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Winter was finally giving way to spring, but with the warmer weather came the storms. Stanford didn’t mind the storms all that much as he used to as a kid. There was something relaxing about listening to the sound of the rain hitting the roof or the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. It was sometimes annoying when he had work to investigate out in the woods, but luckily he had plenty of work he could do indoors to keep him busy.
He settled himself into one of the tables near the window so he could watch the storm outside. A cup of coffee rested beside the thick, maroon book he was making notes in. On the front was a golden six fingered hand with the number 2 written in thick, black ink.
He’d moved to the sleepy, backwoods town of Gravity Falls, Oregon not three years ago. The area had drawn his attention by the unusually high reports of anomalous activity, and to his pleasant surprise, he couldn’t get much farther away from his home town if he tried. More or less, he made a home for himself here. It wasn’t homey in the normal sense as it was filled with specimens he’d found and pages upon pages of notes he’d written or read, but he’d built the home with the help of some local lumberjacks and it was his own space.
It was everything he had wanted. He’d finally found a place where a person like him could fit in.
As the heavy rain beat down on the house, he could only distantly hear the sound of the phone ringing from the kitchen. Luckily, his friend and research assistant, Fiddleford McGucket answered it.
“Hello, Pines residence,” he said into the phone. His voice, twinged with a southern accent, tang above the sound of the rain. Finally noticing there was a call, Ford turned his head towards the direction of the kitchen.
“Yes, he’s here,” Fiddleford said. There was a pause before he spoke up again, “Sure, I’ll go get ‘im. Hold on.”
Footsteps neared the front room and Fiddleford emerged from the hallway leading from the kitchen.
“Stanford,” he called from the doorway, “Ya got a phone call.”
Ford sighs quietly and shuts his book, the gold hand on the front reflecting in the overhead light. Reluctantly, he stands from his desk and approaches his friend.
“Who is it?” He asks. They didn’t usually get too many phone calls here. Usually, it was Fiddleford’s wife, or occasionally his mother that called, but if that were the case now, Fiddleford would have just said so.
“Ed something? He says he knew you back at Backupsmore.” Fiddleford reports.
The name Ed did sound somewhat familiar. It wasn’t like Ford had gotten close to anyone apart from Fiddleford, so why would he be calling?
Intrigued, Ford squeezed past Fiddleford and went to the kitchen. The phone had been set on one of the counters, and Ford wasted no time in picking up the receiver and holding it to his ears.
“Hello, this is Stanford Pines.”
“Hey Ford, it’s Ed White,” the voice on the other hand said. There was a pause as Ford tried to connect the name to where he remembered the man from. Ah, yes! Ed has taken some courses with him. Psychology or something? Ford wasn’t one to like to dabble in the softer sciences, but had taken some courses none the less.
“Ed,” Ford finally spoke up, “I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”
The other laughed a bit awkwardly, sounding almost forced, “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this either if I’m frank.”
‘Frankly is the only way I speak’, his fathers voice suddenly rang in his head, causing him to wince.
“Was there a reason you’re calling?” Ford asked somewhat curiously.
“Yeah, about that,” the voice on the other end was a bit hesitant, “Look, I’m not sure if I’ve got the right guy, but I have a patient here that looks an awful lot like you, but he came in with what looks like a fake ID. Does the name Steve Pinington mean anything to you?”
Ford’s body stiffened at the mention of someone looking similar to him. Steve Pinington? He didn’t know anyone by that name, but the name sounded awfully similar to Stanley Pines. It also sounded like the kind of name Stan would give himself for a fake ID.
But what use would his brother have for a fake ID? They had turned 21 several years ago, so he couldn’t possibly need an ID to forge that.
“Not exactly, but Steve Pinington sounds awful close to my brothers name.” Ford replies, debating on whether or not he should hang up now. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in seven years, not since his brother had sabotaged his chances of getting into West Coast Tech.
His hand tightened around the receiver at the memory. Seven years had done little to lessen the anger and resentment Ford harbored for his twin.
His muscles were practically itching to hang up, but something stilled him. Ed has mentioned he was a patient, a patient with a fake ID none the less.
“Just what kind of trouble did my brother get himself into?” Ford asked with a sigh, pinching his nose. He didn’t have time for this. Stanley has ruined his life once. He should hang up and forget this conversation happened so he could get back to his studies.
“A lady called in to report a man passed out in his car a few days ago.” Ed began, his voice suddenly much quieter and softer. It put Ford on edge, “When the authorities got there, they found that he had taken a bunch of pills. They took him in to pump out his stomach and once he was recovered enough, he came to me.”
Ford felt like he was going to be sick. Stanley has taken pills? The stubborn part of his brain wanted to believe it was an accident, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging part of him that knew it was no mistake.
“You still there, Pines?” Ed asked.
Ford jerked out a nod, then remembered Ed couldn’t see him, “Yeah, I’m here.” He murmured quietly, “He came to you, you said. What does that mean? What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor at the Utah State Hospital. I treat the patients that come in here, and your brother is one of them. Since he had a fake ID, we couldn’t find any medical records or family to contact. I only happened to see that he looks fairly similar to you.” Ed explains patiently. Ford sits heavily in one of the kitchen chairs.
What if they had found family to contact? They would have called their parents first and what if Filbrick had been the one to pick up? Ford winced to think that Filbrick would hang up, not having a single care for the son he had kicked out of his home.
Was Ford really any better though? He had watched Filbrick kick Stan out and hadn’t lifted a finger. He’d been so angry at Stan that he hadn’t cared he’d been kicked out. He’d briefly thought about his brother over the years but told himself that Stan would be fine and dismissed the thought.
Now Ford knew for a fact that Stan wasn’t fine. He’d downed god knows how many pills in the solitude of his car. If he had died, would Ford have even known? Ed only knew to contact him because of their similarities in appearance. If Stan had died, Ed wouldn’t have been there to connect two and two together and Stan would have been thrown in a nameless grave.
The thought made Ford feel sick. Swallowing his bile, he spoke up again, not caring how his voice wavered. “I’m coming to see him.”
He found a piece of paper laying around and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket to write down the address Ed gave him. Ford estimated it would take him 12 hours (five or take) to get there and Ed said he’d be waiting.
Ford said goodbye and hung the receiver back up on the wall with a ‘click’ and finally had a moment to take everything in. Fiddleford slowly crept into the kitchen, finding Ford leaning against the wall with a hand clamped firmly over his mouth.
“Stanford?” He asked quietly, “What’s wrong?”
“My brother,” Ford forced the words out with some difficulty. The lump in his throat was making words hard to get out, “He— he tried to kill himself.”
Six fingers tightly gripped the edge of the counter. Fiddleford’s eyes widened and Ford realized bitterly that he wasn’t even sure if he ever told Fiddleford he had a brother.
“Stanford, I’m so sor—“
“I’m going to see him.” Ford cut him off, not wanting to hear his sympathies. He didn’t deserve it.
Fiddleford merely nodded. “Ok.” His voice trailed off as Ford pushed himself away from the wall and began pacing.
“Ed said he’s in Utah, which means it should take me around 12 hours to get there assuming I don’t stop,” he rattled off, mentally charting his course, “I’d have to stop for gas a few times, but if I keep it short, it shouldn’t put me back too much. But I...”
He continued to rattle off his thoughts, one hand behind his back as the other gripped his hair. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt Fiddleford’s hand on his shoulder.
“You can’t drive for 12 hours straight, Ford. You need to eat and sleep too.” His voice was soft, reminding Ford of their college days when Fiddleford used to remind him to nap when he’d be studying for too long.
“I can’t do that! I already failed Stanley once; I can’t keep him waiting any longer!” It was unspoken, but Ford was terrified he’d try something again.
Fiddleford’s hand squeezed, grounding Ford. “I’ll come with you, ok. We can take turns driving so you can get some sleep and we can stock up on food so we won’t have to stop.”
Ford considered his words. That would be practical, but he couldn’t ask his friend to do all of that for him.
“I dunno—“
“Stanford Pines, I think you misunderstood. That was not a suggestion. I’m not letting you drive for 12 hours in the state that you’re in. You’ll be of no use to your brother if something happens and it’s not like I have something better than helping a friend here.” Fiddleford’s words are firm and Ford knows better by now than to protest. He jerks out a nod and Fiddleford squeezes his shoulder once more before dropping his hands to his side.
“Good, now let’s pack up and hit the road.”
Twelve hours later, the pair found themselves in the lobby of the state hospital. Ford nervously fiddled with his hands as he approached the desk.
“I’m here to see Stanley Pines.”
The desk worker, a woman who looked downright bored, barely refrained from sighing as she looked through the files.
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.” She reported.
“Oh right, try Steve Pinington.” Ford said, forgetting his brother was here with a fake ID. The woman doesn’t refrain from sighing as she looked again.
“I’ll call a nurse to take you up.”
Ford nodded and Fiddleford sat in a near by chair with Ford quickly following suit. Ford anxiously fiddled with his hands as they waited for the nurse. After a moment, Fiddleford rested his hands over Ford’s.
“It’ll be ok, Ford.” He murmurs quietly. Ford isn’t so sure, but luckily doesn’t dwell on it for long as the nurse finally arrives.
She leads the pair through the hospital halls which seem more like a maze than any planned out path. Finally, they come to a stop and the nurse finally faces them.
“He’s just returning from therapy, so he’s in this room for now. Don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t recognize you at first.” She said and promptly leaves before Ford can ask what that meant. He shared a look with Fiddleford before letting himself into the room.
The room was small with only one bed in it. A form lay on the bed, prone and still. Ford’s heart caught in his throat. Even with all the years spanning between the last time he had seen his twin and now, it was odd to see him so quiet and still. It was so different than the loud, boisterous, energetic version of his brother he remembered.
Slowly, he approached the bed, eyes drinking in the sight of his brother. His hair was longer than he remembered and wasn’t slicked back anymore. A big, bushy mustache adorned his face and Ford was distantly angry that he could sort of pull it off.
“Stanley, what happened to you?” Ford whispered. A groan sounded from Stan and his eyes fluttered open. The breath in Ford’s chest stilled as he looked at Stan, not sure how he was going to react upon seeing the brother that abandoned him at his bed side.
Stan’s eyes were glazed, almost unseeing as he blinked at Ford. There was no spark of recognition, no anger, no anything. It was as if Stan wasn’t seeing anything at all.
“Stanley?” Ford asked, reaching a hand out to take his brothers hand, noticing now that he was still restrained to the bed. The tears he had been trying so hard to keep back were welling in his eyes.
“Stan, what happened to you?”
Stan’s lips parted as if he was going to respond, but no sound came out. He stared at Ford with a dull, expressionless face. The tears were spilling down Ford’s face as he threw his arms around his brothers shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Stan.” He whispered in his twins ears, all too aware that Stan hadn’t responded to his hug. As teens, Stan had always been the one to initiate touch, whether it was a large arm slung around his shoulder, or Stan hoisting him off his feet.
Ford couldn’t help but remind himself that Stan might not even want Ford to hug him if he was aware of what was happening. Ford hadn’t even so much as bat an eye when Stan had been kicked out. In the seven years since, he hadn’t tried to contact him once, barely even spending more than a few moments to think of Stan.
He didn’t deserve to be here for Stan now but Stan needed it. He needed someone to be there for him, and his selfish brother would have to do.
Ford wasn’t going to abandon Stan again.
“Uh, Stanford,” Fiddleford’s voice hesitantly spoke up. Ford had forgotten he was there. He released Stan from the hug as he straightened up to look at Fiddleford. The mechanic held a clip board from the end of the bed in his hands and was looking at him with a look that sent chills down Ford’s spine.
“You should take a look at his chart.” Fiddleford said, holding the clipboard out to him. Ford gulps as he reluctantly takes the board.
Ford wasn’t a medical doctor by any means but the long list of medications was concerning. God, was it even necessary to have Stan on so many medications? He was practically a vegetable by this point.
As his eyes scanned down the long list of procedures and medications, Ford’s eyes froze on one word, feeling his heart still. Suddenly, Stan’s behavior made so much sense as the words ‘ECT’ glared back at him.
“Oh God,” Ford whispered. He looked up to Fiddleford who wore a silent expression on his face. Ford turned his gaze back to Stan, still restrained and staring blankly at the ceiling.
“We’re getting him out of here.” Ford said, matter of fact. He wasn’t letting his brother sit in this hospital to be ‘treated’ any more. He remembered reading papers in college about ECT; how they were a horrific treatment option at first glance, but yielded good results in many patients.
Stan obviously wasn’t one of those patients and Ford wasn’t going to abandon him again.
“F, can you please stay with Stan whilst I talk to someone about discharging him?” Now that he had a task to do, his eyes were hard in determination. Fiddleford nodded, lips tilting in a ghost of a smile knowing what that look in Ford’s eye meant all too well.
Ford wasted no time and left the room. After taking to several orderlies, he was finally directed to the person in charge of discharge. After explaining Stan’s true identity and his relation to Ford, they began the paperwork and sent someone to help with Stan.
When Ford finally arrived at Stan’s room again, he noticed that Fiddleford had taken up place beside Stan’s bed. He was quietly murmuring something to Stan as he combed his lanky fingers through Stan’s dirty hair. Ford hadn’t gotten much of a chance to see Fiddleford interact with his son seeing as Tate was in Palo Alto, but he could tell from how he was treating Stan that he was a good father.
Certainly a much better father than Filbrick had ever been.
“They’re getting the paper work settled.” Ford said. The orderly that had led him to the room brushed past Ford, now with a wheelchair in tow. Fiddleford stepped aside as the other man wordlessly started undoing the restraints on Stan’s wrists.
Fiddleford joined Ford at his side, putting a comforting hand over Ford’s shoulder.
“Little help?” The other man spoke a few moments later as he coaxed Stan to sit up. Ford darted from Fiddleford’s side to Stan’s, helping the orderly to get him to his feet.
“Wha—?” Stan groans out, turning his head slowly, as if he was moving under water.
Ford and the orderly helped Stan shuffle a couple of steps closer to the wheelchair, “We’re getting you out of here, Stanley.” Ford replied, smiling hopefully. They lowered Stan into the wheelchair and Ford could swear he saw a hint of recognition in Stan’s eyes. Whether it was because Ford was here, or because of the change of scenery, Ford wasn’t sure and frankly, didn’t care.
For so long, he’d thought Stan’s loud, brass behavior had been so annoying— dare he even say suffocating.
Now he’d give anything just to see a shred of the Stan he used to know.
Ford took the handles of the wheelchair and nodded to Fiddleford. They left the room, following the orderly as he led them to the front door. As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Stan flinched ever so slightly and squinted his eyes as he looked around slowly.
Not wanting to dwell in this place any longer, he wheeled Stan to the car as Fiddleford jogged ahead to open the door for him. He smiled thankful to notice that Fiddleford was offering up the front seat to Stan.
What he had done to deserve a friend like F, he didn’t know.
Together, the pair helped guild Stan to his shaky feet and lastly, into the car. As Fiddleford returned the wheelchair, Ford buckled Stan into place.
“St’nferd?” Stan asked, voice slurring syllables together. Ford’s head snapped up to see Stan slowly blinking at him with a confused expression.
“It’s me, Stan,” he said, relieved that his brother recognized him, “I’m here. We’re getting you out of here, ok?”
There was a pregnant pause before Stan jerked out a nod, resting his head back against the head rest.
Fiddleford has returned by this point and climbed to the back seat. Ford quietly shut Stan’s door and hurried to the drivers side, eager to get far away from the hospital.
Stan had fallen asleep shortly after the drive started. Fiddleford had also nodded off at some point, leaving Ford by himself at the wheel.
His brain was spinning a mile a minute, trying to figure out the next course of action. They’d have to clear out some space for Stan to sleep in. He also supposed he’d have to figure how to get Stan’s car back at some point. What was trickier was figuring out how to help Stan.
He wasn’t a fool to think that simply being there for Stan now and offering him a place to stay was going to fix all of his problems. Ford was terrified of the idea that Stan would try anything again. He owed it to Stan to do things right by him.
He doubted that Stan would consider talking to a professional, and like hell he was going to let Stan be admitted to another hospital. Maybe he could find someplace reliable to get Stan some medication that wouldn’t make him catatonic.
A groan from beside him broke the silence in the car. Ford’s gaze briefly flickered to Stan before darting back to the road.
“How’re you feeling, Stan?” Ford asked softly, occasionally darting his eyes to Stan.
There was still a glazed look in his eyes, but rather than looking like he wasn’t seeing anything, he looked like he was waking up from a deep sleep.
“Uh, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.” Stan groans, adjusting in his seat sluggishly. His voice is still somewhat slurred, but it’s infinitely better than he was before.
“I imagine you’ll feel like that for a bit longer until all the drugs in your system wears off.” Ford said. His voice drops timidly as he continues, “Stan, I— I don’t know where to even start. I’m just— I don’t— I’m sorry.”
Stan’s looked at him, a tired look of surprise on his face, and Ford couldn’t help but smile softly. “Ok, ok, maybe now’s not the best time for this.”
Stan blinks slowly, “Where are we?”
Oh, right. “We’re in my car. My friend and I came to get you when we caught news that you were here. We’re on our way back to my home in Oregon; there’s about nine hours left in our trip.” Ford briefly wondered if there was any more relevant information to add but decided to wait until Stan was a bit more alert.
Stan looked back towards the road, not saying anything. Ford reached a hand over, covering Stan’s hand in his. As he glanced over, worried if it was ok, he saw a ghost of a smile on Stan’s lips as he closed his eyes, drifting back asleep.
Hours later, Fiddleford pulls down the winding drive way leading to their house. He had switched seats with Ford at some time during the trip, and Ford has fallen asleep promptly afterwards. Luckily, Stan stayed asleep for the rest of the line.
As Fiddleford saw the house coming into view, he reached a hand back, tapping Ford’s knees. From the mirror, he saw Ford’s eyes blink open.
“We’re home,” Fiddleford reported with a smile.
The car rolled to a stop near the porch. The sound of seat belts unclicking and doors opening woke Stan up, who looked around at his new surroundings with confusion.
Ford was at his door in a moment, a timid smile on his face.
“Welcome Home, Stanley.”
Stan’s eyebrows were bunched in confusion. He certainly seemed more aware now then previously seeing as the drugs had at least 12 hours to work its way out of his system.
Ford offered him a hand, “Let’s go inside. We can get you something to eat, and i can explain any questions you have.”
Stan lifted a hand, hanging it in between the two of them for a moment, hesitating before taking Ford’s hand. Getting to his feet still took effort, but whether it was because of the effects of the drugs, or from being crammed in a car for 12 hours was unclear.
Slowly, the twins made their way through the lawn to the porch. Ford paused to unlock the door before throwing it open for them. He led Stan to the kitchen, helping him sit down in the chair.
“What can I get you to eat?” Ford asks.
Stan merely shrugs.
“It’s been at least 12 hours since you’ve eaten anything; you gotta eat something.” Ford says.
Stan doesn’t look up from his hands resting on the table. Ford continues, to babble on about food, starting to fidget his hands.
“I don’t want food, Ford.” Stan cuts him off, sounding exasperated. Ford doesn’t seem to notice apart from getting more fidgety.
“But you have to—“
“I want answers, Stanford,” Stan finally bites out. His hands are clenched tight into fists. Ford falls still, looking at his twin with an owlish expression, “You bring me here, acting like nothing ever happened between us, doting on me like I’m an invalid. I just don’t— I don’t get it!”
Ford sighed and sits down across from Stan heavily.
“You kinda were,” Ford replied in a whisper, “You didn’t see how you looked, Stan. It was terrifying to see you like that. You weren’t... you.”
Stan crosses his arms over his chest, “How would you know if I wasn’t acting like me, huh? It’s been seven years, Ford. You didn’t give a shit about me in any of that time until now.”
Ford winced. He had a point. Wringing his hands, he shut his eyes tightly for a moment. “I was wrong.”
Stan’s jaw dropped, looking at him with a look of shock as if he never expected Ford to admit he was wrong. Ford continued.
“I was so wrong, Stan. About a lot of things. I shouldn’t have stood aside and let Pops kick you out. I should have heard you out, or tried to find you, but I was so angry, stupidly so, that I convinced myself that you were ok. I—“ Ford broke off, covering his face with his hands, “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if you had—“ his voice trailed off, not able to finish that sentence.
Stan’s demeanor changed completely as Ford broke down in tears. “Woah, woah, relax, Sixer.” Stan replied. He pushed himself to his feet, kneeling beside Ford’s chair as he put a hand on his brothers shoulder. Ford peaked out from behind twelve fingers, eyes wet with tears.
“You called me Sixer.” He whispers pitifully, earning a chuckle from Stan.
“Uh, yeah.”
Ford frowns, “What happened to us? How did one stupid fight ruin how close we used to be?”
Stan was silent, having wondered that question many times himself over the years. Ford reached out, gripping Stan’s hand on his shoulder with a desperate grip.
“Stan, I’m sorry. I know I messed up so much in the past, but please let me be there for you now. I don’t want to lose my brother again.”
Stan sighed, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t want that, Sixer. You’ll just get tired of me eventually; you just feel sorry for me now.”
Ford shook his head, “No, Stan, I swear I won’t, but, uh, if you really think that way, why don’t we at least take it one day at a time, ok? Just give me a chance to make it up to you. I want us to be brothers again.”
It was Stan’s turn for his eyes to well up with tears. He pointedly looked away from Ford, biting his bottom lip. Ford rested his hand on Stan’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.
After a moment, Stan looks back to Ford, soft smile on his lips, “I’ve missed you, Sixer.”
“I’ve missed you too, ya knucklehead.”
“Just, uh, just ‘cause we’re having a moment here, your project really was a mistake. I would never intentionally ruin something I know was so important to you.”
Ford smiled softly, “I know that now, Stan. I should have realized that back then.”
Stan’s shoulders seemed to sag with relief. He and Ford share a moment as they look at each other, hopeful expressions on their faces.
Finally, Ford gets to his feet, helping Stan up with him.
Once they were standing, Stan wraps his arms around Ford, pulling him into a tight hug. Ford didn’t hesitate as he flung his arms around his twin, glad to finally feel his twins arms around him once again, to confirm that Stan really was here and was ok.
They linger in a hug, until they at last reluctantly pull away.
“Now,” Ford says as he makes Stan sit back down, “You really should eat something. How does some soup sound?”
Stan opens his mouth but is promptly cut off by a loud rumble from his stomach. There is a moment of silence before the brothers both start giggling together.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ford laughs, pulling a can of soup from the cabinet. Stan’s laughter bubbles back down to quiet chuckles.
Fiddleford eventually joins them, sitting across the table from Stan with a warm smile. For the first time in years, he feels lighter, hopeful even. His future was still uncertain, but it was a hell of a good place to start.
With his brother by his side, they were capable of taking on anything the world could throw at them.