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Stanley Pines had considered ignoring the mail. The postcard had been so crumpled when it slid under his door that he had written it off as nothing more than junk. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him and he snatched it off the ground to inspect it. Reading shitty motel ads was better than waiting for Rico’s goons to break down his door anyway.
His heart stuttered in his chest. Scrawled across the postcard was a familiar, blocky script that he’d never expected to see again, from someone that he figured had left him behind long ago.
PLEASE COME!
-FORD
He reread it twice.
Please come!
Ten years with no contact with his brother - if Stan ignored the phone calls that he couldn’t go through with and he did ignore them - and the first thing he got was this. A demand for his help in three simple words.
Stan considered ignoring it solely out of spite. Stanford finally remembered he had a twin and reached out for what exactly? For Stan would drop everything and rush over? Who did he think he was?
A genius, a small voice in the back of his head supplied, Responsible, worthwhile, valuable.
So why would Stanford reach out to the family screw-up?
Please come!
He cursed.
There really was no other option. He could blame it on a number of things, his damn curiosity or a sense of brotherly duty, but when it came down to it, it was because Stanford needed help. He had managed to get Stan’s address - he’d have to ask Ma about that the next time he called - and took the effort to send the, albeit pitiful, card. Ergo something had happened. With Stan’s luck, probably something awful and Ford was so desperate that he thought Stan could help.
Which he probably couldn’t, but the thought was there, right? And maybe it wasn’t even a bad something. It could be some one and wouldn’t that’d be interesting.
Regardless, Stanford needed him.
Stan could curse himself until he was blue in the face, but he still started to gather his meager belongings into his duffel bag. Stanford needed him.
Please come!
It was probably a mistake.
It took two days to get to Oregon. He could have done it quicker if it weren’t for the intermittent snow storms that kept blowing across the roads, forcing traffic to a snail’s crawl. That and he couldn’t risk getting pulled over, not with his outstanding warrants and the chance of letting old friends catch wind of where he’d been laying low. So it took two days to get to Oregon and another five hours before he could find Gravity Falls.
To be fair, it wasn’t on any of the maps Stan had.
He’d stopped at every convenience store and gas station, but no one had seemed to know how to get there. The directions he got were completely useless and contradicted each other. A cashier he talked to described landmarks. Things that he definitely wouldn’t be able to miss only, wait, there was the mother of all snow storms raging outside.
What idiot moved to a town that wasn’t even on the map, anyway? Stan ignored the fondness that came with the thought because, of course, Stanford would find the most obscure place to settle down. He wouldn’t have expected anything less.
A nice elderly man had finally taken his map and marked out the roads in red pen while they were in line for a store’s sole bathroom.
“My granddaughter’s dating a boy from there,” the man had explained. “She got lost while biking out to visit him and it took us hours to find her.” He then bought Stan a coffee for the road.
The drive would have been nice if it hadn’t been for the heavily falling snow and invisible ice on the road. Gravity Falls was far removed from civilization, isolated and oddly beautiful - nothing like New Mexico. The town was tiny and old. Most of the buildings had likely seen better days. The townspeople stopped to watch Stan drive past. Stan sunk further into his seat to avoid the uncomfortable stares. They clearly didn’t expect newcomers too often.
Had Ford been unnerved by the stares too?
The address on the postcard was at the edge of town, up a winding road surrounded by wild forest. About five minutes past town and the road turned to gravel. Grand redwoods loomed through the blizzard, flickering past the window in clumps of viridian and cedar. The trees offered a noticeably bizzare atmosphere. It was obvious what had drawn Ford to Gravity Falls. Things were odd and, if Stan was curious as to what might live further out of sight, this would have been doubly enticing for his brother.
It was still too cold, dark, isolating for Stan’s taste.
As the minutes ticked back and the road slowly lost length, the more Stan’s thoughts seemed determined to spin wild stories of what could have happened to his twin. Visions of too-late postcards, dark waters, and burning rope planned themselves firmly in his mind’s eye. An empty house, a lively house, a house that welcomed him. Reunions full of excitement, confusion, anger - ones ten years in the making. Stories of a life gone well, a life well lived, a life that still missed a piece.
Stan was pulled out of his thoughts when the Stanleymobile jerked violently to the left. He tried to steer it back to the road, but the ice under its wheels provided little traction. In a matter of seconds, the car had embedded itself up to the windshield in a snowbank. Stan smacked his head against the steering wheel with a groan.
When digging out the Stanleymobile became a lost cause, Stan had continued on foot. Another mile, he’d thought. Another mile and maybe half of another and he’d be there. The cold bit through his jacket. He stuffed his hands under his armpits, titled his face away from the wind, and put one foot in front of the other. Eventually, he’d run across the house. Preferably before he froze to death.
The first signpost Stan ran into, he brushed off without a thought. The second, with its frantic warnings, was a little more concerning. The third, fourth, and fifth grew progressively more messy, more panicked. The sixth sign was different, but no less worrisome. It had been a cabinet door in another life, now spray painted with STAY AWAY in dripping red.
Had some doomsday prophet gotten loose in the woods? That would be a better alternative than Ford having gone mental, Stan supposed. Not by much. Those street prophets were jerks.
The rest of the walk was marked every few feet with the usual ‘no trespassing’ signs, give or take a repurposed wooden plank turned horror movie prop or two. The road’s end petered out into a grassy clearing with even more warnings staked on either side. Stan picked up his pace. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore and he was so close to a functional heating system.
There was a charming house nestled against the back of the clearing. It could have been cut out from a travel magazine for mountainside ski resorts. The charm wore off the closer Stan got to it, replaced by a sense of dread. The front porch was covered in signs screaming GO AWAY, STAY AWAY, BEWARE: DANGER . Nailed down planks covered the windows while what little glass peeked through was covered by the inside blinds. The entire house appeared to be in disrepair - as if the owner had simply forgotten about it. Too much snow was covering the roof to see, but Stan would bet his last dollar that shingles were missing.
He paused to move aside some barrels blocking the stairs. The movement dislodged the snow piled on them to reveal faded yellow labels each emblazoned with a radiation symbol. Maybe those off-putting signs had the right idea after all. Stan hastily wiped his gloves on his pants.
The porch steps sagged with his weight and the first step on the porch itself gave way, just about sending Stan through the wooden boards. He stumbled forward, knocked his shoulder into the house siding, and lost one shoe to the gaping hole. There wasn’t good enough light to see what else was underneath the porch, but it was his only pair of winter-worthy boots so Stan hastily rescued it.
Something hissed at him. Whatever it was brushed past his hand as it scampered away.
“What the hell,” Stan said because this was not at all what he had been expecting because, honestly, what the actual hell had Ford had gotten himself - and now Stan, fantastic! - into?
“Don’t see each other for ten years, get a random shitty postcard, and a raccoon could have given me rabies.” Because this wasn’t normal for even their screwed-up family. It’s the middle of the winter! It’s hard to travel and Stanford hadn’t even given him directions to get to this stupid hick town with their unwavering stares and fire-hazard buildings. “The genius seriously owes me for this.”
Stan tested each step before putting his weight on it to avoid any more unnecessary excitement. A pile of broken wood planks were piled at the foot of the door. He gave them a funny look before stepping over them. Stan raised a fist to knock and, in doing so, got a view of the odd markings along the front door. Shattered pieces of wood were still nailed along the frame. They were highlighted by deep gouges over their frayed ends. Areas of the door had been discolored.
If he hadn’t been worried before, well, he was now.
Stan hesitated to knock. Was he really welcome? Had Ford made a mistake? Had he made a mistake in coming? Was Ford in trouble? Would Ford even open the door?
“It’s just Ford. It’s not like he’ll bite.” Stan sucked in a breath, released it on the count of three, and knocked.
His brother might not bite, but it seemed like he wasn’t answering. Stan rapped his knuckles against the door. He waited a few more seconds before raising his fist to try again only to freeze when the door was thrown open. He didn't have the chance to let out a sharp comment before there was a crossbow in his face. The tip wavered between his eyes then his nose and back.
Stan threw his hands up. “Whoa!”
The crossbow-wielder let out a harsh breath. There was the tap of a foot once, twice before Stan tore his gaze from the weapon. Stanford was standing in the open doorway. Stanford with his all too familiar blue eyes and ruffled hair and fancy glasses. It was Stanford staring back at him and Stan’s heart jumped up his throat.
Because it was Stanford blinking at him as if he didn’t recognize his own brother. It was Stanford leaning some of his weight against the doorframe, aiming a loaded weapon with shaking hands, and desperation etched into his face.
And that wasn’t right. That’s not what Stan had expected - hoped - to see.
“Uh, hey,” He tried with a lopsided smile. Ford’s expression hardened and his grip tightened on the crossbow. “You know, as much as I love getting a faceful of pointy things, maybe you can set it down now?”
Ford didn’t lower the crossbow. Instead, he narrowed his eyes. His eyes shot over Stan as if trying to pick out a reason to refuse. Slowly like he wasn’t sure of the movement, Ford tilted his head.
It was like someone dumped ice down the back of Stan’s shirt. “It’s Stanley. Your twin?” Stan dropped the smile. “It’s freezing and I am not trekking back to my car in this weather. Let me in.”
There was an awkward moment of nothing, but then the tense line of Ford’s shoulders eased. With a nod, he lowered the crossbow and set it behind the door. He stepped aside to let Stan through.
Without the danger of getting an arrow to the face, Stan could really give his brother an once over. Had he gotten sick? Ford’s skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot and underlined with dark bags. His hair was greasy and unkempt - not unlike how it would look after hours of Ford running his hands through it while stuck in his thoughts. It was clear he hadn’t slept, probably hadn’t changed his clothes either. The dress shirt was untucked and hung funny while Ford’s tie was crooked and coming undone.
Ford looked like a man possessed. No, obsessed was probably more accurate.
Stan moved past Ford, but hadn’t managed a full step away before Ford had spun him around to shine a light into his eyes.
“Hey, watch it!” He snapped, shoving at Ford’s chest. His brother stepped back with an odd expression twisting across his face. “What was that for?”
“I...,” Ford cleared his throat, “sorry.”
Stan rubbed the heel of his palms over his eyes. “Yeah, well. That doesn't answer the question.”
“Sorry,” Ford repeated with some force. Stan rolled his eyes, but dropped it. Ford eyed him briefly before pointing at the door. “Close, please.”
Ford tapped his foot while Stan struggled to close the door against the wind. Once it slammed shut with an ominous, hollow echo, he let Ford take hold of his sleeve and drag him further into the house.
Stan decided that it would be best to ignore the various different locking systems. Some of them were broken.
The house was just as much of a hot mess as the outside. It was filled to the brim with nothing but pure chaos. Stan had never been one to stress about messes. The room he shared with Ford when they were young had been a disaster of Ford’s books and posters, Stan’s superhero action figures and misplaced clothes, and whatever forts they built. It wasn’t like Stan had room to judge anyone else’s messes, either, not considering the current state of his car. But this was something else entirely.
There was a stuffed bird staring at him. Only psychopaths and hunters had taxidermy that well done. That alone would have been enough to send Stan packing if it weren’t for the tight grip entangled in his jacket. And the concern for Stanford, obviously. Obviously.
“Followed?” Ford asked with a quick backwards glance.
“Uh, no?” Did Ford know something? Had word gotten to him on how much trouble Stan had gotten involved in? Had he connected the dots from a call with Ma? Had someone threatened him? Was this all Stan’s fault?
It was his fault, wasn’t it? It was. It had to be. It had to.
Ford gave a sharp nod. “Good.”
For a moment, he considered asking if someone was threatening Ford and this was all a ploy to sniff out where Stan had gone. He managed to ground out, “What I’d do this time?”
“Nothing.” Ford gave him a bemused glance. Stan sighed in relief. If Ford didn’t know then maybe this was an all-Ford problem.
Which offered its own challenges because how did Ford think Stan of all people could help?
Stan followed Ford into the first open door in the hallway. If the front room and hallway were a disaster, then this was utter mayhem. The ceiling rafters were almost completely obscured by tubing and wires, some of which had slipped off the supports to loop just out of reach. Equipment had been haphazardly stacked by the front door, an electrical panel missing its door was full of exposed wires, and a library’s worth of books had found odd places to rest on the floor. There was a dinosaur skull in a fish tank. A massive toothy skull just chilling in a few inches of water next to more exposed electrical stuff.
And since Stan really didn’t feel up to waxing poetic about the odd circumstances - what the actual hell ? And he had absolutely no clue what was going on and he didn’t know where to even start with his questions.
Ford had better be willing to offer up some answers.
“You hire an interior designer for this place?” Stan weakly smiled when his brother turned to give him a funny glance. “The taxidermy really pulls it all together.”
“Funny,” Ford replied.
Stan raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That didn’t even get a laugh.”
Ford shrugged.
“You’re really in trouble, huh?” At Ford’s stunned expression, Stan mimicked his shrug. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re just as easy to read now as you were when we were ten. Ten years since we’ve seen each other or not, you spittin’ out one or two word answers means you’re freaked out. That and you wouldn’t have asked me to come.”
Ford released his white-knuckled grip on Stan’s sleeve. There was the faintest trace of a smile on Ford’s lips before he sighed. “Correct.” He tugged at his coat sleeves, pulling the abused fabric up over his palms before letting it go. “You came.”
It came out more as a question than a statement and Stan could see that it surprised Ford as much as it had him. “Yeah.”
Apparently that was answer enough for Ford, who turned away to shift through some materials on a desk. Stan almost missed it under the paper, books, and mechanical pieces strewn across it. The object of Ford’s search emerged from under a pile of blueprints. A maroon leather-bound book that appeared well-loved if the stains, pocketmarks, and tattered edges said anything. Ford held it out to Stan.
It was a decent-sized thing, hefty and made well. Stan turned it over in his hands. There was a golden handprint on the front cover with a number one in the center. He could see his reflection - not something he really wanted to see. He flipped it back over.
“So, what’s this?”
“My journal,” Ford said. His voice sounded easier, like he wasn’t forcing himself to reply to Stan’s questions.
Still. “I can see that, Pointdexter. What does it have to do with anything?”
Ford reached out to tap the journal. “I...I got too deep.”
And wasn’t that a fun sentence to digest? When Stan took too long to answer, Ford drew his coat tighter around himself. His gaze flitted off in the distance. Stan itched to turn to see what had gotten his brother’s attention, but the fear of seeing something - nothing - kept him from turning. Instead, he reached forward to put a hand on Ford’s shoulder.
“Alright, then tell me what’s going-”
The moment Stan’s hand touched Ford, he jerked away. “Don’t .”
“Shit, okay,” Stan said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.” He tried to ignore the ache in his chest when Ford took another step back. His brother at least looked apologetic.
“Not your fault.” Just like that, Ford had thrown his walls back up. His voice lost whatever inflection it had been building up.
Stan grimaced when Ford started to pace the room. He stopped for a beat to turn the head of a skeleton model in a different direction. “Are...are you okay?”
Ford paused mid-step to send Stan a disbelieving stare. Message received, jeez.
“Would it be easier for you to write things down? Then you don’t have to, you know?” He waved his hand in Ford’s direction, which earned a halfhearted glare.
“I’ll show you.”
Which sounded a lot more ominous that Stan would have liked, but he still followed Ford through the messy maze of his house. There was a reinforced door that Ford had to find the key for. It took the two of them to fully tug it open even after it was unlocked. The dark staircase leading further down made the hair on the back of Stan’s neck stand up. Had Ford really sequestered himself in some sci-fi dungeon to work on weird science? It was like the beginning of every B-rated horror film.
So that hadn’t helped Stan’s nerves.
The fancy elevator could have been a nice touch if it didn’t feel so claustrophobic . Stan snagged Ford’s elbow with one hand and tried to play it off as unsteadiness when Ford had tensed up and gave him a questioning glance. He focused on the steadily blinking light above the door as it skipped the second basement level and landed on the third. He squeezed out the moment the door’s started to slide open.
Ford walked past him to a panel of dials, switches, and tiny levers. He flicked a green switch and the lights above them started to hum. A moment later, harsh light flooded the room. Stan had to shut his eyes against the flash.
“Some warning next time?”
The reply was a quiet, “Sorry.”
Stan gave his eyes a moment to adjust before he took in the room. Massive computers had all but taken over. There was enough space between them to walk unhindered and a metal desk had been slotted underneath a massive window at the far end. The strange noises of the machinery were off-putting, but not so much as the giant, imposing structure he could see in the room beyond.
“Uh, I know I’m not the smartest guy around, but I’m really lost.” He turned to Ford with a brittle smile. “Mind telling me what the hell is all of this?”
Ford shifted from foot to foot under Stan’s gaze. “A portal.”
“Okay.” Stan moved over to the desk to try and peer through the grimy glass. “A portal to what?”
Ford stepped up to his side and took the journal from him. “The end.” He flipped through a few pages before turning it for Stan to see. Amongst Ford’s cursive, were the words WARNING DANGEROUS in big blocky letters. Ford tapped the page until Stan pushed it out of his face. “My biggest mistake.”
“You built a doomsday device.”
“No!” Ford snapped before he paused and amended, “yes.”
“Why haven’t you destroyed it yet?”
“Can’t.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “Now’s not the time to get sentimental about your work, Sixer.”
“Sixer ,” Ford spat with a surprising amount of venom. Stan risked a glance at his brother’s face to see it twisted into something angry, something hateful . He had no idea what minefield he just landed in, but he did know he wasn’t interested in finding out.
“Alright, uh.” Stan stepped around Ford - still lost in his head - and to the door leading into the portal’s room. “You can’t destroy it, but as long as it doesn’t turn on then it’s fine, right?”
Ford nodded, still glaring out the window. Stan pushed the door open and shivered when a gust of freezing air rushed past. The temperature difference was shocking. Tugging at his jacket in the hopes it might provide a little more cover, he crossed over to the massive device and paused when he noticed the striped caution line on the ground.
He may not know anything about science or math or multiple dimensions, but he did know how to sniff out something’s quality. This portal was awestriking, clean angles and polished metal, but it seemed fragile. It was an upside-down triangle, for heaven’s sake. Either there were support structures that he couldn’t see or it was built as a one-way ticket. He could hear Ford’s footsteps approaching.
“We have got to talk about your taste in science junk.” Stan said as he turned to Ford. “This thing’s pretty and all, but...Ford? You okay?”
“Mhm.” Ford blinked at him, although maybe it was a wink? One of his hands was covering his left eye. Ford gestured at the portal with his free hand. “Not my taste.”
Stan shrugged. “Okay, but you built it.”
“With help.”
“Right.”
They stood there in silence for a few minutes before Ford rubbed at his eyes and lowered his hands. A dark trail ran from his left eye to his chin. Stan stared, ignoring the questioning tilt of Ford’s head.
“Are you bleeding ?” Stan got his answer in the way Ford’s hands shot back up to his face. “Stanford, what the hell? Your eye is bleeding, there’s fucking sci-fi horror shit all over your house, and you have a portal that will end the world in your basement. In your basement, Stanford! Most people have an in-house gym or something!”
Ford shrunk away, wincing when Stan’s voice took a nigh-hysterical tone. “I know.”
“Do you? Why didn’t you get a hold of me sooner?”
“Couldn’t trust-”
Ford stuttered to a halt when Stan held up a hand. He ran the other down his face and sucked in a deep breath. “You couldn’t trust me?”
Seriously?
“No-”
“Ford, you literally just said you didn’t reach out sooner because you didn’t trust me.”
Ford narrowed his eyes. “Should I?”
Should I? Should I?
Why should I trust the screwup? The one who ruined everything?
“Last time I checked, I only fucked up a science fair project. Not, you know, something on the scale of ending the world.” Stan poked a finger at his brother.
Ford recoiled from his touch, but his glare didn’t waver. “You don’t understand!”
“Understand what exactly? You still went to college, right? You still got a degree, still got a college grant, still did what you wanted with your life. I’ve been living in my car for the past ten years and you want to tell me that I don’t understand ?” Stan held up three fingers as he continued, “I’ve been in jail in three different countries. I’m wanted in more. I had to escape out of a car trunk by chewing through it. You really want to talk about things I don’t understand?”
He took a step forward, edging Ford back toward the door. “I don’t understand why it took ten years before you got the guts to reach out and it’s only because you need help with your own problems, you selfish jerk!”
“Fine,” Ford snarled. He shoved the journal into Stan’s arms and gestured towards the door. “ Leave .”
Stan had been digging for a reaction, but the fury burning in Ford’s eyes still caught him off guard. He waved the journal in Ford’s face - if only to get away from his brother’s intensity. “What do you expect me to do with this?”
The abrupt topic change made Ford blink. “Hide it,” he said.
Stan raised a brow. “Hide it? That’s stupid.” He ignored the glare thrown his way in favor of flipping through some of the journal’s pages. “This has instructions for how to work this portal of yours, right? Destroy it if you’re worried about it.”
“No.”
“No ? For a genius, you sure are thick sometimes.” Stan tucked the book under one arm to search his pockets. He fished out his lighter after a moment.
Ford’s eyes widened. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Sixer?” Stan snapped. Ford flinched away from his words or his tone or whatever - he was too furious to care. “You pretty much gave it to me, so I’m going to do what I want - what you should have done.”
He didn’t have the chance to even ignite the lighter before Ford was lunging at him. Despite looking as sickly as he did, Ford still had enough weight to knock Stan off his feet. The journal and lighter flew from his grip. Shit!
Stan landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He could hear Ford scramble to pick up the journal - he didn’t have time to lay back and catch his breath damn it! When Ford stepped past him, he kicked at Ford’s knee. Remorse fluttered in his chest when Ford crumpled.
Apologies later...if ever.
Stan pushed himself to his feet. Ford was sprawled nearby, groaning and unsuccessfully attempting to get up. Stan jumped over his brother, bent over to scoop up the journal, and scanned the ground for his lighter. There! It had skittered over the caution line.
He snatched it off the ground before Ford had gotten to his knees. Some mutterings followed him back into the control room. Stan leaned back against the door to brace it and focused on getting his lighter to spark.
“Stanley!” The door shuddered against his back. “Please!”
Shut up. Shut up, shut up!
“Please .” Ford’s voice was hoarse, muffled through the door and Stan just wanted to jam his fingers in his ears. His brother wasn’t supposed to sound like that.
“C’mon,” Stan begged as his lighter refused to ignite. He could hear footsteps drawing away from the door. “It’s not that hard, c’mon!”
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps gave him enough time to jerk away from the door. Ford slammed against it, knocking it wide open and sending himself stumbling across the room. His side crashed into one of the many switch-covered panels. With a shake of his head, Ford propped himself up on the machinery. Red lights flashed across his face.
“Jeez, Ford. Be careful,” Stan said, momentarily forgetting his task as Ford struggled to keep himself upright. “Don’t kill yourself.”
And Ford laughed.
It was manic, full of emotions that Stan was too afraid to place. It only lasted a few seconds before Ford’s voice gave out and sent him into a coughing fit. He’s insane. Stan didn’t know what to do. Useless! What was he supposed to do?
When his brother got his fit under control, he straightened up. Ford’s abused voice cracked as he said, “I won’t.” He held out a hand. “Journal please.”
Yeah, that’s not happening . After witnessing Ford’s mental breakdown - because that had to be what happened - Stan hugged the journal closer to his chest. “You’re sick , Stanford. Maybe you should go to a hospital before worrying about all of this.”
“I’m not sick.” Ford shook his head. “Don’t have time.”
Red lights continued to flash through the room as the brothers watched each other. Stan was at a loss. Was everything about a portal to different dimensions, the potential end of the world, the dependence on a silly journal - was it all just a product of Ford’s imagination? Had the postcard been a cry for help in a rational moment? His stomach twisted at the thought.
Had he just screamed at a sick man?
“Okay, fine,” Stan said and he offered the journal to Ford. “Let’s see if there’s anything edible in your kitchen and go from there, yeah?”
Ford snatched the journal out of Stan’s grip, eyeing the light in his other hand warily. “Alright.”
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Irrelevant.”
Stan sighed. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s dangerous,” Ford seethed. He jolted up right, clutching the journal closer to his body. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t be here.”
Stan stepped towards his brother and he moved back. It might take a little finesse, but Stan could probably coral Ford into the elevator. He couldn’t believe that he had been fighting with Ford before when his brother had been so obviously unwell. Ford had struggled with talking since when they were toddlers, but the dislike of being touched was new. Had he really lashed out so violently?
What a moron. Stan Pines, fucking up his brother’s life once again. When has violence ever been the answer for you?
“Stanley, stop .”
“You need to leave.”
“You can’t stay here!”
Each desperate cry broke off another piece of Stan’s heart. If Ford had been well, would he have refused to let Stan in? Would he have shouted similar words, only tinged with anger and hatred?
Did Ford hate him anyway? Of course he does!
“Stanley-”
“We can talk after you’ve eaten something and gotten more than an hour of sleep.”
“I can’t!”
“Pretty sure you can.”
“I’m sorry.” Ford took a moment to set the journal on the computer terminal closest to the elevator. There was a glint of something bitter in his eyes and Stan did not like where this was headed. Stan glanced between his brother and the elevator that was just so close, they had almost made it. Ford sucked in a breath, squared his shoulders, and looked Stan in the eye. “You need to leave.”
“No, I don’t think I do. Not when you’re this sick.”
Ford tried to step aside, pulling his arms across his chest to avoid touching Stan. Stan moved in front of him. Ford tried to duck under his left side and Stan stopped him. “This really isn’t funny, Stanford.” He held out an arm to prevent Ford from trying on his opposite side.
Ford drew back with a disgruntled huff. Stan waited to see if Ford was done before lowering his arms. “I get that you think this is dangerous, but that might just be your head makin’ stuff up.” He ignored Ford’s murderous expression. “If it’s really that important then spit it out.”
Ford punched him.
Stan stumbled back, hands cupping his jaw. “What the hell!” He could feel blood welling up from his lip and some had dribbled onto his fingers. Ford shook his hand, grimacing. Stan grunted as he nudged his split lip. It stung .
And maybe it was a terrible thought, but Stan really wanted to snap his brother’s glasses in half. It wasn’t his fault that Ford hit him, and it wasn’t his fault if he reacted in turn. Right?
He’s sick he’s sick he’s sick.
Ford’s eyes widened at Stan’s rumbling growl as he launched himself across the room. He jumped out of the way. Stan spun after him. He wasn’t feeling as guilty about kicking Ford anymore.
“Stop moving, Pointdexter!”
“You weren’t listening!”
“Yeah, no shit! Shouldn’t have punched me!”
Ford ducked under a left hook, scrambling away from the elevator. Unfortunate.
Worthless worthless can’t do anything right .
What right did he have to demand my help? He LEFT me. Abandoned me. He ruined my life!
“I try to help you-”
“Help?” Ford’s voice snapped up an octave. “You’re making it worse!”
Stan got a fistful of Ford’s shirt and dragged him closer. Ford kicked out, but the manic energy he’d had while trying to get the journal was gone. His kick was weak and just barely made its mark of Stan’s thigh. His fingers tug into Stan’s arms. Those annoying red lights continued.
Stan shook him before bringing him up eye to eye. “You’ve got problems, Stanford. You left me behind, you abandoned me for ten year when it was supposed to be us against the world and you’re mad at me? Because I think you should get help? What a joke.” He winced when Ford dug his nails into his skin. He released part of his death grip on Ford’s shirt to encircle Ford’s left wrist to drag him off.
“Let go of me! ”
Stan released Ford’s wrist. The flashing lights hit Stan across the face, momentarily blinding him. He still had one hand tangled in Ford’s shirt when Ford tried kicking him away again. This time, off balance and panicked, it sent Stan reeling back.
They’d made a mess of the control room, having worked their way from the elevator back to the window to the portal’s room. The warning lights picked up intensity, vibrant red washing over the room as a quiet hum echoed from the portal. The hum increased in volume, turning to a roar as the swirling portal began to crack open. Interdimensional energy screamed into the empty room, arcs of blue erupting from its twisting mouth. Blazing symbols meant to contain the portal’s power came to life - just as Stan’s back slammed against the desk.
He screamed.
The agony flared across his shoulder. Sparks danced in his vision and his ears rang with echoes of his own wheezing breaths. Someone was talking, but he couldn’t make out their words. Wouldn’t they just shut up?
A trembling hand landed on his other shoulder. It gave Stan something to ground himself on other than the burning. It burned it burned it BURNED .
“Stanley?”
“Can you hear me?”
“I-I’m sorry-”
“Are you alright? No, that’s a dumb question.”
“Please, can you hear me?”
Stan managed a deeper breath and the voice paused. He tried to focus on the weight pressed against his good shoulder. This was his fault for pushing it. He should have just left. Why had he come?
“Some brother you turned out to be,” he choked out. The pain made his tongue heavy, too big for his mouth. There was a sharp intake from the voice - from Ford. Stan leaned forward, dislodging Ford’s hand, and focused on breathing through the pain. His fault?
With some effort, Stan managed to convince his body to move. Each lungful of air seemed to disturb his shoulder, white-hot agony sparking across his back and arm. He blinked the tears from his eyes and found Ford’s terrified face staring back. “Some brother.”
Ford flinched, elbow catching on the door frame. The sudden halt of his momentum staggered him. Stan took the opportunity to get his feet steady under him and when Ford had gotten his balance back, he gave as good as he got. Stan punched Ford in the face.
The door flew open, depositing Ford on the hard-packed dirt in the other room. The blue light devouring the portal’s surroundings snapped up the faint flickers of the warning lights peeking through the open door. Stan threw up one arm to block the light when he followed his brother through.
“You selfish moron.” Stan gestured between the two. “We could have done so much together! And you’re going to throw it all away because you don’t want to admit that I’m right!”
Ford glared at him, but kept his mouth shut.
“Get up, Stanford! You ruined my life, the most you can do is stand up and fucking listen.”
“You ruined it yourself,” Ford snapped. Stan reached down and grabbed the sleeves of Ford’s coat. He ignored the fury spat at him and hoisted his brother to his feet. Ford took a wobbly step away, a sneer on his face. “Don’t touch me.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I can do! I’m so fucking tired of living in your shadow! Did you know that Ma called me? She’d spend the whole time telling me how I should reach out to you because you’d help me. You can’t even help yourself!”
When Ford didn’t answer, Stan shoved him. “You think the world’s going to end because of one of your mistakes? Get off your pedestal, Stanford!”
When Stan pushed Ford again, Ford lost his footing. He tumbled back, past the caution line, and into the thick blue light. His feet didn’t make contact with the ground. The blue light wrapped around him, tugging Ford back towards the hungry portal. Stan froze, panic gluing him in place.
“Wait-”
“Stanley!”
“Stanford, no, wait! Come back!”
DO SOMETHING!
A rumble shook the room, knocking Stan to the ground. He pushed himself up, frantically hoping the quake had knocked Ford down - and watched as his brother disappeared. With a final shriek, the portal shut down. Its supports gave and the magnificent device slumped forward.
Stan was left alone in the rubble of a mistake that wasn’t his.
Was it?