Chapter Text
Stan Pines wasn’t sure how everything would go with Stanford now that they were on Earth again. Sure, he had invited Stan to live with him- them, actually, Ford has an assistant living with him- in Gravity Falls, Oregon, but that was while they were on the train and it could’ve been a spur of the moment type thing. He had called when he had got to Oregon, partially because he needed to get out of Rico's reach enough to feel safe getting into a phone booth for more than a minute, and partially because if he was wrong then he could at least pretend he was going somewhere until he would be crushed.
Once he had, he was pleasantly surprised to hear Ford excitedly ask if it was Stan calling, which made him feel a hundred pounds lighter. They talked for only a few minutes before Stan was on the road again. Luckily he had brought back a few gold coins from the train, so he was able to pawn those off and get a few hundred dollars for the trip. Otherwise he would’ve had to pull a few cons in order to make it from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico to Gravity Falls, Oregon, which could’ve gone poorly for him, had he been caught.
On the whole way through Oregon after the call, he had a weird feeling in his stomach and his chest that couldn’t be described as distinctly good or bad. Like a strangely lukewarm shower, neither refreshing or relaxing, just kind of wet. He was excited and happy and also nervous and downright panicky. He felt like he was a dead man walking to his gallows and a groom walking to the alter at the same time. He wasn’t sure how else to describe it, the weird feeling, but as uncomfortable and weird.
When he pulled up to the house, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, where Ford was, ready to pull him into a hug. The hug lasted a minute and it felt like the water warmed up finally, like the judge came out and set him free.
It felt like he was home again.
So like hell he was going to mess it up.
So wherever he could, he would help. He would make sure he was never a dead weight to Ford or Fiddleford while he was here. He cleaned the dishes and helped cook the food- which Fiddleford was glad for since Ford knew nothing about cooking, cleaned up whenever he was sure it wasn’t an important experiment or something, and did any heavy lifting the two needed his help with. There actually wasn’t much heavy lifting, like Ford had implied there would be, because they had some very helpful magic- actual magic- at their disposal.
Anything Ford and Fiddleford couldn’t lift physically, they usually had a spell or a crystal to lighten the load enough for them to pick it up single handedly. He was of help, but usually it was just as another set of hands and not because of his strength. There were plenty of times outside the lab that he was helpful because of his strength, like when he was able to wrestle the Gremloblin before it was able to take off with Fiddleford. He was able to keep it mostly pinned until Ford could use a sleeping spell on it.
According to Stanford, they were weeks ahead of schedule since Stan’s been helping, which he would hope so after pulling the crazy hours Ford has been pushing. Ford didn’t stop pulling those same hours after telling them that they were ahead of schedule, but it was easier for Fiddleford to convince him to sleep and eat after that.
The project Ford had mentioned was huge.
Not just in aspiration, but in sheer size.
The thing took up most of the basement which was multiple rooms and at least two stories tall in the actual portal room. He wasn’t sure what was in the space above the control room and below the house, but he’s pretty sure it’s a study or library of some kind, so at least the thing doesn’t actually take up the whole basement, but it’s still huge.
He wasn’t really exactly sure what it was or how it worked, but it sounded a lot like something from Strange Tales and Ford was Doctor Strange himself. He really was a doctor, too, but apparently not the kind who poked and prodded at sick people, but the kind that poked and prodded at weird things and occasionally the laws of physics.
But even with Ford being Ford and Gravity Falls naturally being the weirdest place on Earth, something felt off about the project.
It felt like a big looming red flag, as did everything that came with it. Whenever Ford started talking about it, he would occasionally talk like it wasn’t his idea entirely. At first he assumed he was also crediting Fiddleford, but after starting to understand what Fiddleford’s role is, he learned that Fiddleford had been called from his now-ex-wife's house about the project and wasn’t responsible for almost any of the ideas. He helped with the mechanical parts, but this was Ford’s idea. Or wasn’t, apparently. Ford would mention that they had gone over the plans and the numbers so many times before they- including Fiddleford, now- started building. They were excited about the project being nearly complete while Fiddleford seemed somewhat hesitant.
It felt off.
It felt wrong.
But he wasn’t going to say anything about it because, again,
Like hell he’s going to mess it up.
Which is why he had spent the last few weeks silent about it.
But then something changed.
Ford would work day in and day out normally, but now it was much more literal. He would work until he collapsed, spend an hour sleeping, then wake up and keep working with more energy than he had had all day. He would talk weirdly, walk weirdly, and occasionally eat and drink weirdly. Six or seven hours later he would go back to sleep and act like normal when he woke up.
He wasn’t sure when it started happening, but he had slept in late after a late night, so he was up later the next day, finding Ford about to fall asleep standing after staying up the whole night. He led him to the couch in the basement before he started cleaning up the coffee mugs and dishes from last night. He had four empty mugs on a small stack of plates he was balancing on his hand, waiter style, but when he turned around to bring them upstairs, he came face to face with his brother smiling creepily. He jumped and lost one of the mugs entirely, catching the other that fell as it’s replica shattered on the ground.
“Sweet Moses, Ford!” He gasped, “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” He looked at Ford, still grinning but now at the shattered remains of his mug“...Ford?” he said hesitantly.
Ford blinked for a second before looking back up at Stan. “Oh sorry about that! I thought you heard me getting up!” He says, grinning still.
He’s seen Ford smile over the past week and a half that he’s spent at the house getting to know Ford again and this isn’t like how he usually smiles. Even at his most sleep deprived and coffee fueled, his smile has never been this unhinged before- not even when he made a breakthrough after two all-nighters and sixteen cups of coffee.
“…Yeah..” Stan says slowly, looking away from the unblinking eyes, “I’m going to bring these upstairs to the sink, I’ll clean up the glass, you just go back to sleep, alright?
“You got it, Fish.” Ford says strangely animatedly, his head bopping along with the words like he was an old Disney cartoon before stepping to the side, his hands gesturing towards the door.
He made his way to the stairs, watching as Ford watches him leave. He deposits the china in the sink before going back downstairs.
Did Ford just call him fish? Not the most horrible thing he’s been called, but probably the weirdest. Ford spoke gibberish when he was too sleep deprived, but he wasn’t acting like he usually would when he would get sleep deprived enough to lose some of his grasp on reality like this. Maybe he’s changed in recent years and his reactions to not sleeping was different, or maybe he’s so far past anything Stan has seen and this is just sleepless Ford 2.0.
When he gets back downstairs, he is welcomed by the sight of Ford picking up the broken glass with his hands, which are dripping with blood.
“Ford!” Stan rushes to his side, putting one hand on his twin's shoulder and the other wrenching his hand away from the glass. “Stop! You’re bleeding!”
Ford flings his arm up, knocking Stan away from him and onto his backside. Stan looks up at Ford and Ford smiles with that unnerving smile for a second before his face turns into a strange over dramatic worried expression that looks more mocking than actually worried or sorry.
“Are you alright, brother? You startled me!” Ford says, his eyes blinking one at a time.
Stan kept looking between Ford’s eyes and his hands which were dripping blood all over the floor.
Something was very, very wrong.
“Ford? Your hands?” Stan says, swallowing.
Ford looks down at his hands like he hadn’t known they were hurt, “Oh right, I cut them on accident while picking up the glass. I’ll clean the blood up when all the glass is gone.” He says, shrugging.
“I can take care of the rest, Ford, you should clean and bandage those now.”
“Sure, sounds great.” He says before dropping the handful of bloody glass he had in his left palm. Ford stands up, swaying, before walking out of the room with his knees a bit too high to be normal.
“What just happened?” he asks himself, sitting on the floor of the basement, surrounded by broken glass and blood.
-
That wasn’t the last time that he’d seen Ford with a weird gleam in his eyes and a too-wide smile on his face. A few times he would see him working on the numbers with that look on his face and nothing too weird would happen, but later that same week, he was about to make dinner for the three of them when he found Ford in the kitchen guzzling down coffee. He held the coffee pot a few inches from his face, pouring it straight into his mouth.
“Whoa. Is that from this morning?”
Ford turns his head without tipping the pot back upright, so the coffee poured all over his chin and neck.
The steaming coffee.
“What the hell, Ford!?” Stan yells. “You’re burning yourself! Stop!” Stan takes the scalding pot out of Ford’s hand, putting it on the counter before turning back to Ford, whose lips, chin, and neck are bright red from the coffee, but not blistering.
“Oh it wasn’t that hot, besides, I need the caffeine if I’m going to keep working on the project!” He says, his voice sounding horrible.
“Did you burn your throat?” Stan asks, horrified.
“No!” he says hoarsely. “Well, maybe a little, but it’s not permanent.”
He stands there in total shock, neither of them speaking, just staring at each other for a straight minute. There’s nothing much anyone can do for a burned throat, is there? He can’t think of anything, at least.
“Well. Back to work!” He says cheerfully, grabbing the pot and walking out of the kitchen.
Stan rewinds the last few minutes back in his mind, trying to understand what any of it meant.
Was Ford going insane?
Like, actually insane. This isn’t normal 'Ford at finals week’ crazy or even moonlanding Ford crazy, he might actually be going insane because of this project.
He was hurting himself like he couldn’t feel pain, walking like he never learned how, even blinking seemed like a conscious effort to him.
He needs to do something, this project is taking it’s toll on him, he needs to stop before it’s too late-
But-
Stan’s breath catches in his chest.
If he mentions to Ford that he should stop working on the project, especially when they’ve been working so hard on it, he’ll think it’s just Stan trying to be lazy. He’ll think that Stan’s trying to manipulate him into letting them take a break by making it seem like he’s just concerned about Ford’s sanity and safety. He’ll get mad at Stan for wanting to delay the project even if he doesn’t think Stan is just trying to be lazy or manipulative. Ford is focused and driven so hard on this project to the point of self destruction already, so anything he sees as a hindrance would immediately become an enemy to get rid of.
What better way to get rid of a hindrance than to throw it out on the streets? That worked the last time.
Stan doesn’t think he’d be able to go through that again. It already nearly killed him too many times to count. Starvation, food poisoning, heat exhaustion, hypothermia, thugs, gangs, mafias, cartels, cops, serial killers, diseases, addictions, any of those things could’ve killed him, but straight grief and self loathing would kill him this time. He had just gotten enough back for just too long; if he lost it all again, he doesn’t think hope could keep him afloat this time. He thought back on the train that he’d be able to work on making a new life without working towards reclaiming his old one, but he’s tasted how sweet this old life is again and he just doesn’t have the stomach for the mud and sand of anymore.
He can’t let Stanford run himself into the ground, but like hell he was going to mess it up again
He didn’t know what to do.