chapter Text
Stan was in his bunk, face pressed into his pillow, wanting to scream but not wanting to disturb his brother. Nothing was actually wrong, and that was the problem. Stans lifelong dream had been realized and he still felt like shit. The cold terror that the other shoe would drop any day now closed on his lungs and made breathing a chore, one he shouldn’t even bother with. He’d saved the world after all, he’d peaked. It had to be all downhill from here.
Stan could recognize the patterns, even if the thoughts themselves were new. Over the years, he’d worked very hard to develop the tools to get out of these patterns so he could function. He was finding that the tools he had were failing in the face of their greatest challenge yet, actual happiness. Because he didn’t deserve it, did he? He hadn’t earned an ounce of his success, building it all on a stolen name. The very foundation of his whole life was rotted and Stan could only wait for it to come crashing down on him.
It wouldn’t though. The weight was borne by people who loved him and that thought, once so encouraging as to fill him with real joy, now only wracked him with guilt. They didn’t deserve to be saddled with the weight of his reckless stupidity. He owed it to them, to Ford, to get out of bed and smile and laugh and joke and some days it was easy. More and more lately, it’d been hard. Ford was noticing something wrong and the concern on his face hurt more then anything and it only got harder and harder until finally, today, it was impossible.
He folded the pillow over his ears like that could block out his own brain and clenched his jaw so hard it ached. A vague temptation to get up, go on deck, and just jump overboard. The thought made him recoil, and that stubborn instinct for survival crawled up and paralyzed him there in bed. Because he’d do it, he’d be so selfish and cause his loved ones that pain because it’d be so easy and he was a coward. Too much of a coward to have done it years ago like he should have, before he pushed Ford through the portal. His good ole tools did their best to point out the contradiction, cowardly to do it now and not to do then, it canceled out into a positive answer, he wasn’t a coward. He relaxed, the impulse passing and leaving him dizzy with relief. Who on earth got dizzy lying down?
The slight upswing made for great timing when Ford came to check on him. “Stanley? Are you awake?”
Stan gathered all his energy and sat up and reached for the nightstand, put his glasses on and his dentures in, and promptly felt exhausted from the effort. “Ugh.” he groaned “How late was I up last night?”
“Actually, you went to bed early.” Ford frowned and there was that concern again and Stan wanted to scream at him. To shake him and yell for him to wipe that look off his face and stop caring so damn much. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Stan dismissed.
“I’m not sure. You’ve been showing signs of fatigue for days. At first I thought it was just adjusting to a more active lifestyle from a sedentary one, but given that it’s already after nine o’clock, this is starting to seem like more than that. I’d like to do some blood work…”
“Yeah, no thanks.” Stan interrupted. “I said I’m fine.”
“Stanley, if you’re sick, I’d rather know now.” Fords tone was gentle, but firm, and there was no escaping talking about this was there?
“You won’t find anything.” Stan grumbled.
Ford missed the point. “You don’t know that. We’re getting older, Stanley. This could be anything from a simple vitamin deficiency to…”
Stan cut his brother off before he could share whatever worst-case scenario that genius brain had dreamed up. “I mean, I know what’s wrong.”
“Oh.” Ford fell silent, looking at him expectantly.
This was it. He could imagine Ford mocking him, calling him weak and maybe even kicking him out again because who wanted to go adventuring with a crazy? Stan couldn’t parse those thoughts from bad thoughts or painfully real possibility. He went for it. “Major Depressive Disorder.” Ford had no visible reaction. Stan continued. “Diagnosed once in ‘75 and again in ‘83. They put me on some happy pills I didn’t think I’d need anymore.”
“I don’t understand.” Stan saw that reaction coming. “You’re depressed?”
Stan heaved a long sigh and answered “Yeah.”
Ford frowned deeply, and Stan braced for the worst. Instead, Ford actually took the few steps needed to close the distance between himself and Stan, then turned and sat beside him. “Stan, if you have a genuine chemical imbalance, why did you think you wouldn’t need your medication anymore?”
Stan threw his hands up. “‘Cause there’s nothing to be depressed about anymore! You’re home! We’re sailing the world together! Lifelong dream achieved!” he sighed and slumped. “When we got this boat, I felt great. Better than I ever have. I thought…” he trailed off a moment, then just mumbled “I thought I was better.”
Ford looked devastated, and Stan felt a new wave of self-loathing crash down on him. “But now you’re experiencing symptoms again?” Stan nodded. “How severe?”
Stan thought about it a moment. “Not the worst its been. Almost like when I went in the second time.” Ford swallowed and Stan could see a million guilty questions in his eyes. So he set about trying to answer some of them without being asked. “I just couldn’t work up the pizzazz I needed for the tours at first. One thing led to another, and then I stayed in bed for three days. There was this doctor I’d seen for...some other stuff. I went to her, got my pills, and practically forgot about it.”
Ford breathed a sigh of relief. “But you never tried…” and a whole new wave of guilt came. He must have seen Stans face, because the relief vanished. “Or...or did you?” Stan nodded, bracing to tell the story when suddenly Fords arms were around him. Awkwardly draped from his shoulders, where Ford had pressed his face, breathing as if he were about to cry.
Stan felt tears threatening in his own eyes and fought it down with a joke. “Geez, Sixer. You live with Mabel for almost a month and this is still the best hug you can give?”
The sound Ford made was definitely a laugh, albeit a short and weak one. Stan allowed himself a brief burst of the pride that always came with making his brother laugh these days. “Do you want me to stop?” Ford asked.
Stans arm went up reflexively, as far as they could go under Fords, and wrapped around Fords back, catching him on the side and all but pinning him into the awkward embrace. The gesture was answer enough, he was sure. Perhaps a bit too clear of one. So he added a dismissive-sounding “Nah, I’m good.” Ford made another sound that might have also been a laugh but was a lot less clear then the first. It could as easily have been a sob. Or something in between. Stan gripped tighter for half a second then relaxed. After a moment he added “It, y’know, helps a bit.”
They stayed like that for a while. Not more than a minute or two. The exhaustion lifted a little, and the screaming in his head began to die down to ignorable levels. Then Ford whispered “I’m sorry.” and Stan felt something inside him break.
“Not your fault.” Stan said. “If I’m still depressed that means it was never your fault. Just my brain being broken.” Ford started shaking, and Stan pulled his arm in so his palm rested in the center of Fords back. He patted awkwardly with just his fingers, leaving his palm in place. The angle was too awkward to move his entire hand. “Besides, I feel better now, so I’ll just get up, get some coffee…” Ford squeezed him tighter for a moment and Stan sighed, ignoring the guilt trying to eat his insides. “Listen, Sixer, I told you this so you’d stop worrying about me. I know what’s wrong, and it’s nothing I haven’t gotten through before.”
Ford took a long shaky breath and pulled away. He wiped his eyes as he got to his feet and Stan felt another stab of guilt. Way to go, moron, you made your brother cry just so he wouldn’t poke you with a few needles. He felt the thought try to escalate and stopped it. “We’re days from the nearest city.” Ford said “and even then I don’t know if we could access your prescription until we go back to Oregon for the winter.” Ford took another deep breath, less shaky now that he was in his element, planning. “I wish I had the resources for research, I might still be able to synthesize…”
“Stanford.” Stan cut him off again. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”
Ford nodded, a flash of bitterness crossing his smile before it fully settled. He must have caught on that Stan was bullshitting to comfort him. He seemed to come to terms with that and said “Just...promise me you won’t…”
“I won’t.”
In the silence that followed, Stan wished he could track the emotions that played across Fords face. There were plenty of them, that maddenning concern, fear, even anger, and a few moments where his lip twitched in what might be amusement. There was probably more, but the moment passed too quickly and Ford eventually said “I need the words, Stanley.”
Well that was unexpected. Hypocritical too, given that Ford had seemed unable to say ‘the words’ at all himself, but Stan sighed heavily, close enough to understanding to let it pass. “I promise I’m not gonna try and off myself.” he droned, like being forced to repeat after a teacher. He cracked a smile after he said it.
Ford relaxed. “Good.” he said. “I do think we should return to Gravity Falls as soon as possible, to get you the help you need.”
Stan nodded and groaned, tipping sideways and laying back down. “Yeah.” he agreed. Then “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Ford insisted, and Stan had known that but it felt good to hear. “I’ll let you rest today, and call you if I need you. Then tomorrow...we’ll take each day as it comes.” Then he turned and left the cabin. The door shut, and Stan was alone.