Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room is dark. Black as pitch but for the low, lingering flames in the fireplace. Shadows stretch out, the dim glow outlining only the most minimal of contours—the mantel, a handwoven Persian carpet, a carved chestnut end table, an elegant lamp, and the regal outline of an antique wing back chair. And in that chair, a man, old but not terribly, vainly groomed and exceedingly wealthy.

The low light catches on the well-trimmed hairs of his beard, his wire rim glasses, even the smirking curve of his lips. His eyes are dark, twin pools of cold, emotionless black, and they twinkle with something more sinister than genial merriment. In his hand, stretched out by a curling wire from its mount on the end table, he holds a phone to his ear, a conversation long awaited already well underway.

The man—a gentlemen in every sense but his soul—listens patiently as a low murmur, accented and rough, proceeds to further rebuff the offer of a lifetime. There is no offense in the man’s face, only a steady and self-earned confidence. There is no rush, no urgency, only the credence of his success and the forbearance of a tiger on the hunt of some far weaker prey.

The man takes a casual drag from his imported cigar as the voice on the other end of the line at last falls silent. He lets the smoke out in a breath through his teeth, smirk never once leaving his lips.

“I don’t suppose there is much that I can do to sway your mind, Mr. Hernández,” the man drawls good naturedly. “Mm. I understand. Then again, turning down my cliency may prove a very unwise decision….Hmm? Threatening you? Oh, hardly, sir. I wouldn’t threaten a man as notoriously dangerous as yourself. I may be eccentric but I am far from being a fool. What if I were to tell you that I have information about a past associate of yours? An underling, I believe. One who did your…‘organization’, shall we say, a fair bit of harm.”

There is a pause on the other end, then a sneer of disbelief.

The man’s smile grows as he goes in for the kill. “A Mr. Steve Pinington, to be exact. Does that name sound at all familiar?”

The pause this time is long and tense. Shocked, perhaps, or some other similar emotion that is soon overtaken by something more predatory. A low, dangerous growl issues from the receiver, causing the man in the wing back chair to chuckle lowly.

“Ah, so you are interested, then? I thought you might be. Mm…Now, hold on, friend. I’ll need compensation for that juicy bit of detail. Work for me, do things my way, and I assure you that Pinington will be all yours.”

Silence, and then a quiet demand.

“Proof? Of course, naturally. I’d expect that. I shall give you the proof you deserve, and more. Meet me in Pasadena on the 19th of next month, Bellview Ave, just after eight. There’s a little cafe there. I’ll be sitting in the furthest booth, next to the fish tank. And please, come alone. It’s a public place, and there is no need to worry about me being more than you can handle. Besides, no sense making this messier than need be, ah? Yes. Yes, of course. Oh, and Mr. Hernández?…I look forward to doing business with you.”

The phone is set back in its cradle with a light click, and the room is once again submerged in silence. Nothing but the crackle of the flames in the fireplace and the chime of the grandfather clock in the hall.

The smirk has not left the man’s face as he raises his cigar once again, taking a slow, triumphant drag, before letting it out slowly. Those dark eyes, calm and cold, shift to stare down at a stack of papers he has been balancing on his lap. An article, thick and well written, meticulously printed off the internet and stapled together with perfectly spaced punctures. On the front stands out the title in bold, black lettering:

The Wonders of the Unknown—by Stanford Pines

Further down the article, a few pages in, is a picture of two older men posing in front of some remarkably monstrous sea creature. It is obviously a fake, as no such beast could possibly exist, and yet there the two fishermen stand, side by side with matching smiles and the gleam of adventure in their eyes. The first, apparently far more outgoing an individual, has his arm thrown around the other’s shoulders, grinning widely, personality and smug confidence thriving in ever fiber of his demeanor. The second, who resembles the first in all but a bit more height and a wirier frame, seems a bit more shy, smile one of cautious uncertainty, but just as sincere as its twin.

It is to the second of the two men that the cold, dark eyes fix, drawn in like an arrow to a target. Or, more specifically, to the six fingered hand placed clearly and unashamedly in plain sight.

“It’s time to settle a few scores,” he hums, teeth glinting in the firelight. “My old friend…”

Chapter Text

“Oh, for Moses’ sake, Ford, will you stop pacing and sit the heck down? You’re gonna give me whiplash.”

Stanley Pines sits slouched on the edge of the soft motel mattress, fidgeting restlessly with the snug restrictions of his suit cuffs, and trying not to catch his brother’s contagious anxiety. As it is, Stan is trying to ignore his own roiling uneasiness, and instead trying to focus on their temporary lodgings.

It is a decent motel, with clean white walls and ceiling, trim, dark patterned carpeting that seem well vacuumed and stainless, and a dresser with a large mirrored back and a stocky cream shaded lamp. There is another mirror - a full-length one - that takes up a considerable portion of the wall over by the bathroom hallway, and quaint landscape paintings hang in every available space. A small corridor leads into a spotless, working bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a shower. There are two twin beds, a TV, and a window viewing out into the parking lot that has thick, flowery curtains to keep out prying eyes.

It is certainly a step up from the motels Stan had frequented during his grifter days. Those had been regular dumps, often infested with rats and lice, and smelling of cigar smoke and filth. This is heaven in comparison. Everything smells of lavender and dryer sheets, homey and safe and cozy. After months at sea and sleeping in a stiff, cramped bunk, Stan is tempted to just flop down and fall asleep on the plush mattress beneath him. Sleep until this whole thing is over.

But…he can’t do that to Ford.

He can’t do that to his brother who is pacing back and forth across the motel room floor like a caged tiger, hair still wet from his shower and half dressed in his own fancy suit, struggling to balance going over a handful of crinkled notes while simultaneously trying to fasten his tie around his neck; and failing miserably, for the record. For all he has done to clean himself up, Ford is a wreck. He had started muttering to himself about an hour ago, a mix of self assurances and bits of planned dialogue, and he does not look like he is going to stop on his own any time soon. He looks like an absolute basket case, not even hearing Stan’s gruff plea. He just keeps pacing, occupied and jittery.

Stan sighs, slapping his knees and standing up with a grunt. He reaches out and catches his brother by the arm as Ford makes another pass, finally gaining Ford’s impatient attention. Ford looks awful, stressed, his eyes flitting about and breathing worryingly uneven. Stan winces. There is something about the way Ford is acting that serves as a painful reminder of that day long ago when Stan had first arrived in Gravity Falls. Back when Ford hadn’t had an ounce of sleep in weeks and was paranoid to the point of turning a crossbow at his own brother’s chest.

It’s funny, in its own, twisted way. Ford could stand in the shadow of beasts beyond imagination without so much as getting his heart rate up, but ask him to give a presentation in front of a bunch of his fellow nerds and he went all to pieces.

Stan swipes the solid maroon necktie from Ford’s numb fingers and wordlessly forces Ford to face him. Ford doesn’t fight it, but he is stiff as a board, rippling with nervous energy.

“Really, Sixer,” Stan grumbles, shaking out the now wrinkled tie. “You’re more twitchy than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Relax, buddy, you’ll do fine. You’ve got that speech memorized backwards and forwards. The kids even helped you with that power point thing.”

“Yes, they did,” Ford concedes fondly, his eyes going a little glassy as he thinks of the children.

It hadn’t been easy for their grandniece and nephew to walk Ford through the technological process of using the laptop for anything other than video calls. For a guy who supposedly lived in worlds with gadgets beyond the earth’s capabilities, he was ghastly slow in picking up on computer tech. In the end, Dipper had helped Ford out and done the presentation himself, and then taught Ford how to use it.

Stan reaches up and sets the open tie around the back of Ford’s neck, mindful not to brush the scars that reside there. The last thing they need is Ford freaking out, drowning in poorly timed bad memories. Stan avoids the area with skill, before smoothly threading the tie ends, over and under and around and through; confident and habitual. For the first time in probably the last twenty-four hours, Ford goes still. Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, though that restlessness is still there, simmering just below the surface.

Ford takes the moment to look at Stan, truly look at him. His weird grayish blue eyes — they had once been brown, years ago — staring searchingly into Stan’s own.

The nerd frowns. “Your pupils are constricted.”

“Are they?” Stan counters, distracted.

“Yes.” Ford leans in a little, enough so that Stan has to pause. “Do you have a headache?”

“I don’t see why that—”

“Stanley.”

Stan sighs and he gives Ford an unimpressed look. “A little one. Not a big deal. You don’t have to freak out or whatever, I’m fine.”

Ford doesn’t look too sure. Ever since the whole Memory Gun thing three years ago, Stan had been having fairly regular migraines. One or two a month, nothing too drastic. Figures one would start brewing now of all times.

“Are you sure?” Ford presses gently.

Stan rolls his eyes, despite the way it makes his head hurt a little bit more prominently. “Yes, I’m sure. Now, will you quit it? We don’t got a lotta time, here.”

Ford lets him continue with his task, though he still has that kicked puppy look. Even before he speaks Stan knows what’s going to come out next.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nope. Not accepting that.”

“But—”

“Ford, for the last time, this isn’t your fault.”

Now Ford actually looks a little frustrated. “Then I would certainly like to know who is at fault,” he says with some bite. “I’m the one who—”

“Because I told you to,” Stan interrupts with a look. He’s made a mistake with the tie, he has to undo it and start again.

The headaches are far from ideal, Stan won’t argue with that, but the only person who can really take the blame is himself. Erasing his mind had been his idea, if memory serves him right —and he’s pretty sure it does, at least in this. Stan got all of his memories back that autumn, all but ten years worth of his life. Considering that the general expectation had been that Stan would never regain anything, Stan counts the way things turned out as a win. And while he isn’t all that worried about filling in that gap, Ford is quite adamant that it is those missing memories that are causing his discomfort.

And it has been tearing Ford apart.

Stan can still recall the defeated and forlorn look on his brother’s face that late night they’d spent talking in the Mystery Shack kitchen, two days before the kids were to return to Piedmont.

“I-I’m sorry, Stanley. We’ve done everything we can. We’ve dug, and guided, and prodded, and pushed, and…I don’t mean to seem ungrateful that you’ve recovered so much of your memory, but there’s no denying it. There are going to be gaps. We knew that. And, well…unless we find a way to jog those memories…I’m afraid you’re bound to have forgotten a good ten years of your life by the end of all this. I…I’m sorry. I know practically nothing about you between when Pa kicked you out and you showing up on my doorstep here in Gravity Falls. I wouldn’t even know where to start…”

And Stan had smiled, with an odd patience he had learned…somewhere. Maybe from all the patience his loved ones had shown him since he’d woken up in that clearing.

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of too bad. But, hey, maybe those years aren’t worth remembering. Did you think of that, Sixer? A life without you, or Ma, or Shermie? A life on the streets, apparently caught up in who knows what if what the kids told me are true…That’s not exactly what I’d call living. If all I ever remember is our childhood and my time here in Gravity Falls…well, I think I can go with that. This is my life. You all are my life. And, honestly, that’s all I want.”

And Stan still held true to that.

“I told you to,” Stan repeats with a decisive nod. “And that’s the end of it, okay? We’ll talk about it later if we have to. As many times as you need. But right now, we need you at your best. I’ll take an aspirin. I’ll be good. Okay?”

“…”

“Stanford.”

“Okay,” Ford breathes. He’s still obviously frustrated, but doomsday has yet again been averted.

“Now! Back to tonight’s anxieties. These are supposed to be your kind of people, right?” Stan asks rhetorically. “So you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve wanted this your whole life, so come on, deep breaths. You got this, Pointdexter.”

Ford is pale. Stan hopes he ate that morning. Moses, it was like trying to babysit a kid who wouldn’t eat. Ford tilts his head back a little, allowing Stan to properly continue to work on the tie. He mutters something to the ceiling that sounds an awful lot like ‘what if they don’t like me’, and Stan nearly laughs.

“Ford, these are scientists. Full grown men and women, not bullies on the playground. Besides, they don’t have to like you…”

Stan finishes tying the necktie and steps back, eyeing his perfect full windsor knot proudly. He gives Ford a lopsided grin.

“They just gotta respect you. And you wouldn’t be here if they didn’t already, right? So quit it before you work yourself up into being sick. You look fine, you look great. Brush your hair and you’ll blend right in with all the other nerds.”

That finally draws a weak smile from Ford.

“Next I suppose you’re going to tell me to eat all my broccoli or you’ll send me to my room,” he quips.

This time Stan does laugh. “I just might!”

The younger twin eyes his brother from head to toe, fondly. Ford cleaned up pretty good, especially taking into account that they hadn’t had much time to buy appropriate attire. Ford had settled for a classic navy blue suit - a suggestion of Mabel’s to ‘bring out the blue in his grayish blue eyes’ - and a cream white button-down underneath. Top that off with the maroon tie and black penny loafers, and Ford actually cut a rather handsome figure.

Stan gives a teasing whistle. “Man, Ford, the chicks are gonna dig you tonight .” And he wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis.

Ford’s shoulders slump in exasperation and he rolls his eyes, turning for the bathroom to go and brush his hair as Stan suggested, though Stan gets the feeling it’s more to hide the rising blush on his face than a show of compliance.

“Do you think of anything other than women, Stanley?” Ford gives back over his shoulder, but he’s smiling. Stan follows and leans against the bathroom doorway as Ford drags a comb through his graying hair.

Stan grins and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah. Food and money.”

“And family,” Ford adds without hesitation.

Stan nods in concession. “And family. Women, food, money, and family. The rest of the world can go hang.”

Ford huffs a laugh and sets down the comb, staring at himself in the mirror and looking far too unsure and self-judgmental for Stan’s taste. Stan doesn’t know what his brother is so worried about. Of the two of them, Ford is the more fit, though Stan himself has lost a fair amount of weight since they’d set sail on the Stan O’ War II. He’ll never be as wiry as Ford, but he has started to have to wear a belt again for the first time since his twenties. That has to count for something.

Stan shakes his head. “You look good, Sixer.”

“Mm.” Ford adjusts his suit uncomfortably before deflecting with a predicted, “Yes, well, you do, too.”

And Stan does at that. In the mirror Stan surveys his own classic black suit, white button-down, and bright red, western style bow tie. It’s been a while since he’s worn anything more formal than a faded, worn topcoat, t-shirt, jeans, and a watch cap. Not since his Mr. Mystery days, and even then he’d worn his father’s old suit, which had a little more give from years of use and his father having been built like a tank.

This new suit hugs Stan’s frame in a way that is probably much more flattering, and while it is stiff and uncomfortable from being new it still has a fair amount of mobility. While Ford had opted to button his suit closed, Stan had decided to leave his open. It’s a little less constricting that way and better fits his personality. Besides, Stan isn’t the one speaking before an audience that night. Why should he be even more uncomfortable if it wasn’t necessary?

Ford takes a shaky breath and his eyes meet Stan’s in the mirror. His voice takes on a shy, small edge, like Stan hasn’t heard it do since they were children.

“Do…Do you really think I’m doing the right thing?”

Stan’s entire facade softens. Sincerely he replies, “Bro, you’ve been wanting to share your research with the world since we were both snotty nosed kids hunting down the Jersey Devil. And now some influential, big-shot somebody sees that article you wrote that Dipper sent to the Piedmont Chronicle and out of the blue you’re asked to speak at some huge, fancy science-nerd convention? Yeah, no, Ford. I love you too much to let you pass up one of your dreams just ‘cause you’ve got a little social anxiety.”

“I confess I’m surprised,” Ford replies drearily. “It wasn’t even a terribly good article. Just a ramble, really, on the history of exploration, plus some notes on the less explored places of the world and some personal notes, slightly edited, of my own research. But it was full of amateur mistakes and—”

Stan snorts. “Pfft, okay, you perfectionist pain-in-the-butt. Maybe it isn’t top notch literature, at least not by your standards, but someone obviously liked it. Give yourself a break! You were out there saving the multiverse or whatever for thirty years, not writing your memoirs, I get it. You’re a little out of practice, so what? Take the compliment and stop being a wet blanket, will ya!”

Ford sighs. “I suppose.”

Stan laughs and claps Ford on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!” He turns to head back out into the motel room. “You’re doing the right thing, believe me. Now! Let’s go show those pompous jerks who’s the real number one nerd around here! Besides, we don’t wanna be late for the refreshments.”

Ford chuckles, shakes his head fondly, meets his own gaze in the mirror one final time, and then takes Stan’s lead, following his brother out into the main room.

The crinkled notes, however, stay right where Ford had put them on the bathroom sink, no longer needed.

Stan’s confidence in him is all Ford needs.

It’s dark, wet, and chilly as Stan and Ford walk their way across the motel parking lot to the main road. Cold enough that steam rises from a few nearby manholes and the exhaust from a passing car is easily visible.

Ford grimaces, having never really cared much for the city in general. Stan is far more at ease. He has lived in a lot trashier towns than Pasadena. In comparison, this place is really nice. It has restaurants and coffee shops, parks and good schools. It’s the kind of place families moved to, an area young couples came to start a life of their own. It’s bustling and lively, but a little too upper class for Stan’s taste. The crime rate is something like one out of every thirty-nine according to Ford, whatever that was supposed to mean, but it’s decent enough.

That, and California is one of the few states Stan isn’t still banned from.

Stan shoves his hands into the pockets of his suit pants as they make their way out onto the sidewalk, turning left to follow the road while keeping an eye out for an available taxi.

“Good thing there was a break in the weather,” Stan comments, squinting up at the dark sky above. “Would’a sucked tryin’ to make our way over in the pouring rain.”

Ford nods in agreement.

Stan flutters his fingers at a couple of passing women, giving them a roguish grin as they giggle and move on. They’re way too young for either of them, but Stan’s never been picky. His hand instantly digs back into his pocket once the girls are behind them, a groan in his voice.

“Couldn’t they have provided, I don’t know, a limo or something?”

Ford quirks a smile as he spots a taxi and gives the customary gesture as he quickens his pace, Stan following. “Stanley, I’m a side speaker at a Californian science conference, not Elvis Presley.”

Stan lets loose a hearty laugh at that, his voice carrying all around the puddle-swamped intersection. Once upon a time it might have embarrassed Ford, his brother always being so loud and rambunctious. Now it only succeeds in making Ford smile wider.

The taxi is waiting for them at the curb, and the twins get in with Ford supplying the driver with the appropriate address. Stan wiggles uncomfortably in his seat as the vehicle pulls slowly into traffic.

“Gah , dang, the way this suit rides up on ya, ughn! It’s annoying. Why couldn’t we have just gone into some thrift store somewhere and gotten something a little more broken in?”

“Because,” Ford deadpans, without even looking away from the window and the colorful glow of the passing storefronts, “Mabel would have had an artistic conniption if you went to a high class event in some bum’s hand-me-downs. And I agree. I will not have any twin of mine wearing a second hand suit at one of the biggest scientific summits in the United States.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan grouches and slumps down in his seat. “Better hope they have name tags. Otherwise people are gonna start mixing us up.” Stan’s eyes widened before narrowing, his expression turning mischievous as he turns a grin to Ford that is downright devilish. “Actually, this could be fun. Quick, tell me some nerd lingo so I can do your reputation justice.”

The look of absolute horror on Ford’s face instantly sends Stan into another belly laugh, causing the driver to swerve a little and check his rear view mirror in concern.

“We will ask for name tags,” Ford says with great conviction. “I will make some if I have to.” But there’s no anger in his voice, and he shares Stan’s teasing smirk.

They fall into companionable silence for most of the rest of the journey, Stan only commenting on the passing cityscape whenever Ford’s leg starts to bounce out of nervousness. There are no more encouragements to be given at this point, none that haven’t already been said, so Stan settles for offering distraction after small, friendly distraction. The city lights and glow from every store window skitters and reflects all around them on the wet pavement and off the surface of passing cars. There is an excitement and nervousness between them, shared, though Stan is sure Ford’s is infinitely worse. But there is also a peace, one that comes from two brothers knowing that the other would always be there for them.

The taxi takes them out a little ways from the main hub of the city, out toward what looks to be a large, man made lake that trickled off into a variety of small canals. It’s beautiful, the water reflecting the rest of the city like a mirror. There are bridges and cobblestone walkways with tall Victorian style street lamps, and the occasional Californian palm stretching high every now and then to further frame the skyline. And, beyond all that, across the lake and framing the landscape like a jeweled tiara, stands their destination; an enormous university pegged in by tall trimmed bushes and a black iron fence, an amalgamate of modern and ancient Greek architecture with great thick pillar shafts and high arched windows. It is trimmed with carved friezes and adorned with Corinthian capitals, as classy as architecture can get, basically. The place is lit up like a Christmas tree, all yellow, white, and gold, streaming through the windows to refract on the water outside and mixing with the mild winter mist.

Stan presses up against his window, breath leaving a foggy patch on the pane. “Jeez Louise, Sixer,” he says in awe. “Are we going to a science conference or a palace?”

Ford leans over across from his seat, peering out Stan’s side of the taxi with anxious interest. “The Californian Institute of Exploration and Discovery is one of the largest scientific organizations in the world. It is…well sponsored.”

“Pfft. Yeah, I can tell. Sheesh.”

Ford can’t help but agree. “It really is an honor I didn’t expect. I would like to know who recommended my coming here to speak.”

“Mm.”

Stan sits back in his seat again and glances at his brother. Ford’s still staring out toward the quickly approaching institute, eyes wide and a little bit glassy. He’s overthinking things again. Poor guy’s going to give himself an ulcer. Stan can’t help but notice Ford’s leg is fitfully bouncing again.

Sighing mentally, Stan clears his throat and gives a softer than normal, “Hey.”

Ford’s eyes snap to his. Stan holds up a hand, each of his five fingers loosely spread. Ford’s gaze flits to Stan’s hand then back to Stan’s face, and Stan gives a shy, caring smile.

“High six?”

Slowly, an almost duplicate smile spreads across Ford’s face and he raises his own hand to press his palm and fingers to Stanley’s own. There’s a warmth in his voice when he answers, full of apology and gratitude and forgiveness all rolled into one big, nerve tingling bundle.

“High six.”

The taxi pulls up to the lavish establishment, alongside a number of other arriving taxis, as well as a few more luxurious vehicles. They’re honestly lucky to be getting dropped off so close, right at the base of the wide marble steps and tall, stately pillars.

The driver puts the taxi in park and then leans over the back of the front seat. “This the right place, mister?”

Ford is quick to answer, already digging out his wallet. “Yes, it is, thank you.”

While his brother comes up with the appropriate fee, Stan places his hand over the door handle, watching the pairs and groups of people trailing up and down the elegant steps. There’s even those guys that wait on the roadside and park your car for you. Stan gives a huff of amusement. He’d never trust anyone with his El Diablo. That’s why it was back in Gravity Falls, stored away at McGucket Manor for safekeeping. Stan just hopes he won’t come back to some weird diablo-plated revenge bot. Unlikely, but Stan has already made a mental note to never get on Fiddleford’s bad side.

By the time both Pines exit the taxi, it’s starting to rain a little heavier. Ducking their heads down into their shoulders as cold, wet droplets land on the backs of their necks, they don’t waste any time. Ford’s too anxious to, despite the fact that they’re about twenty minutes early. Slamming their doors shut with a final thank you to the driver, they make a run up the damp stairs - not too fast. If either of them slip that would be it for the night. At the top of the steps they wedge themselves in through one of three, cramped revolving doors. A huffy older woman Stan gets pressed up against gives him a haughty look, but Stan is honestly more focused on his brother. Ford can get a little twitchy in crowded small spaces, but they’re only crammed for a few uncomfortable moments before they’re all stepping out into a brightly lit lobby.

Bright as day, in fact. It actually hurts their eyes a little as Stan and Ford get jostled out of the door, straightening the wrinkles in their attire and taking a grateful breath. The lobby is cheery, most of the light shining down from multiple crystal chandeliers. Stan takes note of the lush, red carpeting. If the architecture outside isn’t proof enough of the establishment’s wealth, the décor within certainly is. It looks like the culmination of some of the world’s most beautiful temples and theaters combined, a painted canvas of deep reds and braided golds. They even have a few busts lined up on pillars by the inner wall, such names as Sir Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Edison proudly displayed with polished bronze plaques.

Ford taps Stan’s arm with the back of his hand, Stan jolting a little, having gotten lost in the pure richness of the place.

“I’d hate to see the electric bill,” Stan grunts, and Ford chuckles.

“We should inform them of our arrival,” Ford says, nodding to their left.

Stan follows Ford’s gaze to a ticket booth set in the wall. One with a very attractive young woman framed beautifully in its window. Stan’s face instantly lights up with interest. Giving Ford a waggle of his eyebrows, Stan saunters in the direction of the booth, Ford following somewhat timidly behind.

The ex-conman makes it up to the booth window and leans one arm against the chest-high marble shelf like a gunslinger walking into a saloon. Stan’s instantly smitten with the pale skinned redhead behind the ticket bars, her dazzling green eyes making his breath hitch. She can’t be much older than twenty-five, but Stan’s an old man, he’ll get his flirting practice in where he can. Stan gives her a wink, pouring on the charm.

“Heya, sweetheart.”

The woman looks up with a strained smile. “Good evening, sir. Are you here to buy a ticket?”

Ford attempts to step forward. “Well, actually-”

“Actually,” Stan cuts in, “my brother here is one of the guest speakers.” He wraps an arm around Ford’s shoulders and pulls him closer, knocking Ford’s glasses a little crooked in the process. Stan side whispers to the woman. “One of those nerdy science types.”

The woman raises a brow and turns her attention to Ford. “Oh?”

Ford shrugs Stan off and steps forward, adjusting his glasses and pulling his all-access pass from his suit before handing it to the woman.

“Excuse my twin brother’s behavior.” Ford sends Stan a glare. “His social graces are a little rusty.”

Stan grins and shrugs, but decides not to cause any more mischief. At least for now. Frustrated with him as Ford undoubtedly is, Stan can see his antics have helped Ford over that anxiety speed bump of his. It’s easier for Ford to take control of a social situation when Stan makes it blatantly obvious that Stan isn’t mature enough to do so.

The woman blinks at Ford, her eyes taking in his silvering hair, sharp gray-blue eyes, shy smile, and well fitting suit. The woman smiles for real, her china doll hand snaking up and out through the ticket bars to gently take the pass from Ford’s hold. Stan can’t help but stiffen a little when her smile falters just a bit at noticing Ford’s extra finger. Luckily, she seems to be fine with it and doesn’t say a word, and Stan smiles to himself with a flare of pride when Ford doesn’t try to hide his fingers.

That’s one good thing that came out of Ford’s thirty years beyond the portal. Somewhere along the line he realized being different wasn’t something to be ashamed of, or run from. Ford wasn’t the lightweight bookworm he had been as a child. Stan had seen Ford take down cryptids four or five times his size. He was fast, light on his feet, smart, and tough. Every much as tough as Stan was himself. Maybe tougher. Curious looks and comments didn’t send him curling into himself anymore. Sure he was still quiet and shy and nerdy - the same old Sixer - but at the same time he was someone entirely new.

The woman looks over Ford’s pass, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “Oh! You’re the man from up in Oregon, aren’t you? The one that studies anomalies?”

Ford blinks and exchanges a somewhat surprised glance with Stan. “W-Why, yes. You’ve heard of me?”

She smiles, stamping Ford’s pass before handing it back out to him through the bars. “Well, only from the roster.”

“Oh,” Ford says, somewhat dejectedly.

“But your name certainly stood out,” the woman is quick to add. “I don’t know of anyone else in our organization that studies what you do. It’s really all very fascinating.”

She smiles warmly, eyes twinkling, and Ford shyly accepts his pass and smiles back.

Stan looks suspiciously between the two of them, picking up on the somewhat intimate vibe, then rolls his eyes. Whipping out his own pass, he hands it to the woman dully. It’s not an all-access pass like Ford’s, but he’s got more freedom than the average joe.

“Here.”

He knows when he’s beat.

Another few minutes and Stan and Ford are stepping away from the ticket booth, both with stamped passes and a lanyard each with their names neatly printed in bold. They step over to the side of the bustling lobby to put the lanyards on, Stan admiring the first real bit of honest ID he’s had in almost forty-three years. He smiles down at the laminated sleeve housing the name ‘Stanley Pines’, Ford watching from the side, face caught between an expression of fondness and concern.

Carefully, Ford asks, “Are you okay?”

Stan gives an amused huff and lets the lanyard drop to his chest. “Yup. You?”

Ford shrugs. He fidgets with his own lanyard fussily. “I’m fine.”

Stan eyes him, unconvinced. “Uh huh.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Hey, what was it with you and the babe at the ticket booth? How come she made goo goo eyes at you but not at me, even when I was trying? "

Ford gives another noncommittal shrug. “Maybe she liked what she saw.”

Stan’s jaw drops, completely caught off guard. Ford waits a few beats before giving Stan a teasing grin, the effect of which is somewhat ruined by the fact that Ford’s blushing slightly. He’s not usually one for those kinds of quips, that’s more Stan’s shtick. Which just goes to show even more that Ford’s learning to loosen up, not just there tonight but in general. Three years since that summer Stan finally brought him back, and Ford was finally starting to come out of his shell.

Picked a heck of a time to do it, but Stan can’t help grinning in return.

“We’re identical twins, you knucklehead.”

Ford considers this. “Then perhaps it’s a matter of personality.”

And there it is again, that twinkle in Ford’s eye that says he’s pulling Stan’s leg and Stan could almost hug him for it. But for now all Stan can settle for is feigned shock and a mock expression of indignation.

In his best impression of a British accent - which is admittedly pretty bad - Stan huffs, “Are you implying, sir, that I am not of reputable character?”

“If the boot fits.”

“Oh ho , you little-”

“Stanford?” a voice interrupts.

Both twins drop the teasing playfulness at once, turning toward the newcomer approaching them through the milling crowd. It is a man, one who could not be much older than Stan and Ford himself. He is tall, and sporting a thick head of sandy gray-blond hair. His face is long and thin, but not bony, framed by a soft, thinning beard the same color as his hair, trimmed close to his skin like peach fuzz. His ears are elongated and close to his skull, eyes dark, sharp, and filled with merriment and shameless curiosity. His neck is also a bit long, like a pencil that sloped down into broad, drooping shoulders. He wears a muted, gray-brown suit with a cream white button down, all winced up tight at the collar with a black bow tie, and a handkerchief tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his suit.

The man comes up to them with an uncertain, questioning look, but his expression lights up immediately when he catches sight of Ford’s face head on.

“Stanford Pines,” the fellow beams, coming over and proving to be a rare anomaly himself in being able to tell Stan and Ford apart while being more or less a stranger. His voice is also distinctly British, the accent strong and jolly. “I thought it was you! My god, it’s been ages!”

Ford blinks, taken off guard. “I’m…I’m sorry?”

“Oh, surely you recognize me, lad,” the man chortles, not the least put out. “Then again, it has been a while, and I’ve changed quite a bit.” He offers his hand in enthusiastic greeting. “Perhaps the name will jog your memory. Brewster. Alistair Brewster.”

A moment passes, and then Ford’s eyes light up in recognition and he takes a step forward to meet the man halfway, their hands clasping in a warm greeting. Stan notices, yet again, that Ford doesn’t bother to hide his extra fingers and the man doesn’t give them a second glance.

“Alastair?” Ford chuckles. “You’re right, it has been quite some time. I believe last we saw one another was our college gradation.”

“Ah,” Alistair Brewster scoffs with jibing respect. “Good ol’ Backupsmore, a school whose roach count was almost as numerous as its enrolled students.” He grins as Ford gives an honest laugh. “But yes! It is I, in the flesh. Of which I have a considerable amount.”

He chortles again, loud and heart as he nods to his barely noticable girth. He then nods to Ford, stepping back to get a proper look at him.

“You though? Gah! Look at you! A fine specimen of a man you turned out to be. Never would have thought it, seeing as you were always studying, rather than taking care of yourself.”

And he gives Ford’s shoulder a clap that almost knocks Ford’s glasses clean off his face. Not that Ford seems to care at all. He merely readjusts them, smiling like a child on Christmas morning.

“I could barely believe it when you replied to our invitation and agreed to speak at this year’s event,” the Brit continues, completely enthralled. “This is a real treat, let me tell you, a real treat!”

Stan watches the exchange with a fond smile. It’s not every day that he gets to see Ford genuinely happy to see someone outside of family. Ford wasn’t exactly the kind to make friends easily. And any friends he might have made over the last thirty-something years were all probably on the other side of the Multiverse. But it stood to reason that Ford would have made at least a few good friends back in his college days. Like Fiddleford and, apparently, this guy.

Smirking, Stan lets them gush over lost time for a few moments before giving a small but obvious cough. Ford and the man turn to face him, Ford all smiles.

“Oh,” Ford says quickly, ushering his friend closer. “Alistair, this is my twin brother, Stanley. Stanley, this is Alistair Brewster.”

“Professor Alistair Brewster,” Alistair says with a wink, and he offers his hand to Stan with just as much enthusiasm as he had with Ford.

Stan gives a nod and one of his old Mr. Mystery grins, readily accepting what turned out to be a very firm and satisfying handshake. A good sign. You could tell a lot about a guy by how he shook your hand. One of the few things Stan had learned from his father before things had all gone south.

“Nice to meet you,” Stan says courteously, for Ford’s sake, not wanting to scare the man off by being too pretentious.

Alistair beams. “Likewise. I had no idea that Stanford had a brother, and a twin at that! He never mentioned a word of you.” There is reproach in his tone, all in fun, but with genuine curiosity brimming just beneath.

Ford winces, familiar guilt darkening his expression. Alistair isn’t facing Ford, and so misses it, but Stan has a clear view of his brother’s twinge of regret. Stan somehow manages to keep his grin in place, all while sending his brother an understanding glance, one that hopefully assures Ford once again that the agony of the past is behind them.

“We…went our separate ways…for a time,” Stan offers vaguely. It wouldn’t be a good answer for most, but Alistair seems to take Stan’s words as they are, a dodge.

“Ah, well, it’s wonderful to have you both here tonight. I hope you had a pleasant trip down here to Pasadena. The weather’s been a bit dreary of late, but the town has some pleasant sights. Maybe after all of this is over I can give the two of you a proper tour.”

Stan actually rather fancies that idea. “Yeah? That might be neat, right, Ford?”

Ford nods. “We plan to be in town for another day at least, before heading up to Piedmont to visit our grand-niece and nephew.”

Alistair smiles. “Brilliant! I can take you to a place I know of just off of Bellview Avenue. I’ll take you there, my treat.” When the twins try to protest, claiming they can pay their own way, Alistair won’t hear of it. “Now, now, I insist. It’s not often that I get out and about on the town, especially with good company. Believe me, it will be of no bother, and will bring me great pleasure to show you both a good time.”

He turns to Ford. “As for now, You’ll need to be shown where to go in preparation for your talk. We can go and get you all set up with your lav mic and do a quick sound check.”

Ford hums in agreement. “Yes, I suppose that would be wise.”

Alistair Brewster looks back to Stan. “You’re free to join us, of course. Or, if you’d prefer, I was told there are refreshments being provided just down the hall for the guests. So, if you’re feeling a little peckish…”

Stan’s stomach chooses that exact moment to gargle, the sound only just audible above the calm drone of voices in the lobby.

Alistair chuckles. “I’ll take that as a vote toward the later, eh?”

Stan glances at Ford, torn. “You good with that? I mean, I can wait, go with you guys and grab something later down the road if you want?”

“Well…”

Ford hesitates, and Stan can tell by Ford’s subtle body language that his brother wants to spend some time catching up with Brewster. Ford seems so much more at ease now, like a captain sailing on familiar home waters instead of a turbulent sea. Stan can’t help but feel a little jealous, all at once feeling like a third wheel on a lopsided tricycle, but he also feels relieved. Ford deserves to feel in his element, for once, to cut loose and be himself in the presence of someone other than his family.

“Actually,” Stan amends quickly, “let’s go with this. Me going to find some grub while you and Mr. Brewster here go get done what needs doing. All that tech mambo-jumbo. I’ll meet up with you in the refreshments room after.”

Somehow Ford looks even more unsure. “Oh, Stanley, are you sure? I could always-”

“Nah, go on and catch up, Sixer. Besides,” and Stan pats his not-so-rounded-anymore belly. “My gut’s hankering for a snack. Can’t have it grumbling all throughout your speech, now can we?”

“That would be…best avoided, yes,” Ford agrees.

“Great! Then I’ll see you in a bit.” Stan claps his brother heartily on the shoulder then holds out his hand to Brewster again, smiling when it’s taken without pause. “It was nice meeting you and all that, but I know you’re probably on a schedule or something. Go take care of my brother so he can knock the socks off of everyone in that auditorium tonight.”

Alistair smiles warmly. “I surely will, Stanley. Nice meeting you as well. I look forward to taking you and Stanford around town.”

Stan nods. “Sounds good.”

Ford gives Stan an encouraging smile and a nod. “Go ahead and get something to eat, Stanley. I won’t be long, and then I’ll rejoin you as soon as we’re done setting up.”

Again, Stan nods, and with that final parting assurance Alistair leads Ford off and away through the bustling crowd, the Englishman already chattering ceaselessly and Ford looking very interested in whatever his friend has to say. Somehow, Ford fits in here among the high decorative ceilings, pressed suits, and white-glove fanciness. On the one hand, it’s kind of neat, like a glimpse into a life of Ford’s that Stan never knew, never imagined Ford having. On the other hand…

The enormous lobby, filled to the brim with people as it is, all at once feels incredibly empty, like all its appeal and allure has fizzled out into a dull, gray existence. Everything felt bigger, more looming, leaving Stan feeling small and vulnerable. The sensation catches him off guard, knocks the breath out of his chest in a strange, numb sort of way, and it takes Stan a full moment of standing there like a deer in headlights to realize why. Then it’s all he can do not to scoff at himself outright.

“Sheesh, am I really that clingy?” he mutters to himself.

His eyes are still on Ford and Alistair, watching until the two reach the ornate auditorium doors, slipping through - Ford tossing a final small wave in Stan’s direction - and then out of sight. Stan shakes his head.

“Stop it. He’ll be back. Jeez, you lived without the guy for forty years, you can stand to have him out of your sight for a few minutes.”

Disgusted with his own insecurities, and wrestling his irrational fears under his control, Stan straightens up and turns back to face the lobby, stepping out into the bustling crowd with a crooked grin and the mask of a showman firmly in place.

What he doesn’t notice is the man in the corner by the potted ferns, the gentleman watching Stan with rapt attention and dark, narrowed eyes.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take Stan long to find where the refreshment table is being kept. All he has to do is follow the milling throng of guests and speakers alike to a small side room that branches off of the main lobby. Like moths to a flame they gather, hungry and ogling. And Stan, unashamedly, is no exception.

The refreshments provided, as expected, are grandiose to an almost comical degree, platters of daintily rolled meats and piles of pitted Greek olives stuffed with cheese. There are a few fruit platters, and a tray of small tart-like pastries. A punch bowl made of frosted crystal sits at its own round, table-clothed stand with stacks of glasses on the side, slices of lemon and lime decorating the edge. There is nothing substantial, nothing that could actually serve as a true meal, but it’s something. It’s all just to give the guests something to nibble with their pinkies raised until the call is given for the conference to start.

Stan puts on an air of confidence and gets in line, grabbing a plate that feels far too small and then proceeding to pile it as high with snacks as he possibly can. If Ford were here, Stan’s pretty sure he would have heard a hushed bark of ‘manners, Stanley!’ over his shoulder. But Ford isn’t here, and Stan couldn’t care less about things like etiquette. Even when a rather rotund woman in a snug, pink dress gives Stan a look of disgust and contempt, Stan merely grins and pops an olive into his mouth, unbothered. He’s in better shape than she is, and he’s twenty years older at least. Stan’s not going to let some haughty lady’s sour-faced expression put him off from having a good time. The woman huffs like Stan just insulted her very existence and struts off, leaving Stan to finish the line before moving off to the corner of the small side room to eat his findings. There are no tables or chairs provided, which is dumb, encouraging folks to wander about and only eat as much as they care to carry around with them.

Heh. Joke’s on them. When it came to balancing food, Stan was a champ.

With nothing else to do, and still feeling Ford’s absence rather strongly, Stan decides that he might as well do a bit of people watching. It’s a skill and habit he’s picked up over the years, both out of boredom and necessity. Living at the Mystery Shack, spending all that time trying to bring Ford back from beyond the portal, had been a tremendous burden to bear. There had been days when it had all felt too heavy, and thoughts and feelings of failure and depression had overwhelmed the conman on more than one occasion. In those dark times, all Stan had was his business to keep him going. And in order to properly scam people out of their money, he had to know how people ticked. Stan had always had a knack for noticing minor details, and it hadn’t taken much effort to practice and hone those skills into something useful. Now, with that trait of his character no longer being as readily needed, Stan still found some comfort in falling back on the quiet activity.

The room, and the lobby outside of it, is packed, even with the vague impression that a large majority had already made their way to their seats in the auditorium. Those that remain are a mixed lot, varying in age, size, and gender. None of them show any interest in Stan, and the few that almost do obviously mistake him for Ford, eyes lighting up before they get close enough to read Stan’s name tag and quickly veer off to the side, like they’d been intending to do so from the beginning. It’s nice to know that Ford’s time in college hadn’t resembled his time in high school, shoved in lockers by bullies or teased for being a nerd.

Other than those few near-acquaintances, Stan is left to his own devices. His eyes roam the crowd lazily, picking up on every little thing. There’s a young couple in the far corner from him, all cutesy and giggly, obviously together. It’d be adorable if they weren’t being so weird about it, pretending to be coy and whatnot when it was perfectly clear to all that they fancy one another. Tch. The kid should just tell the girl he likes her, instead of all of that odd mushy stuff and beating around the bush. Not that Stan had ever been particularly popular with the ladies. He’d had Carla, for a bit, but he’d lost her right alongside everything else when Pa had kicked Stan out. And Marilyn…Huh. Yeah.

The reminder leaves a bitter, cold taste in Stan’s mouth, so he pushes the thoughts aside and continues his lazy task.

There’s an older man, a more academic sort of build and manner, hovering by the punch bowl. Old instincts - that Stan doesn’t even know where they came from - prompt him to keep an eye on the fellow, in case he’s the sort to spike the beverages. Stan frowns and shoves away that thought too a moment later. This isn’t some unruly teen at a frat party, but obviously a gentleman of somewhat high standing. To even think he might cause trouble was, well, quite honestly, rather embarrassing. Turns out the geezer was just waiting for more ice to be added to the punch. Silly as the notion was, Stan still can’t help but feel just the slightest bit more at ease when he walks away, chuckling to himself for even suspecting such a strange and uncalled for impression.

“Must be gettin’ paranoid in your old age, Stanny-boy,” he mumbles to himself.

And so it goes. There are old men and women, some older than Stan by several years, and youth who can’t be long out of college. Stan even spots one or two taking notes, perhaps for some article or report they’re writing. Journalism is a pretty competitive field, at least if the movies were anything to go by. Stan can see the fire of ambition gleam in the kids’ eyes, all of them working on that dream of getting hired by the best of the best. Stan makes a mental note to stay clear of them. He knows from experience that such high stakes can bring out the worst in a young person, hungry for fame and success. He doesn’t want to be a product of fake news, not even for some eager kid’s winning final grade.

Other than the general hustle and bustle, the institute is fairly peaceful and quiet, other than the low drone of conversation and the hum of the air vents in the ceiling. There’s a somewhat loud and pompous fellow somewhere to Stan’s left, talking about politics and finances to a group of younger men who look absolutely bored out of their minds, not that their companion notices, but outside of that exception things feel laid back and warmly normal. The food tastes good, and though it’s not exactly filling it does take the edge off Stan’s hunger, staving off the fear of tummy grumbles interrupting Ford’s lecture.

Stan is just finishing off the pile of blueberries from his plate, planning to tackle the stuffed olives next, when he gets an odd tingle trickling down the back of his neck. It’s not all that unlike someone spilling cold water down his spine, except there’s no dampness, he remains dry and no one is near him. Beneath the dress coat of his suit and the button down under it Stan can feel the hairs of his arms raise slowly, a shudder threatening to overtake him. Stan frowns, searching his hazy memory before finally identifying the feeling.

It’s the creeping, slimy, chilling sensation of being watched.

It is not a feeling one can soon forget, and Stan’s had his fair share of observers, and not the nice, warm, feminine kind. There had been agents snooping around during the later days of Stan’s rebuilding of the portal, curious and strange creatures from Gravity Fall’s forests, and the anomalies of the deep glaring up through the dark waves as Stan and Ford sailed the ocean waters. How many times had that small yet persistent feeling saved their skins? His brother’s life? His own life?

Too many to count.

And Stan wasn’t about to ignore it now.

He finds himself going very still, holding his plate close to his chest and scanning the crowd around him with keen eyes, searching as nonchalantly as he can manage. Not quite sure what he’s even looking for, but knowing he’ll recognize it when he finds it. His gaze skims the crowd, taking in all that he had before with new, sharpened clarity. He sees the young and old, tall and short, wide and thin; takes them all in with careful, calculating accuracy, like a rabbit expecting a wolf to jump out and sink its teeth into its neck. Stan blames Ford for that, at least partially. That twitchiness was catchy as all get out. But try as Stan might, he can’t find anyone in the crowd around him that he would deem suspicious in any way, shape, or form. None of them seem the least bit interested in him, no more now than they had been since he’d first walked in. And yet, still, that strange, uneasy feeling persists…

.

.

.

“Stanley?”

“Gah!”

A six fingered hand had lighted gently on Stan’s shoulder, and Stan startled hard. Hard enough that a few remaining stuffed olives tumble off of his plate to roll across the carpet, to the tune of a few scathing huffs of contempt from some nearby guest. A stuttered breath wheezes out of Stan as he turns sharply to find his brother at his side, Ford’s brow creased in a mix of bemusement and concern. And Stan can’t really blame him, because on any normal given day Stan’s not that easy to catch off guard.

“ Holy—! S-Sixer…” Stan gasps, and he takes a fraction of a second to cast a forlorn glance at his now carpet-hairy olives. “Hot Belgien Waffles, you tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” He lays a hand over his heart, giving his brother a rueful glare.

Ford winces, carefully retracting his still raised hand from where he’d had it hovering uncertainly. He cocks his head in that wide-eyed owl sort of way, one brow raising.

“I’m sorry, Stanley. I didn’t mean to surprise you like that. It was not my intention, I assure you”

“Tch, yeah, well,” Stan mumbles, giving the crowd a final sweep with his eyes before sighing and turning back to Ford fully. That odd feeling of being watched has left him for the time being, like it had never been there at all. He’s probably just twitchy from being around more folks than he’s used to.

“That didn’t take you long,” Stan comments. “What’d your buddy do, march you through the basics at warp speed? You know, you didn’t have to hurry on my account.”

Ford somehow manages to look even more confused. “I was gone for a good twenty minutes, Stanley. That’s hardly what I would call hurried.”

“Oh…Huh. Guess time flies when you’re having fun.”

Stan gives a weak laugh and absently kicks a floored olive under the nearest table clothed structure.

“Want to grab something to eat? The cheese is a little sharp, but they’ve got these little pastry things that aren’t half bad. And the olives, oof. They roll like sons of guns.”

“No, no, that’s quite alright. I’m not too keen on eating before a presentation.” Ford can’t help noticing the way Stan’s gaze keeps flitting up and around. “Stanley?”

“Mm?”

“Is something…wrong?”

Stan straightens, pushing aside any visible signs of his unease as easily as one might brush crumbs off a table. “What? Me? No. Why?” Okay, maybe not that easily.

“I don’t know,” Ford admits sincerely, sizing Stan up with an honest expression of concern. “You just seem…well, a tad on edge. I can’t recall the last time I was able to sneak up on you like that. And I wasn’t even trying to.” Then, a little more hesitantly, Ford asks, “Are you feeling alright? Is the headache getting worse?”

And there it is, that oh-so-familiar tone of underlying anxiety, simmering guilt, cautious fear, and unconditional love that Stan can’t bear to hear come from his brother’s mouth again so soon. It’s too raw, too strained; it’s too reminiscent of the days right after Weirdmageddon, when Ford’s every waking hour was dedicated to piecing Stan’s broken mind back together, piece by agonizing piece.

Stan blinks, let’s that tone sink in and settle for a moment like a cold lump in his chest, before pasting on a winning grin.

“What? No, I’m fine! Just…” He grasps for the simplest reason he can that makes the most sense. “M’just ready to get this whole thing moving, ya know? I hate standing in one place for so long. I feel like I’m at the DMV.”

That seems to satisfy Ford’s worry a bit, his tight expression loosening into something open and fond. “Ah, I understand. I suppose this has got to be…rather a lot for you.”

Stan shrugs. “I mean, what do you expect from an old country bumpkin? The fast lane isn’t exactly my cup of tea, you know.”

Ford nods, smiling. “I know. I’m sure the conference will be starting in a matter of minutes.”

“And you’re all set? All ready for your big lecturey thing?”

“There wasn’t much that needed to be done in preparation,” Ford chuckles. “Alistair and the others in charge of tonight’s proceedings have already handled all the details. He simply showed me where I’m supposed to stand, and wait, and such. It’s all very straightforward. I’ve also been given a portable microphone.”

Stan can see that. There’s a small, black box tucked into the pocket of Ford’s dress pants, a strip of blue tape with the name ‘Pines’ clearly visible in black permanent marker. A wire runs up under his suit jacket, emerging once more up by his collar, where it droops down to clip onto his tie. It gives Ford an appearance of major importance, like the mic is a symbol of status, though how Ford’s attempted to hide the device as much as possible speaks volumes.

Stan gives a soft whistle, uneasy sensations from before now all but forgotten as he looks his brother up and down. “Man, look at you all jazzed up. If I’d looked half that professional back in my early days at the Shack, I could have sweet talked people into buying the Brooklyn Bridge every other Sunday.”

Ford fiddles with the wire, shooting Stan a disapproving look. “Yes. Well. Seeing as selling government property is illegal, and Brooklyn is on the other side of the country, I suppose I’ll just have to settle for giving a good speech.”

Stan smirks. “Darn right you will.”

Ford glances at his watch. “Oh, I originally meant to come tell you. Since I’m the next to last speaker for the night, I can sit with you in the audience until my cue is given to head backstage.”

Stan blinks, his smile growing more genuine. “Huh. How about that.”

“That is okay, isn’t it?”

Stan laughs and gives Ford a soft thump on the back. “Okay? Of course it’s okay! What, you think I don’t wanna be seen with my cool, nerd brother?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Pfft, no!” Stan grins. “And here I thought I’d have to be sitting pretty all by my lonesome. Heck, this is great!”

Ford huffs, amused. “Well then, in that case, it may be in our best interest to go and find our way to our allotted seats.”

“Sounds good! Let’s go!” Stan shoves his empty paper plate into the nearest trash bin, pausing as the refreshments table catches his eye again. “You sure you don’t want something? You realize you’re, like, a bazillion years old, right? What if your blood sugar drops?”

Ford meets Stan’s smug and teasing smile with a deadpanned glance of annoyance. “Stan, we’re both the same age. And being in your early sixties is by no means old. You and I both know I could go a week without eating and still perform with excellent precision.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a freakin’ immortal. You hungry or not?”

“No, thank you. I’d rather not for now.”

Stan nods and hums in dawning understanding. “Mm, nervous, huh?”

Ford sputters a little. “Since when does not wanting a refreshment equal being nervous?”

“Uh, like, since first grade?” Stan rolls his eyes again. “Geez, Pointdexter, sometimes it’s like you don’t think I know you at all. You always used to skip meals whenever you had something to turn in or present. Heck, you got stage fright whenever you needed to get up and walk to the front of the class just to sharpen your pencil.”

Ford winces, pouting in his own way. “For a man who lost his memories, you sure remember an awful lot,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to his words.

That earns Ford a bark of laughter that makes a few nearby people jolt. “Hah! Well, remember, that’s mostly your fault. Yours and the kids’.”

Ford’s expression softens, all relief. “And I am thankful for that every single day.”

Stan gives a final chuckle, moving to lead the way out of the small room and back into the lobby. “Uh huh, the feeling’s mutual, you old mushity-mush. Now let’s go find those seats before they give them away to some neckin’ teenagers or something.”

“…The seats are pre-assigned.”

“Whatever. My old man legs are getting sick of standing around. Before you know it I’ll become a fixed attraction.” Stan gestures to the line of marble busts against the wall. “Like one of these guys. Yeesh. What’s with all those stony expressions?” he jokes.

“Stanley.”

“You think they had rocky marriages or something?”

“Stanley, please.”

But Ford is smiling, and there is no way he can hide it. It fills Stan with a warm sense of purpose and satisfaction, to see the way Ford’s shoulders silently hitch in laughter, even as the nerd does his best to play it off like he’s pissed off. This was what had become Stan’s life, and he treasured it with everything he had, heart and soul.

By this point, the two brothers have already reached the auditorium arch, big oak and gold-metal doors with frosted glass separate them from the main theater. Like the rest of the place, the decor is more than a little over the top.

It seems that just about everyone else was on the same page as Ford, most folks moving out of the refreshment room at the same time the brothers had. They were like a steady stream, aiming for the enormous space beyond those bleary panes. There’s more than one set of doors, thankfully, but humans being humans, most everyone heads for the same one: the closest.

“Now, stay close, Stanley,” Ford instructs as they reach their goal, stepping to the side to let a few others go first while Ford fixes Stan with a more stern expression. “This is going to get quite crowded.”

“I’m not a child, Stanford.”

“Mm,” is Ford’s only reply, before he’s moving forward to pass through to the other side.

Stan gives a huff of indignation with no true heat behind it, a smirk squeezing its way through on his lips despite himself. Regardless, he follows Ford closely, mindful not to step on anyone’s toes, least of all his brother’s. But just as Stan is leaving the lobby, mid-step, that strange, creeping feeling returns like a cold wave washing over him. Stan shivers, unprepared, his feet faltering just a little as he turns his head to look to his right.

This time, he is rewarded.

It’s a man. Older, but not old old, maybe in his higher fifties. His hair is a sandy blond, thinning and almost gray, ash-colored if Stan had to put a name to it. He sports a thick mustache that creeps up toward his high sideburns, a small bush of facial hair adorning a patch just below his lower lip, like he missed a spot while shaving three months in a row. His eyebrows, in contrast, are thin and dark, as dark as the expensive suit and tie he’s wearing, like he’s got money and likes to flaunt it. But out of all of that, the thing that stands out the most to Stan is his eyes . They’re jet black, like coal, so dark even the light around them seems to disappear in their void. It’s the kind of stare that you could swear had the ability to pierce into your very soul, searching, mesmerizing, almost haunting…

And locked with Stan’s own wide eyed gaze.

It only lasts a moment, Stan stumbling on in through his door while the strange man enters through a door a few sets down. Finding himself in the crowded auditorium dowses Stan in a blanket of stunned disorientation, his neck craning to try and catch a glimpse of the lurking fellow from his new position, but finds nothing. The stranger is nowhere in sight, and even if he were, the room is too thick with people to easily spot a specific individual. It’s all suits and ties, dresses and hair ribbons. As is, Stan is left floundering in the throng for a few eternal moments before he feels a six fingered hand grab around his wrist. For the second time that night, Stan startles, the breath in his lungs leaving in an almost painful rush.

Man, is he on edge.

It’s loud in the auditorium, between people milling about, trying to get to their seats, and a complimentary band playing classical on stage, so Stan can’t really hear anything that Ford mutters. He has to go by his brother’s expression, which goes from lightly annoyed to concerned as Stan nearly flinches out of Ford’s hold. Stan instantly tries to play it off, giving Ford a sheepish grin and a shrug, tucking his shaking hands into the pockets of his suit pants so Ford can’t see. Logic dictates that Stan should tell Stanford about the weird guy that seemed to be stalking him. Then again, logic had always been more of Sixer’s thing. And this was Ford’s big night, and Stan wasn’t about to ruin that just because some creep was looking for a fight. Stan could handle himself just fine, he wasn’t some helpless toddler. He’d punched anomalies in the face ten times a human’s size. He’s got nothing to worry about. Besides, after tonight, they’d be leaving anyway. He’d never have to see the punk again.

Hopefully .

Ford looks far from convinced by Stan’s forced smile, but just as he appears to be opening his mouth to question Stan, the lights flicker, a sign that the conference will be starting soon and that everyone should make their way to their seats. Looking torn, Ford glances up at the lights, then back at Stan, a question in his gaze. Stan, for his part, gives his best ‘I’m fine’ eye roll and starts walking down the aisle, Ford right behind him.

In the end, Ford has to take the lead, being the one of the two of them with the actual seat numbers memorized. They have to squeeze by several already seated ladies and gents, but Ford’s soft, murmured apologies seem to soothe them, at least a little. What did they expect them to do, fly to their seats?

Finally in their place and settled side by side in what had to be the world’s most uncomfortable chairs, Stan and Ford both breathe twin sighs of relief. The lights dim, and just like that the conference starts. They literally couldn’t have timed it better.

Now, to be fair, Stan had never been to a conference in his life. Not of this magnitude, at least. The auditorium is enormous, a theater of the most decorative kind, every inch of the wall and ceiling touched by an artistic hand, like Da Vinci himself had reached out from the grave and blessed it from top to bottom. Gold and vibrant red are the color themes, mixed in with various scenes of Greek and Roman design. Very classy. The kind of stuff rich folk and opera singers probably swooned over.

The conference opens with a thin, aging woman in a tight, gray suit and skirt clicking in high heels up to the podium on stage. She’s not terribly pretty, the kind that looked like she was weaned on a pickle and considered herself a goddess of knowledge. Sheesh, no wonder Ford had such an arrogant streak in him by the time he graduated college. These people all seemed to have superiority complexes.

The woman, Mrs. Trinity, apparently, gives a quick, curt introduction and welcome, to which everyone stands and claps. Ford does so automatically, Stan hurriedly following his brother’s example. Stan is so grateful that he’s not sitting alone right now. His nerves are already kind of whacked at the moment, and he didn’t need that extra anxiety of being on his own in an unfamiliar situation on top of it.

From that point on, there’s an immense amount of talking. The lady talks, then a guy talks, then a lady and a guy talk, and Stan can feel his brain cells dying off one by one. Every once in a while he catches a few words he understands, but everything else in between sounds like a completely different language. In contrast, Ford looks absolutely captivated, his pale eyes wide and the nerd leaning forward slightly like he’s drinking in every syllable. That alone makes Stan smile and gives him the strength to keep going just a little longer, even when he’s pretty sure he’s going to shrivel up and die of boredom. He really doesn’t belong here, he knows that. But, then again, he’s not here for the science, or the fancy talk, or the social status. He knows next to nothing about anything going on around him in this place, but that’s not what keeps him glued to his chair.

This is for Ford.

And that’s more than enough.

Still, the conference drones on and on, and even that strong will to please his brother starts to waver just a little. Not in a ‘I can’t do this so I think I’ll walk out’ sort of way, but more of a ‘I gotta move or I’ll explode’ kind of restlessness. And to make matters worse, about an hour and a half in, Stan feels the urgent need to find a restroom. It’s subtle at first, easily ignored, but as time goes on Stan finds it harder and harder to sit still.

Moses, what had he gotten himself into?

“Stanley,” Ford whispers in a hiss, not even looking at Stan, gaze still locked on the speaker on stage. “Stop shifting around and sit still. You’ll irritate the people behind us.”

Stan grunts, equally miffed as he tries and fails to remain motionless. After a moment or two, he leans closer to Ford, giving up on keeping silent.

“Listen, I’m having a hard time sitting still this long, alright? Isn’t there, like, a break coming up or something?”

“Was there one on the program?”

Stan glances. “…No?”

Ford huffs, obviously annoyed and still mostly tuned in to the conference. Stan feels bad, but honestly this can only be put off for so long.

“Then I suspect there isn’t one,” Ford surmises. “There shouldn’t be more than another hour left, Stanley. You can make it.”

“So says you.”

“Are you feeling unwell?”

“…In a manner of speaking.”

“Stanley.”

Stan gives a low growl of annoyance, his whisper gaining an edge. “Alright, alright, I need to take a whiz. Ya happy?”

A woman behind Stan makes a sound of disgust, Stan sending her an equally scathing look while Ford mutters a quiet apology on Stan’s behalf.

Lowering his voice even more, Ford questions, “Can’t you hold it?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Ford sighs. “Very well. Try to be quick.”

“I’ll be gone ten minutes, tops,” Stan promises.

“And try not to draw attention to yourself.”

“No guarantees.”

“Stanley.”

“Fine, whatever. You got it, Sixer.”

“And don’t get lost.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your sideburns on.” Stan starts shuffling past Ford’s knees and toward the aisle. “God, you sound just like Ma.”

That earns him the smallest of smirks, a minuscule sign that under all that exasperation, Ford actually understands, at least to some degree. There’s forgiveness there and reassurance, and Stan makes a mental note not to make things harder for Ford here. He’ll be good, quiet, and he’ll try not to get turned around in this absolutely enormous building. If he could just take care of business and stretch his legs a bit before coming back, Stan knew that he’d be able to make it through the rest of the conference no problem.

And so, trying to ignore the looks he was being given, Stan walks his way up the aisle to the large, closed doors to the lobby, nodding jerkily to the fancy staff standing there like tin soldiers before Stan finally makes his way out into the cooler, less stuffy air beyond.

Dumb soap dispensers. Why were they always so low on liquid? Wasn’t that what janitors were for? To take care of stuff like this??

Stan swore it was some weird gimmick. Some prank someone somewhere could sit and enjoy from the safety of some security room, with nothing better to do than laugh at poor people just trying to be hygienic.

Did bathrooms even have cameras? Moses, Stan hopes not. That’d be kind of messed up, actually.

Stan growls in mild irritation as he hurries to pump as much soap into his palm as the wretched device can possibly give. It isn’t much, but after a few moments it spits out a wimpy pile of suds and it’s enough. Stan turns on the water faucet with his wrist, scrubbing and rinsing with practiced ease, a habit Ma had hammered into him at an early age. Even now he did it automatically, her voice chanting in his head a steady count of how long he should scrub for. God, he missed her sometimes.

As it is Stan is rushing, Ford’s hopeful, trusting look burned into the retinas of his eyes and urging him not to let his brother down. Life, as usual, is against him, throwing another curve ball his way when he discovers the electric paper towel dispenser is all jammed up.

“Oh, oh, that’s just great ,” he groans, voice echoing in the honestly outrageously large men’s bathroom. He tries to pull the most troublesome paper towel out by hand, and it simply rips.

“Ugh! Really?!” This is taking too long. “Alright, you know what? Forget it. Pants work just as good.”

He bends slightly to dry his hands on the legs of his suit, grateful that the dark color will more or less hide the wet stains. Ford, and Mabel probably, would have a fit if they knew, but the way Stan sees it he can either improvise or keep tampering with modern bathroom technology.

It isn’t even a question in his mind which he prefers.

Stan is so intent on his task, that he fails to hear the door to the men’s room slowly push open. Not that he would have thought much of it if he had. This was a public restroom after all. And so, hands finally dry, it’s not until Stan straightens himself back up with a grunt that he realizes he’s not alone.

The feeling of being watched hits him the same moment he sees movement, the combination of the two making him stagger back against the long, multi-sink counter with a soft yelp. His heart gives a painful lurch, then falls headlong into a series of hard, fast pulses in his chest. He feels his mouth go dry and his limbs lock up in tension, his fingers curling around the edge of the surface at his back while he tries to reign in his sudden jolt of unexpected fear.

It’s the guy from before, and Stan curses himself for having already forgotten about the weirdo. An hour and a half sitting in a boring conference had all but erased the man’s existence from his mind. He’s even more creepy up close, all dark, angsty colors and eyes that feel like they might laser a hole through Stan’s head the way he’s staring at him. Stan only lets his anxiety show for a moment, though still longer than he would have liked, before he straightens again and gives the man an unappreciative look.

“Listen, bud. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you following me around. Only reason I wasn’t saying anything was because I didn’t think I cared. But if you’re going to be following me into the men’s room, then I think that counts as a freaking issue.” Stan squares his shoulders. “I don’t want any trouble. And my guess is you don’t want a broken nose. So just tell me why you’re stalking me, or get the heck out of my sight. Capiche?”

The man cocks his head, unperturbed by the threat. Then, finally, in a voice a lot lower than Stan would have expected, he spoke.

“Stanley Pines?”

“Yeah, and what’s it to ya?”

“I’ve been looking for you. You and your brother are very hard to tell apart.” He nods to Stan’s lanyard. “The name tags help.”

Stan grits his teeth and clenches his fists at his sides. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Yeah, well, we’re talking right now, and so far I haven’t heard anything I like.”

“I would like to ask you to come with us.”

Stan picks up on the odd phrasing at once. “Us?”

The door to the men’s room swings open again, and this time three more guys stroll in. And Stan realizes in that moment that he is officially in a very bad situation. All grouped together, Stan realizes that most of the men aren’t American. That is to say, they look like they might be from down south of the border, though Stan can’t even begin to figure out how he knows that. They’re all younger than Stan, and considerably more muscular. They all have suits and ties, but unlike the first fellow it doesn’t fit their stance at all. Like bears dressed in tutus. They leer at Stan as they file in, Creep Number One staying right where he is, blocking the exit while his companions fan out, caging Stan in.

Stan shifts on his feet, gaze snapping from one man to the next, trying to wrack his brain for a plan while still gearing himself up for a fight.

Creep spreads his arms wide, almost a reassuring gesture. “Please, Señor, you will make this easier on all of us if you will just cooperate.”

Stan glares hatefully. “I still haven’t heard any explanation that makes me think I should,” he hisses.

“You’ll get one,” he’s promised. “Just not here. There is someone who wishes to see you.”

“Oh yeah? And who would that be?”

The man grins, his teeth straight but yellowed. Smoker. That explained his voice too. “An old…acquaintance.”

Stan gives a very fake chuckle, low and dangerous. The men are slowly coming closer, and Stan finds he can’t keep his eye on all of them at once anymore, spread out as they are. And so, seeing as at this point he’s just backing himself into a corner, Stan takes the initiative and lunges first.

The grunt of surprise when he lands a right cross to the nearest guy’s jaw is immensely satisfying. It’s been a while since Stan has boxed anything without scales or claws, and that oddly familiar thrill of a fight makes him grin triumphantly. With growls of their own, the men leap forward, one managing to grab Stan’s wrist before the conman sent him careening into the sink with a clatter. And that was when the knives came out. For whatever reason, Stan hadn’t been expecting that, and the battle took on a whole new level of intensity. Stan’s good, he’s had a lot of experience, but there’s only so much an older guy can do trapped in a bathroom with four guys intent on making him bleed. Still, Stan manages to hold his own. He even gets out a few shouts, hoping that he might be heard by someone out in the lobby. That hope doesn’t come to fruition, however, as the door remains shut, no help in sight.

Finally, with sheer numbers against him, Stan eventually makes a mistake. He’s not even rightly sure what he misses, what swipe he fails to dodge, but a fraction of a moment later a thin line of pain opens across his shoulder, cutting in shallowly, and Stan gasps and jolts back.

Right into the waiting arms of one of his other assailants.

The blow is completely unexpected, sharp and blunt all at the same time as something hard slams into the back of Stanley’s skull. White flashes in his vision, a tense, throbbing heat sending tingles all down his spine while the room tilts dangerously. He doesn’t even have the time or ability to cry out, the pain stunning him for a moment before it drives him to his knees. He’s vaguely aware of movement, of more persons - two he thinks - filing into the restroom, and there’s a faint glimmer of hope in his chest that maybe they’re people who can help him. A kick to the ribs that sends Stan sprawling on his side quickly sweeps that frail hope aside.

Stan groans, curling up in pain, a hand on his head and an arm wrapped around his throbbing middle. He doesn’t get much longer than that to process what’s happening before he’s being manhandled, rolled over on his front and strong, iron-like grips latching onto his arms, wrestling him into further submission. His head is spinning, and Stan dizzily hopes he doesn’t have a concussion.

In all likelihood, he probably does, as his consciousness flickers and he loses a bit of time. He’s not rightly sure how the thugs managed to drag him out of the restroom and out into the institute’s adjoining alley without being seen, but he knows they’ve gotten him outside when he can feel cold rain pattering on the back of his neck and hands. He attempts to dig his heels in and yelps in pain as his arms are twisted further up his own back. Stan’s always prided himself on being strong, even for his age. But these men are younger, all muscle and no arthritis. Disoriented as Stan is, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Through the rain and blur of Stan’s own senses, Stan spies his captors’ destination. A van, black with tinted windows, and parked by the curb at the end of the alley. It’s already running, exhaust puffing out gray clouds into the chilly night air and lights bright, catching the misting rain in its beams.

Stan puts everything he has then into trying to get away, tugging, pushing, veering left and right; but nothing loosens the hold of the men steadily dragging him toward the vehicle. Stan tries to cry out, manages, sort of, but it’s far from loud enough for anyone to hear and he receives a hit to his already pulsing head for his troubles.

The van’s door slides noisily open as they near, and the men toss Stan in, the ex-con man landing hard on his side with a pained gasp. The van floor is dirty and gritty, sand and bits of leaves sticking to the blood smeared across Stan’s cheek that he hadn’t even realized had been flowing. Panic gripping him, Stan rolls over quickly and delivers a harsh kick to one of his kidnappers as they climb into the van behind him. The man swears, giving Stan another sharp jab in the ribs with his shoe before Stan feels someone grab the back of his shirt. A moment later he finds himself slammed down hard and held, arms twisted up high on his back again and the side of his head pushed down into the floor. Like this, there’s very little he can do as the rest of the thugs get into the van, and the sliding door rumbles shut, blocking off Stan’s view to freedom. A moment later, Stan can feel the van leave the curb and head for the main road.

The thugs apparently know something about Stan, as they don’t just assume three against one in a moving automobile will stop him from trying to make their lives hell, and so they spend the next few minutes binding him tightly at the wrists and ankles. Stan honestly just lets them, conserving what strength he has for an opportunity when he thinks his chances of escape are greatest. For the meantime he’s content to try and breathe around the pain in his head and side, and formulate a better plan than just clawing his way out. He could do it. He and Ford had gotten out of a lot worse situations.

Yeah, but Ford isn’t here, is he? Stan’s mind supplies unhelpfully.

He tries not to think about that for the rest of the ride.

Chapter Text

“It’s just not like him,” Ford insists in a harsh whisper.

Behind the main stage of the auditorium it is very unlikely he would be heard, even speaking at full volume, but still he feels a certain obligation of politeness to keep his voice down. As it is, Ford’s knees feel like jello as he stands on his designated waiting spot, wringing his six fingered hands and trying to hold himself back from pacing.

Alistair, standing a bit more forward but still out of sight of the crowd, cranes his neck a little as he tries to peer out between the heavy stage curtains. “Perhaps he got distracted?”

Ford checks his watch again, nervousness increasing every minute closer to the starting time of his lecture.

“Stan knows how much this all means to me,” he breathes, and the air feels tight in his throat. “He knows how much I wanted him here for this. He wouldn’t just let something distract him. It’s not like he can forget when he’s literally here, in the same building as us.”

“Did you check the lobby?” Alistair asks helpfully.

“Yes.” Ford runs a hand through his hair in agitation. “The lobby, the bathroom, the front entrance….I even took the precaution of checking the refreshment room we were in before in case he’d gone looking for more to eat. Stanley simply wasn’t there. And I doubt that now is any different. But I know he has to be nearby.”

Alistair grunts, indignant on Ford’s behalf. “Perhaps you don’t know your brother as well as you think you do.”

Ford doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. Alistair watches his dejected, fidgety behavior before sighing and letting go of the curtain, letting it gently swing back in place. The aging professor walks over to Ford and lays a kind hand on his upper arm.

“Listen, my friend. You helped me through some of the hardest research and summaries back in college. I probably never would have made it without you giving me a challenge, outperforming everyone so we felt we had to work harder, sharper, smarter.”

Ford opens his mouth to apologize but Alistair cuts him off.

“Don’t. There’s no sense denying it. A lot of foolhardy boys we were, given a bad lot in life that ended us in a dead-end college on our parents’ pay. That healthy competition was something we all sorely needed. Most of us were out partying every night before you came along. You…Well, you shamed us, to put it lightly, but it picked us off our feet. You gave us all a run for our money whether you meant to or not. It made me the man I am today, and I mean that.”

Ford opens and closes his mouth like a fish deprived of air, blinking owlishly. “I…I-I don’t know what to say.”

Alistair lightly claps Ford on the shoulder. “You needn’t say a thing. Now, I’m not pretending to try and fill your brother’s spot. Family is irreplaceable. But can I help in any way? You’re not alone in this endeavor, of that I can assure you. So, then. What can I do?”

That pulls a tired but grateful smile from Ford. “Thank you, but it’s…it’s not really that simple. I don’t need Stanley here because of the lecture itself. It’s more that…well, his being here was honestly the best part of all of this.” Ford gestures to the theater around them. “I’m afraid I don’t have much family left. Ma and Pa passed on while I was…”

Ford pauses, a haunted look flashing across his gaze before he thrusts it back where it came from.

“…Away,” he finishes. “My older brother, Shermie, has also sadly passed on. My nieces and nephews all live up in Piedmont, and weren’t able to make it down for the conference due to prior engagements.” Ford sighs shakily. “Stanley was supposed to more or less represent those who couldn’t be here.” A weak chuckle. “Stanley really has become my pillar of strength. I’m not sure I can do this without him.”

“Ahhh,” Alistair nods, an understanding smile on his face. “It sounds like the two of you are very close.”

“We are,” Ford agrees in a small voice. His gaze anxiously shifts to where he can hear the previous spokesperson finishing up, knowing he is about to be announced onstage. “We really are…Moses, I hope nothing has happened to him…M-Maybe I should go look for him some more.”

Ford turns on his heel with every intention of throwing the lecture in favor of finding his brother. Ford is nimble and quick. As it turns out, so is Alistair, who catches Ford’s arm in a firm but gentle grip.

“You can’t leave now, Stanford. You’re about to be called up, they’ll say your name at any moment.”

Ford looks pained. “But my brother—”

“Is surely fine,” Alistair soothes. He pats Ford on the shoulder once again. “What could possibly happen to him in a place like this?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ford mutters testily. Alistair, however, ignores him.

“I’m sure he will show up before long. Perhaps something caught his eye and he lost track of the time. Any moment he will remember and come wandering back to his seat. You’ll see.”

“I…I don’t know…” Torn, Ford glances back toward the stage. “Do you really think so?”

Alistair nods. “If you’re half as close as you say you are, your brother will return in time. You trust him, don’t you?”

Ford’s gaze turns the slightest bit fierce, a spark of something strong and warm in his eyes as he replies. “With my life.”

“Then don’t worry about it. He’ll surely turn up. And, here or not, I am certain that your brother will be proud of you. So all you have to do is go out there, and give it your best.”

“But, he—”

There’s the sound of thunderous applause as the previous speaker is cheered off the stage, the spokesperson from before stepping up to the podium to make the next announcement.

“And now, the moment I am sure many of you have been anticipating all evening. We here at the CIED consider and meditate on a variety of sciences, from earth science and astronomy to the notes and theories of Albert Einstein. No science is too small, too large, too simple, or too revolutionary in our archives. Our institution prides itself in the allowing of resources and funding for even the most diverse of studies. Which is why we are excited to introduce to you a man with an extraordinary field. A man that, until only recently, has kept himself hidden away in the forests of Oregon. And, even more recently, has been sailing around the world—”

Ford swallows, mind’s eye flitting over the various outcomes of various decisions. Stanley is missing, but that doesn’t mean something is wrong. Stan is a fairly strong man, and he is one heck of a fighter. And Alistair is right. The likelihood of Stan having gotten into any real trouble in a place like this is almost laughable. Stan would probably show up part way through Ford’s opening gratitudes, plopping himself down in his seat with some snacks he’d managed to shake from the nearest vending machine. Ford is just being paranoid. Stan is fine. Stan is—

“Stanford?”

Ford blinks and meets Alistair’s encouraging gaze. His friend gives Ford a slight nod, and after a moment further of hesitation, Ford squares his shoulders and returns it.

It’s funny, in a vague, distant sort of way, seeing Alistair Brewster this supportive. Before now, Ford would have hardly counted the man more than a fellow coullege, or even an aquaintence. In college they had known each other, sure, but they had hardly been close. It was more that they had existed in the same dreary world, passing ships in the same harbour.

But perhaps Ford had left a bigger impact on the other than he realized. And he felt rather ashamed that he couldn’t say the same of Alistair.

But that was guilt to sift through at a later date.

Ford drags in a shuddering breath and gets himself back into position, fussily adjusting his suit and tie.

“I can do this,” Ford murmurs softly. “You’re right. I can do this. Stanley will be there in his own time. He promised he would be, and I know I can take him at his word. I can’t worry about that right now, but I can make sure that I do the best I can.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “I’m ready.”

Alistair grins. “That’s a lad!”

“—with ground breaking discoveries and documentation. I give you our final speaker for tonight, Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines!”

The unseen audience launches into resounding applause, an electric charge of excitement and interest in the air that Ford can almost literally feel dancing across his skin. His joints want to lock up, his feet want to stay glued in place, but Alistair gives Ford a hardy shove toward the stage, whispering a quick, “Break a leg, Stanford.”

It’s a typical enough phrase in show business, Ford is well aware of that, but…for some reason it makes him pause and glance behind him at his college acquaintance. The man stands just out of sight of the crowd, mostly in the shadows, a smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes. Nothing feels out of the ordinary.

And yet…

And yet something is not quite right.

Ford doesn’t have much time to think on that strange notion for more than a second, before the bright stage lights of the auditorium are on him and he’s standing before a sea of faces and clapping hands. The announcer, who is also turned toward him, is applauding with just as much enthusiasm as everyone else.

And if Ford were to be perfectly honest, it’s nice. In an utterly terrifying sort of way. It feels good to be singled out among his peers, to be hailed as a master of his craft. To feel like he is appreciated and understood, by the very people he had spent a good portion of his younger life trying to please. It doesn’t hold the same pompous, quenching vindication he had craved back in the day — that Stanford Pines had long since faded away. If anything, Ford feels unworthy, but incredibly grateful to have this honor. And for a moment, it washes over him like a tidal wave of warmth and shivering elation.

And then his gaze falls on the twin empty seats in the audience. His and Stanley’s. And suddenly everything doesn’t feel quite as sweet.

“Thank you so much for joining us this evening, Dr. Pines,” the announcer greets cheerfully as Stanford nears. She holds out her hand for him to shake, and Ford mentally winces as he returns the gesture without a second thought, half expecting the woman to recoil from his extra digits. Interesting. He hadn’t worried about something as trivial as that in a while. But, thankfully, the woman does no such thing. She merely grins, bats her eyes, and surrenders the podium to Ford, stepping off to the side to give him full range of the stage if he chose to use it. He wouldn’t, of that he is certain. His legs are hardly able to hold himself up at this point, never mind pacing in front of hundreds of curious eyes.

Remember what you and Stanley practiced.

What was it Stan had said? Something about public speaking being like jumping off a high diving board into a pool? The first step was supposedly the hardest. Once Ford was in, though, it was supposed to get easier.

You’ll take to it like a fish to water, Stan had assured.

Stanley better have been right…

.

.

.

Turns out, Stanley knew his stuff.

To say that Ford’s speech went well was an understatement. While he was a little rusty starting up, never having been one for public speaking in the first place, he soon warmed to his subject. His topic and delivery was interesting and engaging, just like he and Stanley had worked on for weeks. He even took a bit of Q and A at the end, a bit of spontaneity he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of before. His words on the science of anomalies and oddities were both insightful and spoken with a passion. He was well received and well appreciated for his presentation.

But, through it all, Ford’s gaze kept being drawn like a magnet to that one empty seat that he knew his brother was supposed to have been sitting in.

Stan isn’t sure exactly how long his captors have been driving for. Between the pounding in his head and the way his arms and legs are tied, leaving him stretched out uncomfortably on the floor of the van and making it hard to breathe, it feels like an eternity. He’s fairly sure he’s got a cracked rib, maybe two. Stan doesn’t remember ever having busted his chest, but some spark of familiarity assures him he has at some point or other. Distantly he recognizes that sharp twinge of pain every time he drags in an uneven breath. It hurts, but he is also fairly sure he didn’t have to worry about anything puncturing a lung. He knew — or thought he knew—what that felt like as well. And these breaks, or cracks, or fractures; whatever they were, they were a bit too low for his lungs to be at any true risk.

He hopes.

Still hurts like a son of a gun, though.

The pain in his side is only challenged in strength by the agony in his skull. The back of his head throbs, a pulsing sore that thumps in time with Stan’s weary heartbeat. The area around the hit feels hot and tingly, and he probably has one heck of a goose egg forming, but other than that and his ribs he’s really not in the worst of shape, considering. There’s a tickle of something warm spreading on his shoulder, blood from the thin, shallow knife wound one of those goons had given him, but that’s about it. Besides probably a half dozen bruises. Seeing as he was outnumbered by guys with a variety of assorted weapons while he himself had been unarmed, Stan would say he was pretty darn lucky.

His captors don’t say a word the whole trip. Some keep an eye on him, the rest just sort of stand by, seemingly occupied with glancing out the tinted windows, weapons pulled out in Stan’s plain line of sight.

Intimidation. A silent, unspoken warning that Stan better stay down.

Tch. Like Stan could physically sit up on his own at this point even if he wanted to.

At first, Stan tries to keep track of where they are going. His sense of sight and his ability to move might be hindered, but he’s watched enough detective movies in his day to know that he can try and rely on his ears to tell him where he is. If he could somehow map things out, when he escaped he’d be able to find his way back to Ford. Whether because they thought he’d try exactly that or if they were just being extra cautious, Stan didn’t know, but they end up taking so many twists and turns that Stan soon gives up the exercise, his mind map nothing but a writhing mass of confusion and pain.

Stan doesn’t try to talk. Nor does he try to get his captors to talk. He’s got a feeling they’d be more likely to give him another kick in the ribs than start up a decent conversation, and that’s the last thing Stan needs. So he stays still and quiet, staring back at those leering down at him silently. It’s awkward and unnerving, and by the time the van apparently reaches its destination Stan is almost relieved.

Almost.

The van pulls up to a curb, bad brakes squeaking loudly and aggravating Stan’s splitting headache. He vaguely realizes that it’s the only outside noise he’s heard in a while. He can’t hear any traffic, just the steady rain on the roof of the van and the breaths of the men who had taken him prisoner. The van’s motor turns off and Stan can hear the front doors of the vehicle opening and then slamming shut. Next he knows, the side door is being dragged open, rain splattering in on the ankles of his dress pants as his unwanted companions lurch into organized motion.

Mr. Creeper Stalker Guy stands in the midst of it all, slightly further back and out of the way with a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He mutters some orders to a couple of his goons and they trot off somewhere out of Stanley’s sight. But Stan is more worried about the two burly men that stay behind. With a nod from Stalker Guy, the beefy thugs both jump out of the van, then reach back in for Stan. Their handling is rough, rough enough that Stan lets slip a gasp of pain and attempts to kick out as a warning. His strike is easily dodged, his legs grabbed, and then with a tug he is pulled into better range. Fire blooms in Stan’s chest, more intense than before and knocking the wind out of him. Dark spots swim across his vision — okay, maybe those ribs are fully broken — threatening to drag him into unconsciousness, but of course his stupid body won’t be that merciful. Stan stays inevitably awake.

He’s forced up into a sit, his ankles cut loose a moment later so he can walk freely. The instinct to make a run for it is greatly overshadowed by the dizzying pain, and a half second later the chance is gone. His captors murmur to each other in low voices, something about Stan’s age, like they didn’t already know he was more than capable of taking care of himself when he wasn’t outnumbered and outgunned. With a grunt Stan is hauled to his feet, a bruising grip settling one on each of his arms and another on his wrists behind his back. The brutes force his hands further up his spine, worsening the pain and ensuring that Stan will not be breaking loose any time soon. Not without the risk of dislocating one or both of his shoulders. And to top it all off, Stan feels the cold, sharp prick of a knife tip dig warningly into the small of his back.

Stalker Guy grins from the sidelines, before nodding and walking off toward the nearest building. Stan’s escorts follow with Stan just a few steps behind. More as a sign of defiance than anything, Stan does try to drag his feet at first, but that pulls too much on his injured side and so, reluctantly, he allows himself to be led, walking on stiff, wobbly legs.

The rain is freezing cold, like little ice needles against the back of Stan’s neck, wetting his hair and soaking his already damp clothes. Stan finds that his earlier observation had been correct, there is no sound of traffic. No voices or signs of life, other than the occasional grunt from those at his side. There’s nothing else.

Looking up and dizzily taking in his surroundings, Stan realizes why that is the case. Wherever he has been taken, it’s anything but a residential area. They’re in the less well-off end of town, the part of the district where it was mostly warehouses and dilapidated buildings. Basically, the part of Pasadena the tourist agencies didn’t want you to know about. Currently, they were in a parking lot, and not a very big one at that. It’s crowded in on all sides by tall abandoned buildings in various stages of decay, and the parking lot itself was in pretty bad shape, cracked asphalt and coarse grass growing in prickly clumps. There are a few streetlights, but they’re barely casting any light, flickering weakly like the remains of some long forgotten civilization. It is all a rather haunting sight, and Stan has seen enough gangster movies to know that he is in trouble. Abandoned warehouses aren’t exactly good news in situations like this.

Stan is led along to a side door on the main building closest to the curb, hidden in the shadows and otherwise invisible to the naked eye. Stalker Guy opens it, gesturing his lackeys through and in with Stan still held firmly between them.

The sudden presence of light makes Stan wince. It’s not even all that bright, but with the headache he’s sensitive, and he hadn’t exactly been expecting it. Compared to the oppressive darkness outside it feels nearly blinding. Stan mutters a curse, one of the strange, otherworldly ones he’s learned from Ford, and tries to back peddle a few steps, body instinctively trying to shy away from the cause of his pain. But he isn’t allowed any such reprieve, the brutes easily manhandling him forward, their grips tightening.

Stan’s anger sparks. “Where are you taking me?!” he demands with a growl.

He receives no answer. Stan tries to put up a little more fight, but it’s useless. With the pain he’s in and the way his vision is swimming, he wouldn’t have been able to fight off a barrage of soggy paper.

The main area of the warehouse is big, open, and mostly empty. There’s some old crates decaying in the far corner, likely auto parts or someone’s forgotten shipment of Bird Watcher’s Monthly. Stan’s captors don’t even pause, steering him straight through to a door in the wall at the far west end. There, once inside, their prisoner is urged down several flights of concrete steps and down into what had once apparently served as some sort of underground storage. As though the monstrous room above hadn’t been enough.

Here things start to take on an odder air. The walls and ceiling are lined with pipes and wiring, all newer than the dilapidated building around them. There’s a lot of the stuff, but it’s all held in place and secured in a neat and orderly fashion. Not too unusual for a supply base or a bunker, kind of like Ford’s back in Gravity Falls. But for some old storage building on the edge of town? It doesn’t make much sense. Stan even spots a few extra side rooms with what appear to be generators tucked away inside. Not that he’s allowed to look around much. When the thugs get tired of his curiosity they let him know with a warning swat to his aching head.

At last, just when Stan was beginning to think he might collapse before they got wherever they were going, the long underground hallway opens up into a small, tight room. Here concrete is swapped out for metal plated sheets, smooth and definitely new. There are all manner of electrical and mechanical junk piled in there, not all haphazard either, more organized. Stan’s flitting gaze takes in several radios, at least four more generators, and a surprisingly large collection of laptops. Honestly, the whole set up sort of reminds Stan of those old submarine interiors in some of those World War II movies, all closed in and claustrophobic, where man and machine lived in codependency.

Again, though, Stan doesn’t get much more time than that to take it all in. There’s a heavy, metal chair in the center of the room, bolted down and sporting some suspicious looking stains. The goons waste no time in forcing Stan into it, one holding Stan in place while the other binds Stan to the chair, strong cord fastening across his chest, shoulders, and, after a bit of maneuvering, manages to lash his wrists to the chair’s back rungs. Prisoner secured, the goons step back, moving to the side walls and taking up positions that resemble standing guard. Not stiff and alert, but there, sort of leaning against the walls and generators like they really weren’t all that concerned about their hostage. Apparently they’re pretty sure Stan can’t get free. Stan’s beginning to think they’re right, as testing his bonds only succeeds in pressing the tight cords into the tender flesh of his wrists.

Yeah. He isn’t going anywhere. Still, Stan would be lying if he didn’t admit that their lack of concern didn’t dent his pride just a little.

Stalker Guy shows his prissy mug again, circling Stan a few times, surveying his men’s work before giving a rye smile that doesn’t bode well for Stan at all. Stan merely glares back, defiant through the haze of pain. And things might have gone on like that, a stare-down between captor and captive, if a fourth man hadn’t joined them a moment later.

Stan isn’t exactly sure where he came from. Fixed in place as he is with his back to the room’s only door, he doesn’t even know the man is there until the fellow is moving at Stan’s shoulder to stand at his front. He’s a great bulk of a man, tall, at least six foot, with broad shoulders. His body is a solid mass of both muscle and fat, like Manly Dan on steroids and one too many chocolate shakes under his belt. The kind of man who could probably crack coconuts with his biceps and litchi nuts with his eyelids. He’s dressed in a once-white, sleeveless top, all of those muscles bulging, glistening and hairless in the odd half light of the hideaway. But perhaps the oddest thing about the guy’s attire is his pants. Or, more accurately, his one piece, orange jumpsuit that had been peeled down to his hips, empty sleeves tied around his waist. Something in Stan’s memory whispers ‘prison uniform’, though he has no idea how he could possibly know that. For footwear the man is outfitted with heavy, steel tipped boots, and his fists are clothed in fingerless gloves of thick leather. He towers over Stan like Jurassic Park’s rendition of some weird, hairless King Kong, Stan having to tilt his head back just to meet a pair of dark, cold eyes —no, just one eye. The right one is sealed shut, marked by red irritated skin resembling a severe burn. The man’s hair is gray and thready, short, and his close shaved beard gleams a dull white.

The room goes very still, like they’ve reached the apex of some monumental plot twist and Stan missed out on reading the script. The new arrival stares down at Stan, expression measured and unreadable. Stan swallows nervously, but doesn’t look away. Time seems to stand still, tense and uncertain, then the man speaks, his voice deep, raspy, and heavily accented.

“Do you know who I am?”

A question, but delivered like a command, thick and demanding. Something about it is familiar, but Stan can’t place why or from where, though it succeeds in knocking Stan’s pulse up a notch.

The ex-con man gives a dry chuckle. It ends in a wheeze of pain. “Kinda late to be askin’, don’t ya think? Would have been better if you’d checked in with me before your goons knocked my brains out and dragged me here. Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”

Stan forces a cheeky grin, pouring all his years of conning into trying to appear as unafraid as possible. The man’s steely expression makes Stan wince, and he drops the act, exhausted, posture slumping slightly.

“I have no idea who you are. And from the treatment I’ve been given, I don’t think I fancy to know you, either.”

The backhand across his face is so unexpected Stan doesn’t have time to brace himself. It’s harsh and violent, with enough force to jerk his head back and to the side, his entire body objecting to the treatment. This time Stan really does lose consciousness, or at least he thinks he does. Time jolts from one moment to the next, with a white void of pure, blinding agony in between. If he passed out, it was only for a few seconds. He wishes it had been longer.

“You think I am a fool?!” his enraged captor snarls, looming. “That age and time have clouded my memory and my judgment?! ¡Eres un tonto si piensas eso, Pinington!”

Stan slowly turns his head and gaze back to the man, a bruise already forming on his cheek and a thin line of blood trickling down his chin from his nose and lip. Such savage treatment might have cowed a lesser man, but Stan Pines’ gaze burns with a fire all its own.

“¡Lucha contra mí como un hombre, cobardía hijo del diablo!” Stan spits vehemently.

Then he freezes and blinks in confusion, the sounds of the words on his tongue familiar, but he can’t remember how or when he’d learned them. Pinington. Pinington . The name seems to echo in Stan’s rattled mind, haunting and real, and yet so, so far out of his memory’s grasp. Stan’s vision threatens to double again, overcome by a pain of a different kind. A straining pressure behind his eyes that Stan is more than familiar with. He knows the sensation, recognizes the warnings, that slow, uncomfortable build up to a flashback or memory. He’d had so many after Weirdmageddon, pieces of his shattered mind slowly clicking back together again, sometimes in small bits, sometimes in waves. In the beginning, the sudden flood of memories had nearly crippled him when he had them. Ford had been convinced Stan was all out seizing at points. But as more and more of Stan’s life came back to him, the fits had dissolved into nothing more than the occasional nightmare or startling recollection. Soon, they had stopped altogether, Stan’s mind completely restored.

All except—

A hand latches on to Stan’s jaw, hard and calloused, grip firm and tight like a vice. It pulls Stan from his thoughts, tilting his head back and choking a hitching breath from him. Instinctively, Stan’s arms jerk in his bounds, trying to reach up and slap the hand away only to be stopped painfully short by the cords chafing his wrists. Stan’s mind is still reeling, a past he had all but forgotten slowly forcing its way to the surface, things snapping rusty and trembling into place.

Triggers. That’s what Ford had once told Stan. Triggers were what was needed to recover Stan’s mind after the wipe. That was why his family had worked so hard to expose him to every person, place, and thing in Gravity Falls that first week after the weirdpocalypse. It was to trigger all of Stan’s blotted recollections back into existence, and Stan had regained so much in a whirlwind of happy, sad, and terrifying moments that had rocked him down to his very core. But Ford, the kids, Soos, Wendy, and so many others who had been by his side every step of the way—without them Stan would have been as good as dead. They’d worked, and toiled, and comforted him until every memory they could revive had been. Even then, with all that love and faith, there had still been memories beyond their reach. And Stan had accepted that.

But now…Now, like some messed up jigsaw puzzle, images are rising from the fog and snapping into place. Not everything, not by a long shot.

But enough.

As Stan stares up into the cold, one-eyed glare of a suddenly very familiar face, he wishes the memories had stayed lost. He feels his heart sink with dread in his chest, his breathing picking up unconsciously. His hands fist in his bonds as his world shatters and knits itself back together in an instant, the rough hand gripping his jaw all at once a dangerous hold that he knows has killed lesser men.

“R-Rico,” Stan stutters breathlessly. He forgets himself there and a sliver of fear peeks out from behind his stoic mask.

Rico—for it is him, older, grayer, a little more pudgy in his middle then back in Stan’s Colombian prison days, but undeniably him—grins down on Stan like a cat cornering a mouse. Stan’s mind is going haywire, past and present threatening to overlap as he remembers. He REMEMBERS .

Oh, Moses—

It’s too late to struggle. Too late to run. Had Stan known who he was dealing with, he would have tried harder to escape sooner, before Rico had turned up at all. But if wishes were horses then beggars would ride, or something like that, and something very deep and forgotten in Stan threatens to do a fair amount of begging at that. Somehow he bites back the urge. Stan fights through the slue of cascading memories - drugs, cartels, smuggling, robberies, cons, betrayals, his own body beaten and left for dead in the trunk of a car, desperation and terror and regrets, so many regrets—

Stan jolts from the mental ocean he’s drowning in, flinching hard as the hand on his jaw shifts to two wrapped around his neck, squeezing tight, cutting off his air with a ferocity he doubts he could have broken away from even if he weren’t bound to a heavy metal chair. Rico’s eye blazes with something manic and pleased, a hunter who has finally glimpsed the weakness he’d craved to find in his prey, talons digging in deep, and cruel, and merciless.

Rico’s expression is both deadly and cloying. “Ah, lo veo en tus ojos, viejo amigo. Miedo, te conviene. Podría aplastar la vida de tu mirada con mis propias manos.”

Stan chokes out a weak, “Jefe, no puede— Hrk!” And then the hands tighten, clamping down around his neck with no reservation whatsoever.

Stan’s whole body jerks to no avail, eyes widening as he stares in shock and horror at the man he had once called his boss. Black starts to creep around the edges of Stan’s vision, closing in, threatening to swallow him whole. It’s at this exact moment that it dawns on Stan, like a cold bucket of ice water down his spine, that he is truly and utterly alone in this. That he can’t escape on his own. That no one knows where Stan is. That Ford doesn’t know where he is.

There is literally no one to save him.

No one at all.

And it’s a frighteningly familiar feeling.

Just as Stan feels his grip on consciousness beginning to slip out of his control, Rico lets go and steps back in one, fluid movement. Stan gasps, back arching the most it can as he drags in hoarse, desperate breaths, like a man nearly drowned. Rico watches dispassionately as Stan slowly recovers. The ex-con man’s whole body aches horribly, his bad ribs creaking under the strain of his heaving chest. But the sharp stabs of pain are worth it, if just to be allowed the fresh, cool dampness of the air around him into his lungs. It leaves Stan trembling, shaken and stressed. Sweat glistens on his skin, which has taken on a far paler color.

“It would give me no greater pleasure than to kill you,” Rico growls with contempt. “It would be so easy .”

Stan continues to breathe, brown eyes, moist and hazy, locked with that of his enemy. Stan is beaten and, if he’s perfectly honest with himself, afraid, but still no less defiant. After all, Stan has faced demons. He has faced evil incarnate and taken on death itself, in a manner of speaking. Still, Rico sends a thrill of true dread down his spine like not even Bill Cipher could have accomplished.

Rico observes Stan, the rage leaving him to be replaced with a calm, measured expression that’s almost worse. “But, for you, today you can thank your fates, because I will let you live.”

At the moment, the statement seems almost unbelievable. Rico has always been a brutal man, mercy not written in even one strand of his DNA, practically unheard of — with compassion just as foreign. That kind of free ticket out of death’s jaws had to come with a price. Because in this world, the world Stan had once been a part of, you never got anything for free. Especially your own life.

Stan takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes before opening them again to glare at his captor. Evenly, and with far more ease than he feels, Stan asks lowly, “What do you want from me?”

Rico chuckles. “It’s not something that I want, mi amigo . It is what my employer wants that matters.”

Stan frowns. “…Employer?”

Rico nods and leans against one of the stacked generators, arms crossed over his large chest. “Surely you remember how this goes. We do anything, for a price. It’s all in the job, Pinington .” The villain pouts mockingly, feigning hurt. “But that is not even your real name, is it? All those years, closer than brothers, and you lied to me about even the simplest of things. Oh, amigo, that was very foolish of you. Very foolish indeed.”

Stan growls. “So you know my real name. So what? Half the guys in the room back then were under aliases. Heck, I’m half sure your name was pulled out of some Columbian telephone book!”

Rico’s grin is cold and murderous. “Ahhhhh, but they were not all betraying me behind my back, now were they. But you? Oh, you were like a venomous snake in the grasses, poisoning my operation one heel at a time.”

Stan doesn’t even try to deny it. What would be the point? Rico had caught him red handed all those years ago, sabotaging an organized crime ring that had sunk too low, even for Stan. He’d been desperate, sure, but not to the point that Rico had been willing to wade. There were lines that Stan had refused to cross, and when he had changed views, he’d changed sides. His boss, needless to say, had been furious.

“Cut to the chase, Rico,” Stan hisses.

Another chuckle. Rico turns to his men, grinning like a shark, sensing blood in the water. To them he says, “El hombre tiene coraje, le doy eso.” Then to Stan he turns and says, “Oh, I can cut to the chase, mi amigo.”

He stalks forward, slowly, and Stan tries to brace for another lash out. Surprisingly, it doesn’t come, but Rico really seems to like the look of his own massive shadow looming over Stan’s lesser form.

“You want to talk,” Rico croons in a saccharine tone. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Rico bends down, resting his meaty hands on the arms of the chair Stan is bound to. He leans in, towering, and far too close for comfort. His breath smells rancid, of beer and heavy smoke. His one eye is gleaming, yellowed teeth glistening beneath his slicked facial hair.

“Let’s talk about your brother.”

Chapter Text

“My…My brother?” Stan repeats, mentally backtracking his shock before he can give himself away. He tries his best to sound confused, an unspoken denial that Ford even exists, but inside Stan’s mind is screaming at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a brother.”

Rico chuckles nastily, not amused. “Don’t be coy. You must know perfectly well that we know all about your twin by this point. We’d have to, in order to tell the two of you apart.”

He clicks his tongue with mock disappointment, before turning it into a look of contemplation. “Stanford, isn’t it? What an unusual name. Not nearly as common as your own, Stanley . Your parents weren’t terribly creative, were they?”

Stan grits his teeth, but remains silent, glaring up through the gray bangs of his tousled hair.

“Hm. Regardless, your brother is quite an interesting individual. Cleverness seems to run in the family, though it’s clear of the two of you which got the brains.”

Rico smirks, and Stan knows he’s being baited, but at this point he’s lost all hold on the situation.

Rico cocks his head, fake interest dripping from his tongue with every word. “A very interesting man indeed, you brother. Your twin, older by only minutes, born with six fingers on each of his hands.” To his men Rico says, “What do you think, amigos ? Should we drag ‘Sixer’ in here and make his proper acquaintance? Maybe saw off a few fingers just to—”

“Don’t you touch him!” Stan shouts, breaking.

He lurches forward once again in his bonds, forgetting the full extent of his predicament, with the same result as last time. He slumps back against the chair with a groan of pain, panting from the effort, his ribs throbbing and eyes watering.

Rico looks smug. “You are awfully worked up over a brother who you claim does not exist.”

“My brother isn’t a part of this,” Stan insists breathlessly, trying to keep the tempting edge of a plea from his voice. “Any quarrel you have is with me, not him. And you’ve got me. Right here. I’m right here, Rico!”

“So you are,” the thug hums, as though in approval. “Here and at my mercy. But you are wrong in one very important thing, viejo amigo.” He spreads his arms wide. “All of this, it’s not about you. Oh no. As nice as it would be to exact revenge on ‘Steve Pinington’ for his betrayal all those years ago, that’s not our first priority. And as much as I dislike staying my hand, the customer is always right.”

Stan frowns. “Customer? You mean your employer? What the heck does he want with Stanford?”

Rico smirks. “That’s hardly anything you need worry about. Let it just be said that our employer has an interest in what your brother is up to these days. What he’s involved in. What he researches.”

Stan frowns deeper, getting more and more confused by the second. “My brother’s research is public. He’s always been forthcoming about his findings. The anomalies he catalogs are—”

“Fake,” Rico interrupts. “Nothing more than decoys of a far greater, and far more realistic vein. A cover to mask his true research.”

“…Uh.” Stan’s expression blanks. “Okay, now you’ve really lost me.”

“Top secret governmental research,” Rico spits, a spark of the anger from before rising viciously to the surface again. “Our employer told us all about his real work . That brother of yours is a smart one, maybe one of the smartest. There’s no way he’d be shipped off to live in some bumpkin back country studying animals and plants! No. His mind would be put to far better use.”

The ex-con man blinks, before Stan bursts into a nervous spurt of pained laughter. He sounds like a man on the edge of a breakdown, and honestly he might be. This whole situation is utterly insane, like something right out of a bad 1940s gangster movie. And Stan isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or scream.

“Are-Are you all out of your mind?!” Stan gasps. “Are you really, truly all out of your heads?! Whatever this employer of yours told you it’s a load of bunk! My brother is a genius, I’ll give you that, but he’s not involved in any kind of crappy governmental research. He might have dabbled here and there with them, back in his college days, but I can assure you he has not been involved with anyone for the past thirty years! He’s not some sort of—of secret agent. That’s not his style. He likes to work alone. Heck, I’m surprised he lets me tag along half the time. Besides, the government has no interest in what he studies. Rico, until that whole conference thing, with the article and stuff, most of his colleagues have all but laughed in his face!”

Rico’s face is impassive. “So you still deny it, then.”

“Yes, I deny it! Unless you’re talking about some weird psychic tie. Good god, man, he’s my brother! You think I wouldn’t know if he was paper pushing for the feds?!”

“Maybe,” Rico says coolly. “Then again, maybe not. Which is why we have already taken that possibility into consideration.”

With that ominous declaration, the thug turns to one of his men and holds out his hand. Said goon reaches into his pant pocket, pulling out a closed switchblade, which he hands to Rico with a sharkish grin flashed in Stanley’s direction. Stan feels his blood run cold as Rico turns back to him, the brute eyeing the weapon in his hand with over meticulous fascination.

Rico doesn’t look up as he speaks. “I take it this means you will not cooperate, mi amigo,” he states blandly.

There’s a sharp click as the blade flips out into sight, light catching on well-polished steel. Stan’s breath hitches, his eyes widening as a jolt of panic goes down his spine. Stan starts subconsciously trying to manipulate his wrists free again. The cords rub and burn against his skin, but at this point the alternative is far worse. Stan gives another laugh, too high, too tight, babbling nervously.

“I-I don’t even know what you expect me to corporate about! I can’t give you information that doesn’t exist!” A small flare of courage prompts him to add, “A-And even if it did exist, if it meant endangering my brother than you can stick it up your —”

“I propose a deal,” Rico interrupts coolly. He licks his thumb and slides it delicately over the edge of the blade, skilled, not even nicking his skin.

Stan sputters to a halt, expression screwing up in further confusion. “A…deal?” he asks uncertainty, instantly on guard. His gaze flicks up to his foe’s face before it settles back on the blade as Rico comes closer.

“Si. A deal. Surely you would like to avoid any…unpleasantness, and I’m sure you’d rather we didn’t drag your brother here for some fun of his own. Granted, that would be far easier. Our original plan was to take you hostage until he complied with our demands. It would be too risky to take Stanford Pines himself, or so our employer believes. Too many eyes on him. If he were to disappear, the world would notice.”

Rico grins. “But you? A lookalike nobody with a messy law record? Tch, un buen objetivo. Not to mention that you made yourself so readily available to us. Almost as though you wanted to be caught.”

“Congratulations. Sorry I don’t have the ability to clap. Get on with it,” Stan growls tiredly.

“As I said, it would all be very simple. We take you here, lead your brother to come find you, and then… persuade him to give us the information we need before finding you both a nice, quiet resting place. But our employer, sadly, wishes to go another route to avoid any suspicion.” Rico’s gaze drags across Stan’s bound form. “Pity.”

Stan huffs, still trying to slip loose of his ties. “So I take it this is all a part of plan B.”

“It is.”

“And…that would be?”

“Easy,” Rico shrugs. “You help us accomplish our goal and bring us the information we need.”

Stan sneers. “Fat chance. I ain’t coming back to work for you, Rico.”

Rico laughs.

“I wouldn’t want you to. I’d never be able to trust a man who had already turned on me. You’re like a diseased mutt. You’ve bitten me once, you won’t be allowed to bite me again. I either have to put you down…” Rico steps closer, attitude far too confident for Stan’s liking. “Or keep you on a very tight leash.”

Stan swallows. “…Since I’m still alive, I guess that you’ve gone for option two.”

Another shrug. “Our employer still sees you as useful. So here is our offer. We let you go, but you keep in touch. You will do some digging, work toward getting your brother to either reveal or inform you of his research, or you do some groundwork yourself to find it. Then, you will hand it over to us.”

“I already told you, my brother’s research is—”

“The alternative,” Rico coos coldly, cutting Stan off by lowering the blade to Stan’s neck. “Is that we kill you here and now. If you are not with us, you are against us, and you’re too much of a risk. With you out of the way, getting to your brother will be easy. He will walk right into our hands. And we will take what we need from him, and then kill him. It’s not optimal, and our employer will surely not be pleased. But it will get the job done. So, viejo amigo…will you cooperate? Or need we do things the hard way?”

The blade presses closer, threatening to nick the tender skin of Stan’s neck.

“Do we have a deal?”

Stan’s gaze flits, searching Rico’s for even a hint of a bluff. There is none. Even with his memories still a disorienting haze, Stan knows the moment he refuses Rico won’t think twice about slitting his throat. And when he says he’ll go after Ford, he means it. Ford’s a force to be reckoned with, sure, but there’s no telling what frame of mind he might be in if he thinks Stan’s in trouble, or worse. And while Stan has every confidence in his brother’s ability to fight his way out of just about anything…Rico is a scary exception.

Stan closes his eyes, feeling trapped and ill, painful memories still assaulting his mind even as his present body aches with cuts and bruises. The switchblade at his throat makes it impossible to swallow, for fear of breaking skin. Rico, unusually patient, watches with rapt attention as Stanley wrestles internally with himself. Whatever these guys were promised as compensation for this job, it must be pretty impressive for Rico to have held back his natural state of cruelty and aggression this long. All over something that doesn’t even exist. What a sick joke from the universe.

Stan could deny Ford’s association with the government until he was blue in the face, but Rico was never going to believe it. Whatever this employer had based his assumptions on, it had to be pretty solid to have convinced Rico so concretely that any other answer Stan gave was a lie. Which meant there was no right answer. If Stan refused, he was dead, and Ford was probably also dead. If he accepted…

If he accepted, he’d have more time to come up with a plan…

It was risky.

It was stupid.

It was hot headed and irresponsible.

Sheesh, it had ‘Stan Pines’ written all over it. But if it meant keeping Ford safe…it was more than worth it.

The knife at Stan’s throat presses just the slightest bit more, and with a sting it breaks the skin just a little. Enough that a trickle of something warm trails its way down Stan’s neck to the edge of his shirt collar.

Stan gives in.

The tension bleeds out of him. Rico senses his surrender and pulls back a little, looking pleased. Stan stares at the floor, feigning defeat and praying he’s not too out of practice.

“You’ll cooperate?” Rico practically purrs.

Stan gives a loose, tired nod. “…I’ll cooperate.”

Rico’s grin is downright predatory. “Good. Very good. My employer will be very pleased to hear that.”

“Yay,” Stan says dully. “I don’t suppose I get to know the name of this employer.”

Rico smirks. “Not unless you want to have your tongue cut out.”

Stan grimaces. “Nah, pass.”

“Mmh. Don’t think of trying to go to the police either, amigo . You know well enough that my men are my ears and eyes. And no trying to warn your brother of what is going on, not unless you want him to get hurt. You’ve double crossed me before, Pines. If I so much as suspect that you’re pulling the wool over my eyes again, you and your brother’s lives won’t be worth a paso . You understand?”

Stan nods. “Understood. I…I won’t be able to stay in Pasadena, though.”

“Why not?”

“Stanford and I are visiti—We have a stop to make in Piedmont for a few days. A week at most. There’s no way I could convince my brother to stay here without arousing suspicion.”

“Mhm,” Rico contemplates. “Piedmont is still in this state. A bit further north than I would like, but still well within my reach. You may go, but keep in contact. One wrong move, Pines, and it’s over. Voy a matarte.”

Stan nods, feeling exhausted. “So what now?”

Rico continues to smile in a way that makes Stan’s skin crawl, gesturing for his goons to come closer. They’re behind him now, so there’s little Stan can do to see them, but he can feel their presence at his back. Like wolves circling in on his blind spot.

“Now we are going to return you to your motel,” Rico says pleasantly, closing the switchblade in his hand before tossing it to its owner. “But just to be sure you don’t cause us any trouble along the way…”

A sudden, sharp prick in Stan’s shoulder makes the ex-conman jolt with a gasp. His legs kick out, unfastened as they are, and he’s pretty sure he grazes Rico in the shin, not that it makes much difference, for the man is built like a tank. As for Stan, his mind is a whirlwind of pain and panic. He can barely hear Rico’s parting words over the screaming of his own thoughts frantically analyzing that that was a needle! They were injecting him with something!

But even as that fact solidifies in Stan’s brain it crumbles and drifts away, carrying all consciousness with it. Everything hazes over and fades to black, and the last thing Stan sees before he passes out is the vicious satisfaction in Rico’s yellowed grin.

When Stanley comes to, he finds himself back in that accursed van, crumpled on the floor, dizzy and sick as his mind struggles past the lingering fog of whatever knockout drug they’d given him. As he drifts, Stan realizes several things. One — Stalker Guy and one other goon are accompanying him in the back of the vehicle. And two — Stan is neither blindfolded nor bound. His wrists sting, raw against even the gentle rub of his suit sleeves, but there’s nothing constricting his movements, outside of his body’s own sluggish struggle.

Stan groans softly, attempting to sit up. It takes a few tries, but he manages it, propping himself up weakly against the inside of the van’s cold, musty wall. His captors barely give him a glance. Which honestly makes sense. It wasn’t like he was much of a threat at the moment. And even if he did manage to escape, it wasn’t like they’d care, now that they’d gotten from him what they needed.

His mind is a mottled mess, a melting pot of so much new and old information it’s like a physical pressure on his soul. His stomach roils, and for a moment he thinks he’s about to lose all those fancy hors d’oeuvres from earlier all over the floor of the van. Somehow the nausea passes without incident. Stan simply presses his feverish forehead against the cold metal of the van, wincing a little as bumps in the road rattle his skull, but he is too exhausted to care. He has to try and think of a way to get out of this mess, a way to keep Ford safe but also resolve Rico and his mysterious employer’s misconceptions about his brother’s research for good. But as things are, Stan can hardly think straight enough to keep breathing, never mind coming up with a complicated plan for a complicated situation.

Stan may have dozed, or maybe he’d dipped back into unconsciousness at some point, Stan isn’t sure, but the next thing he knows the van door is grinding noisily open and strong hands are latching onto his already bruised arms. They drag him up and out of the van and into the now pouring rain. The goons march Stan a few steps before just sort of dumping him, and Stan falls to his knees on the concrete with a gasp and twin clacks of his knee caps on asphalt. He leans forward on his hands, panting in pain and trying to breath through the dizziness, vaguely aware of the sound of the van door behind him grinding shut and the van driving off. Leaving him alone.

All around Stan the city of Pasadena is bathed in street lights and colorful neon signs. Taxis ferry people from one place to the next and the rain makes everything glitter and shine. Stan can barely handle it. He isn’t sure how long he kneels there, rain soaking into his clothes and hair, body sore and shaking.

Eventually the dizziness subsides and the drug in his system peters out enough that he can function like a moderately living human being. Slowly, carefully, Stan pushes himself to his feet. He stands swaying for a moment before he dares to take in his surroundings, and it takes him another moment to realize where he is, piecing together the few landmarks he can make out. He’s a few lots over from the motel, currently standing on the edge of a used car sales lot. Weirdly enough, it makes Stan think of Bud Gleeful, before he disgustedly pushes the thought away.

Taking a deep, stuttering breath, Stan starts to move toward the motel, letting the tall neon sign ahead through the fog and rain guide the way. He tries to shake off the remaining effects of the drug while also gaining better motion in his stiff, abused limbs. Because if he’s going to keep Ford safe, he needs to be able to convince his brother that nothing happened. Or, at the very least, nothing out of the ordinary. Which was going to be hard, seeing as Stan probably looked like a parking garage had fallen on him. But Stan was nothing if not silver tongued and quick witted.

He’d think of something.

After what feels like an eternity, Stan stumbles across the motel parking lot like a drunk man, ribs and other hurts protesting strongly. His head had been pounding before, but now it downright throbs, less a headache and more of an intense migraine setting in. Whether that was from the beating he’d taken or the drug, or just his head being its normal, dumb self it doesn’t really matter. Point is, it hurts, and it only serves to add to the man’s misery.

Stan is cold and wet, soaked all the way through to his skin. It’s still raining, and Stan is shivering badly. He doesn’t run into anyone, thankfully, and the small motel doesn’t have many guests to begin with, the lot mostly empty. Still, Stan is on edge, flinching at every far off dog bark and the headlight beams of every passing car.

Finally, he reaches the door of his and Ford’s motel room. It’s a drab place on the outside, nothing to write home about, but to Stan it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. The lights are on, evidenced by the sliver of warm glow through the drawn heavy curtains and the crack under the door.

Ford’s back.

Stan vaguely wonders what time it is, and just how long he has been missing. His heart sinks as he re-remembers all he’s missed. Ford is not going to be happy. But Ford’s wrath is better than standing out on the doormat shivering like a fool, so Stan takes another shaky breath, reaches out to take hold of the doorknob with numb fingers, turns it, and pushes. It opens without any resistance, and Stan steps through.

The sudden transition from dreary dark to warm light is blinding, making Stan wince as he moves fully into the room and shuts the door behind him. He leans back against the wood and takes deliberate, measured breaths, fighting down a rise of nausea. His blurred vision and pounding skull doesn’t stop him from hearing his brother’s gasp and the sharp squeak of bed springs.

“Stanley!” Ford’s voice sounds tight with panic. “Stanley, thank the oracles you’re alright!”

Stan senses rather than truly sees his brother gain a stance across from him, somewhere halfway between the bathroom and the door he’s got at his back. Ford must have been sitting on the edge of the furthest bed. He’s little more than a white and gray blob to Stan’s warped gaze, probably still in his lecture suit, just minus the jacket. Still, Stan tenses, ready to either be clobbered or chewed out, neither of which he really feels up to. But Stan would be lying if he said the sound of his brother’s voice didn’t fix something battered in his soul. The ex-con man has to resist the urge to just drop to the floor right then and there in relief.

Meanwhile, Ford is babbling, words released faster than Stan has the mental capacity to take in.

“—I don’t think you realize just how badly you scared me! I was quite literally three minutes away from calling the police to log a missing person’s case! I-I had no idea where you were, and it was so unlike you, and I was worried you were lying in a ditch somewhere—”

Okay, relief aside, this is a bit much, and Stan winces at the volume of his brother’s tirade. Ford’s never been particularly loud spoken, but that deep, resounding potential is there, and right now it feels like a whisper could threaten to split Stan’s head in two.

Stan holds up a shaky hand, finally managing to squint his eyes open against the homely glow of the motel room. The only lamp on is the one on the nightstand between the beds, so what feels like an assault on Stan’s eyes isn’t really all that much light. Which is probably why Ford has yet to notice Stan’s ragged appearance.

Which changes when Stan takes a faltering step forward, further into the lamp’s warm range of light, before he can think better of it.

“What happened?! ”

Stan didn’t know Ford’s voice could reach such a pitch. Before Stan can stutter out a lie of any kind there are warm, familiar six-fingered hands on his shoulders, leading him even further into the light and anxiously checking him over for injuries. Ford’s worried expression swims into view, and it both breaks Stan’s heart and hardens his resolve. Rico isn’t getting anywhere near his brother.

“You’re soaked,” Ford fusses. “How long have you been out in the rain for? You’ll catch your dea— Is that blood?!”

“…Wou’ ya be’ieve ‘s ketch’p?” Oh. Oh, man, he was slurring something awful.

Ford’s glare is sharp. “We’ve patched each other back together again countless times, and you think I can’t tell the difference between blood and a condiment?!”

“Mmmmm.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” And that Stan can reassure. Because he might have to tell some lies here, but he’s not going to have Ford thinking he’s becoming like their father. He stands up a bit straighter, and finally looks Ford in the eyes. “No, jus’…just tired.”

Judging by the way Ford winces, he must be able to see the bruising on Stan’s face. Ford’s eyes flit over Stan again, a sort of helpless plea in his voice.

“Stanley, please. What happened?”

And that’s just it. It would be so easy to tell Ford the truth. Ford deserves the truth. But Rico’s threats echo in Stan’s mind like a chilling chant. Ford’s already walking a tightrope, caught in the cross hairs of some mysterious criminal, and Ford doesn’t even know it. Stan doesn’t mind taking the brunt of Rico’s attention, but if he can spare Ford from even being involved then he darn well will.

And so Stan puts on an airy, lopsided grin and says in his cockiest voice, “Ya think this is bad? Ya should’a seen th’ other guy! Heh!”

Ford blinks and takes a step back like he’s been slapped. Several emotions flit across his face—shock, confusion, hurt, and then finally anger, and each and every one makes Stan regret ever being born. Ford’s body goes stiff, hands at his sides curling into six-fingered fists. Where before there was anxiety and concern in his voice, now there is indignation.

“You were in a fight?” Ford demands. And Stan mentally blanches at the raw crack of emotion in his brother’s voice. This is going to hurt them both.

Stan shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. He’s off his game, so he’s not exactly sure how he’s coming across. “Well, yeah. Guy insulted ya right t’my face. Had t’ teach ‘im a lesson. Nobody talks down a Pines on my watch.”

Ford’s eyes widen and he splutters in disbelief, looking around the room like there are other people present that would agree that the words coming out of Stan’s mouth are utterly ludicrous. Ford takes an angry step forward, holding up a finger at Stan that betrays the slight shaking in his hands.

“You mean to tell me that you were off brawling with some ruffian for two and a half hours?!”

Oh, so that was how long Stanley had been gone. Good to know.

“Uh, yeah,” Stan says. “I mean, I couldn’t jus’ let him walk away after that. It was a matter of honor or whatever.”

“A matter of—!” Ford cuts off his yell, dropping to a tense, hissing whisper. “A matter of honor?! Stanley, I needed you. I was counting on you. When you got up to use the restroom I believed you’d be back in time. You reassured me you would. And when the time came you were nowhere in sight! I was frantic! I thought something terrible had happened, and I still had to give that presentation and I did my best, but you still. Weren’t. There! ”

Ford’s gaze is like fire, pained and hurt and wounded, all rolled into one. Ford drags in a wet breath, blinking, and Stan realizes with horror that Ford is holding back from breaking down in front of him. Ford never cries. Even as a kid he’d hold it in until he burst rather than give in to the indignity of tears. The only time anyone had ever seen Ford cry as an adult was after Weirdmaggeddon, when Ford had thought Stan’s mind had been erased for good.

Stan’s soul lurches, a phantom emotional agony linked between them that he knows is all his fault, and it’s awful. Even knowing this is all for Ford’s sake, this is awful.

Somehow Ford manages to keep himself together, emotions pushed aside and replaced with cold, icy fury.

“T-There…There are many things at play here, but honor is not one of them.”

Ouch. Stan wishes he could come up with lines like that on the spot. He never thought of comebacks like that until after an argument was done and gone. As it is, Stan is struck dumb.

Stan and Ford stare into each other’s eyes for a few tense moments, before Ford abruptly turns. He grabs his blue coat from off the bed and, not even bothering to put it on, Ford marches for the door. Startled, Stan holds an arm out to stop him, receiving a glare in return. Stan doesn’t back down.

“Whoa, whoa, where are y’ going? It’s raining out there. Didn’t you just say something about catching my death? What about you? You’re not indestructible.”

“I,” Ford says tightly with strained composure, “am going to sleep in the lobby.”

Stan wonders, can you do that? But he says, “What? What on earth for? Ford, you can’t go stomping off just because we had a little misunderstanding. We’re brothers for Moses’ sake, not an old married couple!”

Ford’s answer is hard and quiet, threatening in the way he only usually talks to those who occasionally mock him in the pubs they visit from time to time at sea. Just before Ford hands all of their rears to them on silver platters.

“I thought we were past this…this childish, senseless arguing.” Ford sighs and some of the fight goes out of him. “Listen, I’m sorry you’re hurt, and I’m sorry if I seem to be overreacting, but you have to understand, I needed you, Stanley. I needed you, and you weren’t there. And I know you mean well, but…but the impression you’re giving me right now is that a brawl in a back alley somewhere meant more to you than being there for me. And I know that’s not the case, but that’s what it feels like. And I know that I don’t have the right to be upset about this, when I’ve been just as unfair to you in the past, but I just…”

At the flash of fear in Stan’s eyes Ford’s voice softens a little. “I forgive you, Stanley, but…I need a little space right now. Before I…say anything I regret. It’s going to be alright, I promise. I’m not leaving. I just need space…okay?”

Stan nods numbly, both hurt and touched. Ford could read him like a book sometimes; could peer into the very core of all of Stan’s fears and failures. And even angry, even hurting himself, Ford could recognize Stan’s fear of being abandoned and address it.

It both soothes Stan and makes things so much worse.

Ford’s gaze falls to Stan’s bleeding shoulder. “Is that bad?”

Stan barely glances at it. “No.” And for once he’s not lying. “Shallow knife cut.” He’s just not telling Ford about any of his other injuries.

Ford winces then nods. “Can you take care of that alright on your own, or..?”

“I’ve got it, Sixer.”

Ford nods again. “Take a shower and get warm. We’ll…We’ll talk tomorrow.” And with that he slips out the door, leaving Stan to the silence of their lonely motel room.

Stan waits several minutes, breaths loud and shaky in the now deathly quiet room. When he is absolutely sure that Ford isn’t coming back, he sinks down heavily to sit on the edge of the nearest bed and drops his throbbing head into his hands. Stan’s nerves feel frayed, his body beaten, he needs to be able to think his way out of this but no part of his body, mind, or soul seems interested in cooperating. There’s a brief flash of worry for Ford, his brother sleeping alone in the lobby further down the lot, worry that Rico will nab him, but Stan rationalizes that worry away. Rico won’t go back on his word, at least not until he gets what he wants. Or, rather, what his employer wants.

Stan groans, cursing the jerk who decided to bring his old gang back into his life. Whoever it is, they must know an awful lot about both Stan and Ford to have put this all together, and that was what scared Stan the most. Because he and Ford were complicated, what with Stan pretending to be his brother for thirty years, not to mention being legally dead. For someone to have been able to work all that out, separate the con from reality…

Well. That took an uncomfortable amount of focus and concentration on the subject. More than Stan wants to consider.

Granted, they obviously aren’t all knowing, seeing as they had the totally wrong idea of just what Ford’s research was used for. But there’s no convincing them otherwise, Stan is sure. People who hire guys to threaten you and your family are far from being pushovers.

Stan shivers. He softly reminds himself nothing can be done tonight, that much is clear. A glance at the clock shows it’s later than he expected, and that’s enough to get him moving. First things first, Stan has some injuries to tend to.

Stan starts with a shower, mostly to warm up but also to try and wash away the blood on his face and shoulder. It’s unnerving, watching the water run red at his feet before it gets carried away by the drain. It reminds Stan of the movie he’d seen as a kid, though he couldn’t recall the name. Something iconic. He and Ford had snuck into the theater in downtown Glass Shard Beach to watch it, mostly at Stanley’s insistence. They couldn’t have been much older than six at the time. The scene with the mother’s corpse in the rocking chair had given Stan nightmares for weeks.

Now he was in a nightmare of another kind.

Stan dries off and uses Ford’s first aid kit his brother brings with them just about everywhere to lightly patch up his shoulder. Even cleaned up, Stan still has one heck of a bruise on his cheek and a split in his lip that’s scabbed over, but at least he’s warm and dry. His wrists are pretty messed up, raw and chafed. Stan’s just glad the sleeves of his suit jacket had hidden them from Ford. His brother would have put two and two together pretty quick if he had.

The hardest thing to take care of are Stan’s ribs. He and Ford don’t have anything in the first aid kit for that, but Stan, now that he truly remembers some of his years on the streets, recalls having treated such an injury himself many times before. Stan doesn’t have any ice, so he soaks a face cloth in cold water and holds it over the bruised area for a while. He does this in the bathroom with the door closed, just in case Ford decides to come back. He never does. Once Stan thinks the cold water has at least moderately helped with the bruising and swelling, he takes his ruined dress shirt and tears the fabric into strips. He lightly wraps his chest and middle with the strips, making sure not to wrap them too tight. Ribs need space to heal. Breathing is still a bit painful, but bearable. Stan is sure to take careful, deep breaths to avoid pneumonia.

Patch up done, Stan carefully gets dressed into his pajamas, white with blue stripes, still practically new and courtesy of Mabel Pines’ occasional shopping sprees. She said it was more attractive than walking around in boxers and a stained tank top, not that Stan was really looking to impress anyone. But it does feel nice to get into something warm and soft. Something given in love.

Finished, Stan goes out into the main room, considers taking some acetaminophen for the pain, but then decides against it. He can’t be sure just what drug had been forced into him earlier, and he’s too worried about side effects to take the risk. Stan feels too uneasy to be hungry, and after a fair amount of pacing he finally just gets into bed, exhausted.

Everything hurts, and his mind is racing. Stan does his best, but it’s pretty safe to say he doesn’t sleep barely a wink all night long. And what little he does get can hardly be called restful.

In the motel lobby, Ford Pines sleeps no better.

Chapter Text

The Pines brothers end up staying in Pasadena for another day and a half.

The morning after their fight, Ford comes back into the motel room looking just as haggard and miserable as Stan feels, and while there is forgiveness in Ford’s eyes there is still anger, too. And hurt. Stan honestly doesn’t know what to say, and his one attempt at apologizing just makes Ford shake his head as if to say ‘not yet’. Ford’s come a long way from the guy who could hold a grudge for forty years, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for him to move on from something like this.

Stan finds himself getting a little frustrated. He tries not to let it get to him. Ford doesn’t know any better. Stan can’t tell him any better. As far as Ford knows, Stan ditched him during his hour of need for a fight out in an alley somewhere. Stan tries to tell himself that under that assumption Ford’s got every right to be angry with him. And Ford’s actually handling it fairly well, all things considered. But still, Stan can’t help but feel the victim, dark memories and thoughts of all the times Ford was never there for him growing the grudging frustration in his heart.

When Alistair shows up to give his promised tour, both men are in a pretty sour mood, having fed off of each others’ negative airs all morning and still not having talked things through. Alistair, for his part, is as peppy and cheerful as he had been at the conference the night before. He babbles on and on about every little thing, Ford eventually joining in, first out of courtesy and then gradually more out of actual interest. Stan, who had opted to sit in the back of Alistair’s car, remains silent, letting the two visit, feeling like a fly on the wall. Alistair, however, does manage to pull him into the conversation once or twice, and every so often the man’s gaze meets Stan’s in the rear view mirror. Thankfully, Alistair doesn’t make any comments on the night before. He seems like a nice enough fellow, Stan can give him that. He knows when to mind his own business.

They stop in at that place Alistair had said he’d take them, it ends up being a small but elegant diner, Italian food mostly, to which they all order something and Alistair insists on paying. All in all, it is a nice visit, and Ford really does seem to enjoy his time with his old friend. But for the brothers there is still that dark cloud of tension, uncomfortable and difficult to deal with. And Alistair is no fool, he can sense it. Which is why, when Ford leaves to use the diner restroom, Alistair Brewster gives Stan a sad, knowing smile.

“Things are a little rough between the two of you right now, I take it.”

Stan bristles a little. “Yeah, and what of it?”

Alistair shrugs, observing the red wine in his glass. “Nothing. It’s just a shame, is all. You both seemed so close last night. Before the lecture.”

Stan narrows his eyes, but Alistair isn’t done.

“Look, lad, I’m not saying this is your fault. I’ve got a brother myself, older, so easily offended it’s a wonder he hasn’t gutted me long before now. All I’m saying is…if you ever need to talk, need anything in regard to you or your brother, you come to me, alright?”

That takes Stan by surprise. Alistair is Ford’s buddy, not his. He would expected the man to take his brother’s side.

“Why?” Stan finds himself asking.

Alistair smiles, genuine and real. “Because sometimes all someone truly needs is a listening ear. Family can get complicated. Stanford is my friend, but by default, so are you. I’d hate to see something as simple as a misunderstanding ruin what you too have going on.

Stan grimaces. “So Ford told you about the, uh—”

“The fight? Yes. But I know enough about this big ol’ world to know there’s two sides to every story, eh?”

“Huh…Yeah…”

“Here.”

Alistair reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, white card, elegantly printed and smelling of rose water. He holds it out to Stan, who takes it uncertainly.

“That’s where I live, the address right on the front. Again, if you ever need anything, you’ll know where to find me.”

Stan opens his mouth to answer, but Ford chooses that exact moment to return, and Stan suddenly doesn’t want to continue the conversation. He gives Alistair a stiff nod and pockets the card. It’s a nice gesture, but Stan doubts he’ll ever take the Brit up on the offer.

By the time Alistair has shown them every tourist spot in town, it is fairly late. He drops them off at the motel with a cheery farewell and says he hopes they’ll come again soon before he drives off. Stan and Ford retire to their room and go right to bed. Ford doesn’t sleep in the lobby, but his posture tells Stan everything he needs to know.

The argument is left to fester for another night.

They get up early the next morning, pack their things, and take turns showering.

Stan does not neglect using the motel phone while Ford bathes, contacting Rico to let him know that they are heading out. Stan had found a slip of paper in his dress pants pocket the night before, Rico’s number scrawled upon it. The line picks up when Stan calls, even though there’s no greeting. Typical, if Stan’s memory is accurate. He leaves his message with the light breathing on the other end of the line, then hangs up, feeling sick and filthy inside as he does.

When Ford comes out they gather up their belongings and check out, shortly after finding a place for breakfast. By noontime they are ready to leave Pasadena behind them and head for the nearest bus stop.

Ford says very little to Stan the entire trip, barely a word, not on the bus to Piedmont, and not in the taxi to Dipper and Mabel’s house. It’s less of the silent treatment and more Ford trying to prevent himself from saying something they’ll both regret. Stan can feel the heaviness though, permeating between them. Stan tries a few times to start up a conversation, commenting on the weather or something they drive by. Ford’s answers are always silence or very soft, disinterested.

Eventually, Stan gives up and they both allow time to pass in quiet. Which gives Stan an awful amount of time to think. He goes over everything that’s happened over the last few days, and the anxiety that induces has his leg bouncing and knuckles white on his knees.

Rico’s alive. That thought alone makes Stan want to run and never stop. He’s sure he’s being tracked, somehow. Rico never would have let him go otherwise. He’s waiting in the wing somewhere, like a vulture. Stan can already tell he’s going to have to fight off an uncomfortable underlying feeling of paranoia.

And then there’s this whole business about his brother being involved with the government. At first Stan was completely against the idea, thinking Ford would never go for such a commission. However, the more Stan thinks on it, the more likely it becomes. Not in this day and age, of course, Ford likes to keep to himself and focus on their anomaly work. But there had been a full ten years of Stan’s life where Ford had been blatantly absent. And who was to say that Ford hadn’t gotten involved in some federal project during that stretch of time. He had created that god-awful mind control tie for the feds after all, if Ford’s explanation was to be believed.

Stan can’t be sure. And asking Ford outright is out of the question, at least for now. Maybe he can find a way to slip it into conversation, but that is also off the table at the moment, seeing as Ford is reluctant to talk to Stan at all. It’s rather maddening. Maybe the kids will know something. In some ways, Stan feels Dipper and Mabel know his brother better than he does.

But for now there’s nothing he can do, so Stan does the one thing he’s always hated above all else.

He waits.

It’s a long trip, what with having to jump several buses to reach their destination, that and the bus keeps making stops. By the end of it all, the six hour trip ends up being nearly eight before they spy the sign welcoming them into Piedmont, California.

Piedmont is a nice place, a bit crowded, but it has a lot of nice homes and a generally family-friendly neighborhood. It is about eight-thirty when the bus pulls into the bus stop and Stan and Ford get off. They are able to catch a taxi fairly quickly, and then it’s about a ten minute drive to the Pines’ residence on Hirsch Lane, home of Royland and Caroline Pines. And, of course, their son Dipper and daughter Mabel.

After such a long ride of practically nothing but awkward silence between them, it’s a relief when the taxi pulls up in front of the small residential home. Ford’s never been here, and Stan hasn’t visited since the twins were toddlers, but it has all the charm and warmth that a home like theirs should. That, along with the huge, glittery banner on the garage door that reads ‘Welcome Grunkles!’ tells the two men that they are in the right place.

In silence they gather their bags from the trunk, Ford leaving Stan to pay the driver, and then they’re making their way up the driveway toward the front door.

It’s a cute house, all lemon yellow with white trim and lattices. If Stan remembers correctly, Dipper and Mabel’s mom, Caroline, is an interior designer and decorator. She apparently isn’t so bad at exterior design either. That must be where Mabel gets her bold streak of creativity.

The hedges around the yard are lush and well trimmed, lining the path to the door and then veering off to perimeter the house. The red brick of a chimney claims a small section of the wall to the right, towering up and decorated with a few star-shaped memorabilia. It’s nice. Inviting.

The brothers barely touch foot to path before the front door is thrown wide, a familiar rosy face and bright smile appearing in a swish of long, brown hair.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!” Mabel cries out with joy, running out onto the wet walkway in her socks to throw herself into Stanley’s arms. She squeezes him, smelling of strawberry shampoo and glinting with sparkles.“I missed you guys soooooooo much! So, so, so, so much!”

Stan does his best to hide the pained wince, but Mabel’s always been very perceptive. She senses him stiffen and frowns, stepping back and letting him go in concern.

In a small voice she asks, “Grunkle Stan, are you—?”

Stan doesn’t let her ask if he’s alright. He kneels down with a grunt and drags her into a hug of his own, a big bear hug she has no hope of escaping. She’s so wonderfully warm, and it feels so good to hold her again. The sentiment brings moisture to Stan’s eyes. Mabel blinks, then grins and wraps her arms around his neck with another squeal of joy.

“Heya, Pumpkin! We missed you, too!” Stan says warmly. And he means it with all his heart.

Dipper appears in the open frame of the doorway, also in his socks but not nearly as willing to step out in the dampness with them as his sister had been.

“Hi, Grunkle Stan! Hey, Great-Uncle Ford!” And he waves shyly.

For the first time in almost a day and a half Stan hears something other than a grunt or murmur from his brother.

“Dipper, my boy, it is wonderful to see you!”

Mabel lets go of Stan to leap on Ford, hugging him just as happily with her arms around his waist. Ford smiles down at her and gives her hair a loving pat.

“As it is also wonderful to see you again, my dear,” he adds.

Mabel beams, moving to grab both Ford and Stan’s hands and leading them into the house. Dipper shyly steps aside and closes the door behind them once they’re through.

Mabel lets go of their hands to pose herself in the middle of the open living room, and says with fine dramatic flare that made the Mr. Mystery in Stan proud, “Welcome to our humble abode! Home of a budding artist and her weird sweaty brother extraordinaire!”

“Hey!” Dipper squeaks with a frown.

Stan chuckles and ruffles the kid’s hair, Dipper laughing and stepping out of reach. Stan smiles fondly at him and says. “Good to see ya, kiddo.”

“Good to see you too, Grunkle Stan.” Dipper’s expression becomes a little concerned. “How are you feeling?”

To be perfectly honest, Stan is feeling the worst he has in a while. Stress can do that to a man. But Stan knows Dipper means other things. It’s amazing how something that had more or less been over for a while now could still cause the kids to worry. They were extremely perceptive, which was why Stan is going to need to be extra careful here. If there was anything worse than Ford getting mixed up with Rico and his goons, it was Dipper and Mabel getting mixed up with Rico and his goons.

Stan can sense Ford watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m doing a-okay!” Stan taps his noggin to emphasize. “Everything up here where it should be.”

At his movement, Dipper gasps. Apparently the boy hadn’t gotten a clear look at Stan’s face in the light up until that moment. “What happened to your face, Grunkle Stan?!”

Stan winces. “Well—”

“What?!” Mabel raises her voice in worry as she runs over, tugging on Stan’s jacket to get him to lean closer. “Oh my gosh! Your face is all beat up, what happened?!”

“Well, I—”

Dipper latches on to Stan’s jacket sleeve, looking closer at the bruise and cut that betray Stan’s having been roughed up. The kid’s still a bit of a pushover, a nerd through and through, but there’s a protective fire in his eyes that Stan would expect from any boy who’d faced ghosts, demons, and the fantastic and lived to tell the tale. Dipper glances over at Ford, taking very thorough note that the other Pines brother doesn’t have a scratch on him.

“Yeah, what happened to you?” Dipper repeats.

“What is there, an echo in here?” Stan can feel Ford frowning miserably at his back and stalls a little. “It’s nothing you have to worry about, I just—”

It’s at that moment that another adult enters the room.

Stan feels a warm fondness sooth over his soul at the sight of Caroline Pines. She’s a gentle, wise, soft-spoken woman, of medium height and slender figure. Her eyes are a vibrant green, and while her hair is a little more on the reddish side of brown, it’s still easy to see where the twins get most of their features. She is dressed in a cool blue sweater, obviously knitted by Mabel, and a pair of flattering black leggings. An apron dusted with white powder is snugly tied around her waist, like she has been baking. Knowing her, she probably has been.

Stan grins and straightens up despite Mabel’s still ongoing attempts to reach his bruised face.

“Hey, Carol. Long time no see.”

Caroline smiles. “Stan Pines,” she greets fondly. Her eyes widen and her smile falls. “Good grief, Uncle Stan, what happened to your—”

“That’s what we want to know!” Dipper insists, giving Stan a glare.

Stan sighs. “Alright, alright, I got into a little—” It hurts to commit further to the lies he’s spinning. “—fight with a thug out in an alley. But me and Ford don’t really want to talk about it, okay? This is a happy occasion and I’m fine. Just a few little bruises. So let’s just forget about it, okay?”

Dipper doesn’t look like he approves, but he gives a slow nod nonetheless. Mabel gives a final whimper and tug on Stan’s coat before she also nods in kind.

“Good,” Stan grunts. He returns his gaze to Caroline, giving a teasing whistle as Caroline makes her way closer. “Boy, did my nephew know how to pick ‘em. You look just as radiant as ever, Carol.”

Caroline rolls her eyes but she’s blushing. “Uncle Stan, you are a roguish old man and I love you dearly.”

And she pulls him into a hug, of which Stan returns quite happily. Caroline is just as warm as Mabel, and smells of fresh cookies and lightly scented perfume. She squeezes Stan a bit tighter with a hum, murmuring against his shoulder.

“I missed you, you big softy. Good Lord knows it’s been far too long.”

Stan chuckles and gently pulls her away so he can look her in the face. “Yeah. Far, far too long.” Stan takes a small step back, coughing into his fist and blushing just a little. “Uh, listen, I wanted to thank you for convincing me to take the kids that summer a few years back. I’m sorry we haven’t visited sooner but—”

Caroline swats at Stan playfully. “Oh, stop it. You couldn’t exactly make it down here when you’re off sailing the seven seas, now can you?” Her smile is as bright as the sun. “God, it really is so good to see you.”

Stan’s heart feels full. “You too.”

Caroline’s gaze slips to the side a bit and her smile dims just a little. Stan looks over at Ford before stepping out of Caroline’s way, ignoring the fact that she had gotten flower all over his coat. Some of that shyness Dipper inherited shows through as Caroline gives Ford a welcoming smile.

“And you must be Uncle Ford,” she says gently, like she’s speaking to a cornered critter. The comparison isn’t that far off, Ford looks so out of place. “The kids have told me so much about you.”

Yeah, Ford looks as nervous as he used to all those years back when they were kids. He’s never been one for talking to girls, even within his own family, apparently. In the most awkward rendition of the cliche phrase, Ford bods his head and mutters:

“All good things I hope.”

And he gives a tight laugh that sounds anything but natural. It makes Mabel giggle and Stan can’t help but smirk. Ford sends them both a reproachful look.

Ford does that thing where he rubs the back of his neck because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Stan recognizes the tic, because he’s developed something similar over the years. Ford gives the woman a shy smile, before finally extending his hand as though for a handshake.

“I-I suppose I should properly introduce myself. I am Stanford Pines, though I typically go by just Ford.”

Stan gives a snort of amusement. “Sixer, you don’t shake a woman’s hand, especially if she’s your niece-in-law.”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Caroline dismisses with a good natured wave of her hand. “I think it’s sweet.” And she reaches back and gives Ford’s six-fingered hand a hearty shake. “Hello, Uncle Ford, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. The real you,” she emphasizes with a sideways glance at Stan.

It hadn’t been easy explaining to the family why Stan had been impersonating his brother for thirty years, or where Ford had gone off to in the first place. The truth was a little far fetched, and that was putting it mildly. And so they had all agreed - all being Stan, Ford, Dipper, and Mabel - that the story would go as follows: Ford had gone off to Africa hunting down some mythical beast and gotten lost in the jungle, surviving many challenging scenarios and dangers. They had to have something to explain Ford’s multitude of scars and certain behaviors that were, quite frankly, more reminiscent of someone who’d been through some serious trauma. Which he had, and it was obvious. Stan, in the meantime, had taken his brother’s place to keep his home from being repossessed, all while paying for private searchers to scour the jungle for his lost brother.

It was probably the dumbest, most transparent, idiotically far-fetched story in the history of half truth lies, but when compared to the full truth…Well. They decided to stick it out. Stan, Ford, and the kids had practiced every aspect of their story, to cut down on as few inconsistencies as possible. As far as everyone else in the Pines family was concerned, Ford had been wandering around the jungle for thirty years, unable to get back. Now that he was, they were sure to have a million questions.

With that in mind, Stan can understand why his brother looks so nervous. Ford doesn’t have Stan’s silver tongue, and his acting skills have always been atrocious.

“O-Oh,” Ford sputters, his smile becoming a little more genuine. “Thank you, I…I am also very glad to make your acquaintance.”

Caroline laughs then steps aside to gesture them further into the living room. “Please, make yourself at home. I’m afraid the cookies aren’t quite ready. Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Stan rubs his head. “Well, no, actually. M’afraid we were so intent on getting up here we didn’t think of stopping for food.”

Caroline clucks her tongue. “Mabel, honey, please help your grunkles find something to eat from the leftovers in the fridge.” To the two adventurers she says, “I’m sorry, I would have cooked a meal if i had known—”

Stan holds up a hand with a smile, cutting off any further apologies. “Don’t worry about it. A quick snack and some promised cookies will be more than enough.” He brushes the flower from his jacket before unzipping it and allowing Mabel to lead him by hand to the kitchen, the two trailing behind Caroline as she leads the way.

That leaves Ford and Dipper alone as the more chatty members of their family slip from view.

Dipper gives an amused huff of breath and shakes his head fondly before turning to smile at Ford.

“Mom’s been baking all day. Mabel gets the whole stress baking thing from her. But she really was excited to meet you.”

Ford gives a smile of his own. He looks tired, but he’s slowly becoming a little less tense. New environments always set him on edge, or so Dipper recalls, at least until he starts to settle in.

“She seems like a very fine woman,” Ford comments kindly. “Just like the children she raised.”

Dipper blushes and gives a little embarrassed cough before quickly changing the subject. “How did the conference go? That was the other day, wasn’t it?”

His eager smile wanes a little when he sees something shift in Ford’s expression. It happens too quickly for him to comment on before Ford beams again brightly.

“It all went very well! And I must thank you, my boy, for having the forethought to publish that article I wrote about my work on my behalf. Had you not, I doubt I would have received such recognition.”

Dipper’s eyes sparkle and he breathes out a happy, “Y-You’re welcome. I really thought it was good. I had no idea it would lead to you speaking at one of the biggest science conferences in the world, though.”

Ford laughs and pats Dipper gently on the shoulder. “Had you told me years ago that I would speak in those halls I would have doubted you greatly. Then again, I had been terribly arrogant back then. Perhaps it is better that I got that dream granted only after I gained a taste of humility.”

Dipper hums, not sure whether to agree or not, but he reaches up and takes Ford’s hand in his.

“Hey, Great-Uncle Ford?”

“Yes, Mason?”

“Are…Are you and Grunkle Stan alright?”

Ford instantly stiffens up again, and that more than anything tells Dipper he’s hit the nail on the head. “…Why do you ask that?”

Dipper shrugs. “I don’t know. You both seem kind of…off. And Grunkle Stan is all…” He waves a hand non-descriptively toward his face.

“Beat up?” Ford guesses, and Dipper nods with a wince. Ford sighs and kneels down, putting a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. “Stan is right, he got into a fight. I wasn’t there so I don’t really know how it came about, but…it was at a…most inopportune time,” Ford admits stiffly.

Dipper frowns, then his eyes open wide. “During the conference?”

Ford gives a disapproving but affirmative nod.

Dipper sighs and shakes his head. More carefully he asks, “Are you mad at him?”

“…A little.”

“Are you guys fighting?”

“No,” Ford is quick to answer, perhaps a little too sternly, then he winces. “Maybe?” Then he outright slumps. “Yes.”

Dipper’s concerned frown deepens. “Great-Uncle Ford…”

Ford nods. “I know. I’m not…not mad at Stan like…like I was before. Back before that summer. I could never be mad at him like that again.” Ford sighs. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still be…be upset at him. You understand?”

Dipper nods slowly. “Like how I love and care about Mabel, but sometimes she drives me crazy. Or sometimes we fight but always make up.”

Ford gives a relieved breath. “Precisely.”

“Are you going to make up with Grunkle Stan?”

“Yes, of course. Eventually. I…I just need a little time.”

“Oh, okay,” Dipper says, not at all convincing in his approval. “Just…don’t wait too, too long, okay? Stan, he…I can tell he’s sorry. And with what happened between you both before, I think he…” He trails off, realizing this really isn’t his place, telling Ford what to do.

But Ford merely gives a sad, fond little smile. “Thank you, Dipper. Perhaps you are right.”

That brings Dipper’s smile back. “Oh. Oh, okay, yeah. Um, in the meantime, you want something to eat? There might be some leftover meat loaf from yesterday. It was pretty good. And I promise I won’t tell Mabel about you and Stan fighting. You know her, if she knew she’d try and fix things between you two. By force. And I can tell you from experience that she’s not really all that good at it.”

Ford chuckles. “I appreciate that. And…try not to worry. Your great uncle and I have just had a slight…disgruntlement. But I’m sure things will mend themselves quickly. I’ll see to it.”

Dipper doesn’t look so sure, but nods.

“Now!” Ford straightens. “Let us go get something to eat before my brother devours everything but the mayonnaise.”

Dipper laughs and starts leading the way. “Doesn’t he like mayonnaise?”

Ford huffs. “No, never has. And he refuses to try it.”

“Huh. Mabel’s the same with blue cheese dressing. She says that something made out of moldy cheese shouldn’t be edible.” Dipper smirks. “This coming from a girl who dowses everything in glitter.”

Ford grunts in amused agreement, before the two finally head for the kitchen.

The Pines household is as charming on the inside as it is on the outside, warm lighting, thick carpeting, clean tiled kitchen and bathroom floors. Caroline knew her trade, and it shows. Not a thing in the house seems out of place, themed with pastel blues, yellows, and whites, an aesthetically pleasing environment to be sure.

Dipper leads the way into the kitchen, where Mabel is already pulling out a leaning tower of plastic Tupperware containers full of leftovers and stacking them on the counter. Stan, in his usual style with Mabel, doesn’t offer to help, but watches with rapt attention, holding the refrigerator door open until Mabel is clear with her burden. Ford supposes that’s their father’s fault, Filbrick had never been one to ‘baby’ he or Stan when they were children. He’d insist that allowing them to do things themselves would build muscle and character. Rather poor fathering skills, but Ford supposes it had served its purpose. It was that independence that had made Ford capable of living away from home, moderately already self sufficient, and Stan…Would Stan have even survived his time on the streets if Filbrick hadn’t taught him that life was hard right from the start?

Ford shudders, an ache opening up in his heart before he forcibly pushes it aside. He is supposed to still be upset with Stan. Not angry, just reasonably upset. This would teach Stanley that brushing off others’ dreams had consequences. Something small and pitiful in the back of Ford’s mind winces, chidingly asking hadn’t Stan already learned that lesson enough?

Ford shakes his head to clear up his thoughts. He’ll make up with Stan before too long. Once Ford has calmed a bit more on the subject. It wouldn’t do any good to try and make up too early only to break into another fight.

It’s not long after Stan and Ford have eaten a re-heated meal of beans, chicken, rice, and meatloaf that they all hear the front door open once again. There’s the sound of keys being tossed on a side table and the steady footsteps of a businessman, and then Royland Pines steps into the kitchen. And by the oracle does he look like Shermie. Same eyes and mouth, same manner of holding himself, straight and solid, but with all the gentle giant kindness of a loyal hound dog. He’s dressed in a casual suit and tie, and Ford distantly remembers Stan telling him Roy worked in an office building in the middle of town as an accountant, or something of the like. In his hand Roy holds a briefcase, stereotypical maybe, but he cuts a very handsome and professional figure.

“Dad!”

Mabel squeals, and Roy’s eyes light up as she launches herself up from the table to wrap her arms around her father’s waist in greeting. Roy sets down his briefcase and properly hugs her back. Beaming, he looks up at the others gathered, particularly Stan and Ford.

“I imagined you two would have arrived by now,” he says cheerily. “The traffic can get pretty congested between here and Pasadena. I hope the trip wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

Stan and Ford blink, then Stan gives a light cough and stands up, Ford following suit awkwardly.

“Nah, it wasn’t bad,” Stan assures. “A bit of a long drive, but nothing a couple guys like us can’t handle.”

Stan moves to hold out his hand and Roy takes it readily, giving Stan’s hand a hardy shake, one hand still on Mabel’s back as she hugs him.

Stan’s grin becomes more genuine. “It’s good to see you, Roy.”

“And it’s good to see you,” Roy returns. He nods to Ford. “Both of you.”

Ford gives a nod. “Agreed.”

“Pfft.” Stan rolls his eyes playfully. “You’ll have to forgive Ford, he’s not big on the whole socializing thing,” he explains teasingly.

Roy laughs. “Fair enough.” To Ford he says, “I barely remember the last time we both met. Must have been my ninth or tenth birthday.”

Ford nods again in that way he does when he’s not quite sure what he’s agreeing to. “You’ve grown,” he mumbles.

“Gosh, I hope so,” Roy grins. “I was a shrimp of a kid, back in the day.” He ruffles Mabel’s hair as Caroline comes over and they share a kiss and a greeting. “If you’ve all had a bite to eat why don’t we head into the living room for a bit before bed? Talk a while. I’m dying to hear about some of your adventures.”

And so that’s what they do.

Needless to say, Stan and Ford were both rather shocked to see how well Roy and Caroline had taken to the whole Stan-impersonating-Ford-for-thirty-years thing, especially taking into account that it had effected Shermie so much. As Shermie’s son, Stan would have thought Roy would have been furious. Shermie had mourned Stan’s ‘death’ for a number of years, until Dipper and Mabel were born and his life was given a new spark. And seeing as Shermie had later passed on, old but happy, but with no knowledge that the brother he’d lost had been right at his bedside was far from poetic. Roy had every right to be angry, but he isn’t.

He was like Shermie in that regard, too. Kind to the point of near ignorance, but also a strong pillar of stability and logic. And Caroline, well…Caroline was like the weird sister-niece-angel-in-law that the Pines brothers never knew they had needed. She was bright, sweet, and had an amazing sense of humor.

Stan and Ford are treated to what feels like a million stories. They learn all about Roy’s work, all about Caroline’s commissions from home, and Dipper and Mabel’s life at school. Over the course of an hour they both feel completely caught up with their family’s lives, and Stan is fairly sure he could name every boy on the block Mabel’s had a crush on. Kid seriously wore her heart on her sleeve.

And then it was Stan and Ford’s turn to tell their tales. Stan, admittedly, does most of the talking, Ford feeding him scientific jargon when it is needed. The younger Pines all listen with rapt attention, cookies and milk are served, and Stan is introduced to Mabel’s cat. Waddles finally makes an appearance, snorting his way down the staircase to the living room. Both animals find comfort sitting right at Stan’s feet, and while he makes a fuss about it, everyone can tell he really enjoys their company.

Eventually it gets late enough that even Mabel is starting to slow down, her intake of Mabel Juice she’d undoubtedly had that morning finally beginning to wear off. Dipper has already dozed off a few times, cheek resting against Ford’s knee. Caroline nudges the kids and sends them off to bed, goodnights and hugs are had and exchanged and then Ford and Stan are shown to the guest room by their motherly host.

“I’m sorry the room is so small,” she apologizes.

Which is ridiculous. Both brothers find it very charming, though considering the last few days and the tension between them the single bed makes them pause. Both thank Caroline and insist that the room is fine, and then Stan and Ford are finally left alone.

A long silence stretches between them after Caroline closes the door behind her.

Finally, Ford clears his throat. “Charming woman.”

Stan nods in agreement. “One of the best. And one heck of a baker, those cookies were to die for.” Stan goes to rub his eye and winces with a hiss, having forgotten about the bruise on his face.

Roy had started to ask about it too, but Caroline had nudged him with her foot and sent him a subtle shake of her head. Moses, Stan loved that woman. Still, Stan expects that he’ll be getting more questions on the bruise eventually. Pines weren’t exactly the type to forget and stop worrying about other members of their family.

A hand on Stan’s shoulder makes him jump, turning to find Ford standing there with a look of concern and guilt. Ford lowers his hand, flinching back in sympathy.

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Stan shrugs it off. “Ah, it’s okay. Guess I’m just a little twitchy.”

Ford nods. “Understandable.”

Stan frowns at that, uncertain. “…Is it?”

Ford is quiet again for a moment before he comes to a decision and speaks. “Stanley, I want to apologize for not…talking.” Then clarifies, “Sooner. For not talking to you sooner.”

“Eh,” Stan grunts and rubs his shoulder absently. “You really didn’t have anything to say. I guess. And I can’t say that I don’t blame you. It’s not like I gave you any reason to want to talk to me. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m the one who let you down. Again.”

Stan runs a hand down his face with a bitter sigh. “God, can I do anything right?”

“Of course you can,” Ford is quick to correct him, jumping to his defense, if even from Stan’s own self. “You do a lot of things right, and I was a fool not to have realized that sooner. But…Stanley, I’m still hurt you weren’t there the other night for the lecture. It would have meant a lot to me for you to have been there, but…I want to remind you that my love for you is not determined by only what you can do for me. I won’t make that mistake again. You were there to help me learn that speech, to practice, to keep moving forward even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to go through with it. I’m sorry you weren’t there, and you shouldn’t have gotten into a fight all on your own, but…I’m grateful that I still have you here. And I forgive you, okay? I’ll always forgive you.”

Stan lets out a shaky breath and pulls Ford into a hug. He’s fighting to hold back tears. Ford probably is, too.

Stan just says, “You big nerd.”

And just like that the terrible rift of Stan’s own making dissipates. And for the first time in the last few days, the brothers feel like they can breathe.

Chapter Text

Waking up in the morning to the prospect of a full day with two cheery, bright-eyed kids warms Stan’s heart like nothing else in the world ever could, but that doesn’t mean he’s technically feeling up to it.

Stan wakes early. Or rather, he doesn’t sleep much and just ends up rising when he can’t take lying there in bed any longer. His mind had been going a mile a minute all night, an endless parade of ‘what if’s and worst case scenarios. He had spent most of the night on his side, staring wide eyed through the darkness at the nearest wall, full of nervous energy and trying not to wake Ford at his back. Some part of him vaguely hoped that the whole incident with Rico and his men had been some twisted figment of his imagination, but the persistent aches all over his body kept that notion impossible to truly believe.

The knowledge that he would have to give Rico a call again in the morning, check in to that voiceless answer, didn’t help matters. Lying in bed awake all night, Stan found he’d had plenty of time to sort through the various new memories that were forcing their way to the surface. And it did not paint a pretty picture. He had led a terrible life before Gravity Falls…

And so Stan had suffered most of the night, regretting his actions, but also unable to figure out any other way he could have dealt with the situation. It was an endless cycle of thought and anxiety, and what little sleep he had gotten had been filled with upsetting images and flash pan memories he’d rather have left forgotten. So when Stan finally rolls over and sets his feet on the carpeted floor that morning, he feels like death warmed over. Hopefully, he doesn’t look it. That’s the last thing he needs.

As it is his bruised face feels tender, the swelling gone down, but the colors are sure to be a little more sickly looking by this time, having turned from purple to a nasty yellow. He utters a silent plea that it looks better this morning in contrast to before, at least, and not worse.

Ford had gotten up some time ago, ever the early riser. The guy was always leaping to life at the butt-crack of dawn, like some sixty-something year old jack-in-the-box. Stan had pretended to still be asleep, just for the sake of keeping up pretenses, but finally being alone with his thoughts quickly became too much and he roused himself about an hour later.

Dragging his sorry hide out from under the warm covers feels like a monumental task, and to stay standing up on wobbly legs equally challenging. He’s so sore, though that is nothing new. You didn’t fight monsters for a living and not be in an almost constant state of bruises and cuts. But there is a difference between being beat up because of an adventure, and being beat up by a bunch of thugs. Stan’s shoulder and ribs ache like a son of a gun, not helped by the fact he’d slept on his side. His face is a steady warm throb, and he has a headache, too. His wrists are still a little raw, but not as bad as the day before.

In other words, he’s a mess. But not as much of a mess as he could be.

Groaning, Stan gets dressed, slowly, mindful of his injuries, then makes his way downstairs.

The Pines home is just as warm and welcoming in the daylight as it had been last night, only now a pleasant glow of sunlight shines in, touching every corner, chasing away every shadow. It’s the kind of home that felt new and clean, like you could eat off the carpets and lick the counters - not that Stan would…unless there was a bet involved. Unlike the Shack there’s no mold or cobwebs, no cryptic carvings of otherworldly symbols in the dark corners and rafters, and unlike the Stan O’ War II there’s no crusted salt or barnacles to scrape. It’s just a real, nice, wholesome place, full of life, love, family photographs, and tons of Mabel’s drawings taped to almost every bare surface. That, above all else, makes Stan feel at home.

Stan descends the stairs slowly, hand on the rail and wincing as he catches sight of his reflection in the glass of one of the hanging picture frames. His hair is all frizzed up, matted and flattened into weird angles from tossing and turning most of the night. Worse are the shadows under his eyes that speak of just how little sleep he actually got. He gives up on pretending otherwise, there’s just no way anyone would believe him if he said he’d slept.

As Stan reaches the first floor he becomes aware of the various sounds of home life. The TV is on in the living room, tuned in to some obnoxiously bright animated cartoon, the vibrant sounds match the vibrant colors. Somewhere beyond that excitable drone there’s the clanking of silverware and ceramics, the sizzle of something cooking, and the low rise and fall of gentle adult voices. A moment later and the smell hits him: bacon, it’s strong and warm and sharp.

Normally Stan would find the smell fantastic. All it does now is stir the nausea lurking in his gut.

Mabel is sitting in the living room, on the floor and still in her pajamas. She’s deeply invested in some project or other, surrounded by scissors, glue sticks, and an assortment of colored construction paper, all in various stages of use. There’s also a fair amount of glitter, but that’s no surprise. As usual, there’s more sparkles coating her hands and shirt than whatever she’s actually working on, but she looks pleased as punch with her progress regardless.

Mabel perks up as she notices Stan, setting her project aside with little care, a few pieces of paper flutter a few inches to the left as she moves. She leaps up, running over to give Stan an enthusiastic hug, wrapping her arms around his sore ribs and squeezing. Stan holds back a grunt, making up for the way he stiffens by hugging her back just as tightly.

“Grunkle Stan! You’re up!” Mabel crows happily, and Moses how Stan loves this kid.

She’s like his own personal ray of sunshine, and her presence heals his soul, pieces it together like a puzzle fixed with glitter and paste. Though, he supposes, she’s not much of a kid anymore. Heck, she’s sixteen. And yet, Mabel has managed to maintain that childish, chaotic air that made her who she was. She’s perfect.

Mabel gives Stan another squeeze and Stan wheezes. “Oof! Uh, heh. Hey, Pumpkin. Yeah, thought it’d be best if I joined the land of the living. Can’t let time slip by I could be enjoying with my favorite grand-niece and nephew.”

Mabel pulls back finally and fixes him with a smirk. “We’re your only grand-niece and nephew, silly.”

“So you are,” Stan concedes. More tenderly he adds, “And I love you very much.”

Mabel beams impossibly brighter. “I love you very much!” She pauses, taking a better look at his appearance and, as Stan expects, her smile lessens just a little. “Are you…feeling okay? You kind of look like you didn’t sleep too good.”

Stan brushes it off playfully. “Nah, I’ve just started to slowly turn into a vampire. I’ve started getting a hankering for human blood.”

And he takes a halfhearted swipe at Mabel for good measure. The kid jumps back with a laugh, successfully distracted and smiling wide once again. She still has those braces. Stan vaguely wonders when the darn things will be ready to come off. They can’t be comfortable.

Stan chuckles to himself, resisting the urge to hold a hand to his aching side. He nods to the television. “What you watching?”

“Eh, just some cartoons, until breakfast is ready.”

“Oh, yeah? Nice. What we having?” He already has a fair idea, and already knows he’s not up for it, but Mabel is only too happy to oblige his feigned curiosity.

“Mom’s making pancakes and bacon,” she chirps. Ten points for Stan and his incredible bacon-seeking missile of a schnozzola.

Stan hums. “Well now, that sounds pretty good. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman’s home cooked meal. Sixer cooks like an alien outlaw, all gloomy despair and sweat and grime. It’ll be a welcome change. Think I’ll go and see how that’s going.”

Mabel deflates a little. “Aw, don’t you want to sit and watch cartoons with me?”

Stan considers it. Anything to prolong seeing anyone who might not be as easily distracted from his appearance as Mabel, but…Stan’s never been much for skirting an issue, he preferred to meet it head on.

So he says, “You know I do, Sweetie. I’m just…I’m feeling a little antsy. Sitting still doesn’t sound so good right now. Let me wake up a little first, okay? Then we’ll see how I am.”

That seems to appease her just fine. “Okay! Dipper and Grunkle Ford are up in the attic. Dipper and I made a fun room up there! Or, well, my half is fun, Dipper’s half is all sciency. That’s why they’re up there. Being nerds.”

“Mm,” Stan huffs. “Hopefully they don’t sprain any neurons.”

“Pfft.”

“I’m gonna go see your mom, alright?”

“Alright! See you at breakfast!”

And she’s already sitting back on the floor, humming an off-key tune and throwing herself back into her project. Stan watches her for a lingering moment, taking note of how happy and care free she is, before he turns away with a very soft sigh.

“…Sounds good.”

The goings-on in the kitchen are just as active as what’s happening in the living room it seems. Stan steps in to find Caroline working hard but happily. The woman loves to cook. A radio sits on the window sill above the sink, a morning talk show murmuring low and pleasant. Outside the sky is a brilliant blue, the sun shining down and bathing everything in glorious light. The sizzle of bacon cooking is louder now, as is the sound of Caroline busily mixing a bowl of batter. The smell, that Stan knows should smell good, hits him like a truck, and he has to swallow and breathe carefully to keep his nausea down until his senses get used to it.

Caroline seems to sense as he comes in, and without looking she uses her amazing motherly wiles to address him like she already knew he’d been coming. Of course, Mabel’s squeals might have tipped her off.

“Ah, Uncle Stan, I was just about to send Mabel up to get you. Did you sleep well?” She asks this with her back still to him. Stan winces and tries for a halfhearted fib.

“…Well…enough?”

Caroline pauses in her mixing and turns to take a look at him, before she gives a wince of her own. “My heavens. Wow. Yeah. For a guy who pretended to be his brother for thirty years, you are a terrible liar.”

“Heh.” That might be because he’s not really trying.

Caroline sets the mixing bowl down and walks over, holding the back of her hand up to try and check Stan for a fever. Stan has to fight the urge to step back and away. Personal space has never been any Pines’ strong suit.

Caroline frowns, worried. “Was it the bed? The mattress isn’t that old, but it is a hand-me-down. Don’t worry, just my brother’s, but I—”

“No, no.” Stan is quick to assure her. “The bed was fine, Carol. It’s just…I don’t sleep the best away from home.”

“Mm. You’re a little like Mabel in that regard.” Caroline smirks fondly. “Actually, scratch that, you’re a lot like Mabel. Or she’s a lot like you. If I believed in reincarnation I’d say she was a younger, girlier version of one Stan Pines.”

Stan chuckles uncomfortably. “Okay, that’s a really weird thing to say.”

“Yeah, well, look what family I married into.”

“…Fair enough.”

Caroline smiles and heads back over to her task, whisking the batter with quick, deft movements and turning the bacon like a pro. “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. I’m afraid I got a late start today, Roy needed help with a few things for work.”

Stan nods but his brow furrows just a little. “You didn’t have to make us breakfast, you know. I could have—”

“Nonsense,” Caroline interrupts. “You and Ford have fended for yourselves for months at sea. I can’t imagine what two aging men manage to cook up when left on their own.”

Stan winces. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Noted.” Caroline shakes her head fondly. “Listen, Uncle Stan, you and Uncle Ford are supposed to be on vacation right now. You both mean a lot to us, especially to the kids. The least I can do is make you a hearty breakfast.”

Stan chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Huh. Fair enough. Can I at least help a little? It’ll help me wake up a bit, I think.”

Caroline sighs and sends him an adoring look before nodding over at the toaster. “You could make some toast if you really want to. Bread’s on top of the microwave and the butter’s in the fridge.”

Stan nods and gives her a wink, setting himself to the task immediately.

It’s a nice, menial job, and it really does help Stan focus his thoughts. He makes more toast than they probably need, buttering them and piling them high on a plate, but he’s sure they won’t go to waste. A summer feeding Dipper and Mabel had taught him that kids could pack away an ungodly amount of food, and Ford was a walking stomach with legs. They’d finish up whatever he made.

Stan finishes about the same time Caroline wraps up the bacon and pancakes. The two spend a few calm moments setting the table together, then Caroline calls Mabel, prompting her to first go fetch her brother and Ford. There’s the sound of pounding footsteps racing up the stairs and down the upstairs hall, a pause, and then a returning trip. And then Mabel, in all her sunshine-happy glory, skips into the kitchen and launches herself into her chair, grinning widely and wiggling in her seat. Stan can’t help but smile at the familiar sight.

A few moments later, Ford and Dipper enter the kitchen together, Dipper still muttering his way through some conspiracy theory or other, Ford grunting and nodding along with rapt attention. The two join the rest of their family at the table, Dipper taking the seat between Mabel and his mother while Ford dutifully takes up the chair next to Stan. As he passes, he lays a hand on Stan’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. A reminder that things are mended between them, at least as far as Ford is concerned. Stan feels the familiar tug of guilt. Ford sits, trying to catch Stan’s eye as he does so. His warm smile fades to a concerned frown.

“Stanley, are you quite alright?”

“Mm?"

“Are you feeling well?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Never better.” He’s not trying to be sarcastic, but exhaustion is setting in again, annoyingly. Stan doesn’t feel like fighting a losing battle.

Ford’s frown deepens. “You say that, but I can assure you that you look nothing of the sort. Did you get any sleep last night?”

Caroline places a plate of food in front of Ford. “That’s what I asked him. Uncle Stan, you really don’t look well. Do you want to go back to bed?”

“No,” Stan answers flatly. Absolutely not. “Not a chance. I’ve got two kiddos that mean a whole lot more to me than more time in bed.”

Mabel melts. “Awwww, Grunkle Staaaan.”

Dipper is a little more concerned. “But aren’t you tired?” he asks.

“Pfft. I’m not so old that I can’t handle a rough night’s sleep. I can rest when I’m dead.” He gives the kids a wink. “Besides, all this great food, cooked by our own darling Caroline Pines, is sure to give me the strength to make it through the day. Right, Carol?”

The woman sits down with her own plate, having served everyone else. “Mm, I suppose. Just don’t overdo it, uncle.”

Stan elbows Ford, accidentally almost sending his brother’s rising forkful of pancake out of his grasp. “She’s a keeper, isn’t she? Alright! Let’s dig in!”

And dig in they do. The pancakes are delicious beyond words, with all the comfort of home packed into a hearty breakfast, puffy, lightly browned, and bathed in a heavenly sweetness. There are toppings at their disposal, a bowl of stove heated strawberries, warm and jelly-like in texture. There is soft butter, as well as a can of whipped cream, and the bacon is well cooked and crispy, none of that floppy half cooked junk. Carol knows how to do it right. And then, of course, there is the mountain of toast Stan had made. A jug of fresh orange juice had been set out, and its tang is a welcoming contrast to the salty meat and the sweet syrup.

Stan tries to enjoy it. He can tell it’s good, he’s had Caroline’s cooking before, and she’s a master of the art. But his gut still roils uneasily, bad sleep and overall anxiety making everything go down hard, even in the face of his favorite meat. He finds himself picking at his plate just enough to not appear suspicious. The pancakes go down a little easier, soft and warm and he doesn’t put a lot of syrup on them, keeping them moderately plain. He does, however, make a show of enjoying what he has, and manages to not draw attention to just how little he’s actually consuming.

Ford eats steadily, doing that thing he always does unconsciously, edging a little pile of food to the side of his plate. Rationing, Stan has come to realize over time. It makes Stan wonder how many times Ford had been low on food in the Multiverse, how many times he’d had to survive on the crumbs of his previous meals. Here on earth it wasn’t necessary, but habits born of necessity were the hardest to unlearn, Stan understands that. So, he doesn’t say anything. Ford gets uncomfortable when he points out stuff like that, like he thinks he’s broken and is ashamed of it. He isn’t. He’s not broken, not any more than Stan is. They’re just a little rough around the edges. Ford will notice what he’s doing soon enough all on his own, there is no need to make a big deal of it.

Dipper and Mabel tuck in with gusto. Stan’s fairly sure they both pack away a good four pancakes before he’s done with two, and they’re still going. Must be getting ready for another growth spurt. Their mother works on her own plate, quiet and dainty, always making sure the rest of them have what they need or want.

Despite everything, it’s nice, all of them here, enjoying a breakfast as a family.

Roy comes in at one point, in a flourish of paperwork and a briefcase in hand. He wishes them all a good morning, gives his wife a kiss and his children a hug, before grabbing a piece of toast and running out the door.

“Too bad he has to work today,” Stan decides to break the silence with, after Roy vacates in a whirlwind.

Caroline hums in agreement, swallowing before answering. “He did try to get the day off, but his manager is a bit of a stickler. Roy had to take a few sick days last month, and I swear his boss is still trying to get him to make up the difference.”

“Tch. Whadda jerk.”

“Mm. All the same, he should he home earlier tonight than he was yesterday,” the woman assures. “He said something about bringing home something for dinner. And possibly dessert?”

“Nice!” Normal Stan would be ecstatic, so that’s what he aims for. It’s weird, like trying to impersonate himself.

Mabel has no problem displaying her enthusiasm. “Yum! We’ll have to work up an extra big appetite while we’re out then!”

Stan nearly chokes. “O-Out?”

Dipper tilts his head. “Yeah, of course. It’s supposed to be really nice today, and we have so many things in town we could do!”

“Gift shops!” Mabel crows.

“Book stores!” Dipper adds. “Oh! And the park! You’ll love the park.”

Alarm bells are ringing in Stan’s mind. The prospect of going out on the town, where Rico’s men could be lurking around any corner, is like something out of his worst nightmares. Instinct screams he needs to keep them safe, hidden and secluded. Out of Rico’s sight. Out of Rico’s reach.

“Couldn’t we…just stay here?”

The moment Stan mentions it, he regrets it. The entire table goes still and silent, Caroline and Ford blinking in confusion. But worse still is the way Dipper and Mabel seem to deflate, all the sparkle and pep draining out of them, and it makes Stan want to punch himself in the face.

“Stanley—”

“Kidding!” Stan blurts. “K-Kidding. Of course I want to go out with you two.”

It’s a mistake, he knows it is, but the life returning to the kids’ faces tells him he did the right thing. He’ll just have to be extra careful. Cover his tracks. Or…get Rico’s okay. More or less. Make it clear this is necessary for him to complete the job. The whole reason he was in Piedmont was to keep up appearances. Not acting like he normally would, that would be suspicious with a capital S. And he normally would love to hang out with the kids.

His heart pounds in his chest, sharp and painful. He’s done eating, he wouldn’t be able to keep down another bite.

Stan gives the kids a shaky smile. “W-what should we do first?”

“Oh, we can figure that out on the fly,” Dipper assures. His eyes gleam with mischief and excitement. Then his brows furrow a little. “Are you coming with us, Great-Uncle Ford?” Dipper asks gently.

Ford slumps a little. He swallows and uses his napkin like a gentleman, all polite and elegant, but Stan knows he’s stalling. The guy’s eaten space rats with his bare hands. Etiquette doesn’t mean a thing in the Multiverse.

“Sadly, I do have a bit of paperwork to wrap up,” he regrets. “Nothing major, I assure you, just a few thank you letters and a synopsis of my speech that the institute wanted post-conference, but it will keep me occupied for a day or so. I’m terribly sorry.”

Mabel, true to form, doesn’t allow Ford to wallow in guilt. “Don’t be! You get done what you have to, Grunkle Ford, and then we can all do fun family stuff together when you’re done!”

Ford smiles, grateful. “I think that sounds very nice.”

“You’re sure you don’t want us to wait for you?” Stan asks, secretly hopeful.

Ford nods. “Very sure. You all go and have some fun. I’ll join you another time.”

Well, so much for that.

Stan tries not to let his disappointment and anxiety show. “Peachy. In the meantime, you kiddos get a full day pass to hanging out with me, the cool twin.” Ford gives Stan a light push, and Stan can’t help but chuckle. ”What? Just because you’re chained to the proverbial work desk doesn’t mean I have to be. I’m a free man, unfettered from most mortal responsibilities.”

“That’s one way of putting it, yes.”

If only Ford knew. In reality, Stan is still drowning under a sea of stress and paranoia, but he has to keep up the act. He has to be like everyone expects him to be. And while he’s doing that, maybe he can start thinking a way out of the mess he’s in.

Speaking of which…

Stan stretches with an overly loud grunt. “Heh, okay, alright. Then maybe we can find some diner or something to stop at for lunch. My treat.”

Ford gives a mock look of stunned indignation. “You, willingly spending money? Will wonders never cease.”

“Hey, listen, when it comes to these two, money is no object.” Stan pauses. “Unless it’s more than twenty bucks. Because that’s really all I have on me right now.”

“That should be enough,” Dipper assures. “Barlon’s Burger Place has burger and fry combos for three dollars.”

“And it comes with a fountain drink!” Mabel grins, wiggling her eyebrows. “It’s sodaaaaa.”

Perfect. “Sounds great!” Stan grins right back. “Just let me go and freshen up a bit and make a phone call, then we can head out, okay?”

“Okay, Grunkle Stan!”

“Phone call?” Ford inquires, meeting Stan’s gaze. “To whom?”

Stan wants to respond with something along the lines of ‘none of your business’, but that won’t go over well. So, in line with the rest of this stupid nightmare of a week, he settles on a lie.

“Soos. Wanna check in on the Shack, see if there’s anything he needs.”

Stan checks in on Soos rather often, so it’s not much of a stretch from what Ford might have been expecting him to say. Soos was a good guy, and Stan put a lot more faith in him than he typically liked to admit to, but that didn’t mean he was lacking in any concerns about how the kid was running his old business. Stan usually called once or twice a week.

“Oh,” Ford nods. “Alright. Give him my regards.”

“Pfft.” Stan smirks. “Wouldst thou like me to giveth him thy blessing also?” At Ford’s glare Stan retreats, taking his plate with him. “Alright, alright, I will, okay? Happy?”

Ford huffs, but he’s amused, Stan can tell. “Very.”

“Fantastic. Hey, Carol, where you want me to put this?” Stan holds up his dish, careful to angle it more toward himself so that the woman of the house can’t see how much he’s left on his plate.

“Just place it in the sink and run a little water on it. I’ll put the dishes in the dish washer in a little bit.”

“Okey dokey. And, can I use your phone?”

“Of course. There’s one out in the hallway, on the table. If you have to use the three, push a little harder than you normally would. It tends to get stuck.”

“Because someone called a friend while her hands were covered in putty,” Dipper says, with a meaningful glare at his sister.

Mabel gives an innocent bat of her eyelashes.

Stan laughs. “Will do. Won’t be long!”

At least, he hopes not.

It takes only a moment to rinse his plate and dry his hands, and then Stan is making his way into the hall. That sickening nausea from before is steadily getting stronger, and now Stan can be sure it’s from the stress. He must be getting old, soft. He’s been in more nerve-wracking situations than this, back in the day. Then again, it had been a while. He’d gotten used to the good life, he supposes.

And now he actually has something to lose.

He snatches the phone from its cradle, ignoring the tremble in his hands as he does so. He pauses long enough to listen and assure himself that his family isn’t listening in. He can hear laughter, and the gentle low drone of Ford’s comments, and he nods.

He dials the number he’d called before, off of the little slip of paper he’d found in his dress pants the other night. He does end up having to use the three button, and he messes up at least twice because of it before the call finally goes through. As it rings, his heart starts fluttering in his chest, leaving his arms tingly and his knees weak.

Like last time, the line trills twice and picks up on the third ring. There’s no greeting, no sign or co-sign. Rico’s too smart for that. He knows that if the police ever got a hold of this number, or if the line were tapped, giving away his voice or name would be a mistake. It just goes to show how long Rico’s been playing this game. He knows his stuff. It’s utterly terrifying.

Stan takes a shuddering breath, fairly sure he hears light breathing on the other end. It could be Rico himself, or one of his second tier lackeys, but Stan knows better than to ask or assume. He doesn’t give a greeting either, nor does he give Rico’s name or his own. Sharp and rapt, he rattles off in a low, uneasy whisper what he knows he’s being silently commanded to report.

“In Piedmont…Arrived last night. Haven’t had a chance to do any digging.”

Even with no answer from the boss, Stan can literally feel the disapproval radiating through the receiver. It reminds him of cold steel, of bloody lips and aching ribs.

Stan swallows. “I can’t move too quick on this, okay? My brother he’s…They don’t call him a genius for nothin’. And he knows me. If I rush things, he’ll know something’s up.”

More silence. Something that sounds like the click of a lighter being lit. God, Stan hopes smoking kills the monster.

“I-I just need some time,” Stan stutters, and he hates himself for it. He’s holding the phone so tightly the plastic creaks. “Just give me time. I’ll get it, alright?” And this…Oh, yeah, this feels familiar. Begging for a longer stretch of grace, another chance to make ends meet before the ax falls on his own neck. “I have to go into town with…with some acquaintances. Children. They’re not a part of this, but…my brother knows it’s what I’d normally do. I have to do it. A-And then I’ll be able to make better progress. I just need the time.”

He knows he’s rambling, so he shuts up, cursing himself. Stan listens, chest tight and nerves frayed.

After a moment he hears a series of taps and pauses against the receiver.

- …. .-. . . / -.. .- -.— …

Three days.

Stan almost collapses in relief.

Rico is giving him three days to approach this in whatever way he deems fit. Doesn’t mean he won’t be trailed. Doesn’t mean he’s not being watched from afar, but it’s something. And Stan will take it, gladly.

H doesn’t even bother answering, instinctively knowing that Rico had already hung up. Stan does so as well, slow and shaking as he sets it back in the cradle.

“Grunkle Stan?”

He almost jumps out of his skin, head jerking up to stare with wide, frightened eyes. His gaze meets chocolate brown.

Mabel stands in the arch of the hallway, near the kitchen. She’s frowning, worried, and Stan has an eternal moment of panic as he wonders how much she overheard. His mind spirals into a vein of despairing worst case scenarios that almost have him falling headlong into what would probably have been a panic attack.

Thankfully, Mabel speaks again before that can happen.

“Is Soos okay?”

Stan internally sighs in relief. “Yeah,” he chokes out, then clears his throat. “Yeah, Pumpkin, he’s fine.”

She nods, taking that in. “…And you?”

“Me? I’m great!” And Stan pastes on his best smile and brushes his hands against his shirt like he’s trying to rid his palms of the dreadful affiliations he’s now dealing in. “Soos just worked me up a little. Goofball lost the key code to the safe again.”

“Aaaah,” Mabel hums in understanding. Then she beams. “I’m sure he’ll find it! He always does.”

“Eventually,” Stan agrees. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a careful breath. Then he gives his grand-niece a wink. “What can I do for you, though? You look like you had something to say.”

“Oh!” Mabel bounces on the tips of her toes like a sugar high ballerina. “Mom wanted me to tell you that if you or Grunkle Ford had any clothes you wanted to have washed to bring them down. She likes to do laundry.”

“Heh. I’m sure I have a few things.” Things not covered in blood and dirt. Those would find their way into the nearest dumpster whenever Stan found the chance. “Ford already head up?”

“He’s helping mom clear the table, and then he’ll go get his stuff.”

“Good. Sounds good.” Stan turns toward the stairs. “I’ll go freshen up and grab some things, then I’ll be right back down. Tell your ma for me, okay?”

“Okay!”

Mabel twirls around and dashes back toward the kitchen in a whirl of vibrant sweater and smooth brown hair. The moment she’s gone Stan’s smile drops. His gaze flicks morosely toward the phone again, before he straightens up and grips the railing, heading up to the second floor bathroom.

Preparations go by in a blur. Stan heads for the upstairs bathroom and washes his face and runs his fingers through his hair, putting minimal effort into looking put together, seeing as nothing he does will solve the absolute wreck he feels he’s becoming.

Ford corners him at one point, sticking his head in on his way downstairs to bring Caroline the laundry. He does exactly what Stan would expect him to do, ask if Stan is alright. Which implies that Stan doesn’t look alright, so there goes that. They argue lightly about it, Ford even bringing the whole ‘I’m the older twin and I’m only looking out for you’card to the table, trying to force Stan’s hand. But Stan is stubborn. More than that, he’s afraid. He’d grip this charade until his dying breath if it meant keeping his family safe.

“I’m just tired,” was all he kept insisting.

Eventually, Ford gives up, annoyed, but not mad. He leaves, and Stan heads to the bedroom to gather his own laundry. When the task is completed, Stan eases his way back down the stairs, struggling as he missteps a little and the pain in his ribs flares. Thankfully, Caroline meets him halfway, the woman on her way up, probably to check on his progress. Stan wrestles the tremble in his hands under control and pastes on a winning grin, praying it’s enough.

Caroline smiles warmly up at him, holding her arms out. “I can take those for you. I’ve already got Uncle Ford’s. They should be clean by the time you all get back.”

Stan surrenders his bundle of clothes, giving a hurried nod and a grin he hopes is natural. “Sounds good. Thanks, Carol.”

Caroline smiles brighter and starts her way back down the stairs.

Stan follows, mindful to not jostle his injuries. Having freshened up, he feels a little better than before. Not great, obviously, but good enough that he’s fairly sure he can function as a moderately satisfactory human being for the day. He reaches the living room to find Dipper and Mabel already standing by the front door, warmly dressed and eyes and smiles bright.

In Dipper’s hand he clutches a small journal and a pencil. Guess the kiddo plans to do some journeying, a hobby he’s picked up from Ford. His coat fits him, suits him really, a brown leather jacket with a few Boy Scout badges scattered here and there. For a moment an image of Ford as a little boy flashes in front of Stan’s eyes. Dipper and his brother really were alike in so many ways, it almost hurt. To see in Dipper the boy Stan had failed so many times. Hadn’t been there to keep him safe as he grew into a man.

If Stan had been there, Bill Cipher may never have gotten his claws into his brother. Stan would have seen the demon for what he was: a manipulative con man. A monster. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. But that’s a ‘what if’ Stan and Ford have addressed what feels like a million times since their reconciliation, and while the residual guilt is still a sore spot, Stan’s relieved to say it’s not nearly as deeply rooted as it had once been.

Mabel is also decked out, wrapped up in a puffy pink coat that has a cringey amount of glitter on it. It’s something Stan gets the feeling wasn’t a natural feature of the coat when she bought it. On her back is a backpack, purple, and decorated with so many stickers it looks like a traveling salesman’s luggage, if said salesman was into rainbows, stars, and unicorns.

To Stan’s right, in the living room, Ford is already making himself at home, spreading out countless files and paper reports on the floor. He kneels in an island of clear space, frowning as he scans over his mass collection of printouts. Stan just hopes neither of the household’s pets come stalking in and decide to ruin Ford’s obviously specialized system.

Speaking of which…

“Hey, uh, where’s the pig?” Stan asks, moving to fetch his own coat and slipping it on.

Mabel grins. “Oh, Waddles likes to sleep in. He likes my cozy bed, because it’s a mountain of pillows and blankets!”

“Literally a mountain,” Dipper deadpans.

“Yup! Besides, people here don’t really like Waddles walking around, especially in the stores.”

Stan chuckles. “Heh. Nothing like Gravity Falls, huh?”

“I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could really, truly be compared to Gravity Falls,” Dipper muses.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Stan zips up his coat and gives a single, loud clap of his hands. “So you kids ready, or what?”

“YES!”

“Alrighty then, let’s go!”

Caroline pokes her head out of the hallway as they open the door, calling out in a motherly voice. “Look both ways before crossing the street! And Mabel, sweetie, no taking candy from strangers!”

Stan laughs, hand on the knob. “Aw, come on, the kid’s, like, practically an adult. She—”

“No, no, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper interrupts. “Believe me. Mabel needs reminding.”

“Oh. Okay. Noted.” Stan gestures outside. “Anyway, here we go! See ya, nerd!”

Ford looks up, smiling with a wave. “Goodbye, Stanley! Goodbye, children!”

“Bye!”

“See you, Great-uncle Ford! Bye, mom!”

“See you later, hon!”

And just like that, they are out in the world, out into the beautiful sunlight and the slightly nippy air. Ahead of him, Dipper and Mabel lead the way with joy and excitement, ready for a day with one of their favorite grunkles. In their eyes, this is the perfect outing.

For Stan, being out in the open only serves to remind him of how vulnerable and visible he feels outside the house’s walls. But he can’t turn back, not now.

Despite the warm kiss of sunlight on his face, Stan shivers. Then he steps off the threshold and forward onto the path.

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful day, and that’s even more apparent now that they are outside. Above, the sky exists as a gentle blue void, a few fluffy clouds lazily drifting across the horizon. The sun seems small in the vast Californian stratosphere, but bright, bathing the world below in a kind and pleasant warmth amid the slight winter chill in the air. It’s a nice contrast, and they compliment each other well. The air smells of grass, wet pavement, and a hint of car exhaust, all milled together into the familiar scent of a suburban residential area.

If only Stan could enjoy it.

Despite Rico’s word on giving Stan three days to deliver his brother’s alleged research, Stan feels very uneasy. He’s more than likely being watched, somewhere, somehow, and he’d much have preferred the kids not to be seen with him in public for that very reason.

But…

Well, it was too late now.

Stan lets Dipper and Mabel lead the way. He’s in their territory now, their stomping grounds, and they walk it with confidence, smiles on their faces as they wave to the neighbors as they pass. Stan merely nods, tugging his coat closer around his body as they go, his eyes flitting to and fro, scanning for any sign that they’re being followed. He’s on edge, and only minimally worried about letting it show.

Mabel, of course, is the first to notice. She’s the kind of darling thing who can sense other peoples’ emotions, hones in on them and tries to make them better. So when a small, warm hand slips into his, Stan doesn’t pull away. Instead he glances down at his side, meets Mabel’s worried look with a gentle smile, and manages to get a grip on himself.

He’s no good to any of his family if he lets the paranoia sink in too deep. He’s walked this tightrope before, walked the plank between a brutal end and scooting through by the skin of his teeth. Though, to be fair, this is different. It isn’t just his own life that’s hanging in the balance. There was so much at stake.

Stan takes a deep, shaky breath.

Stop it. Focus. Chances are, we’re not being followed. At least not too closely. Just focus on letting the kids have fun, and then home as soon as possible.

It’s a brittle plan, and one he already knows is doomed to fail, but…

There’s very little else he can do.

They make their way down along the sidewalk, passing the rows of cozy, suburban homes and their neat, square little yards. They do their best to avoid any traffic, crossing where there are lights or stop signs. At some point, Dipper’s fingers manage to slip into Stan’s free hand, giving Stan’s fingers an amiable squeeze. He squeezes back, loving, scared, and fiercely protective, even if Dipper can’t know why—doesn’t even realize. They all make their way along like a trio of misfits, off to see some modern wizard of Oz, Mabel skipping, Stan striding, and Dipper more or less acting as tour guide, with Mabel cutting in every now and then with an interesting—albeit random—fact.

The walk to the park is about a half mile. It’s nice, and normally wouldn’t be an issue for Stan, who prided himself on currently being in considerably good shape for his age. But his ribs still ached, and his breath was stinted from the pain, so by the time they make it onto the grassy green of the community lawn, Stan is both winded and shaky. He hides it well, though, feigning laziness rather than exhaustion as he plops down to sit on one of the many available benches, encouraging Mabel to run off and make some friends.

Mabel does so, prancing off into the fairly large crowd of children playing on the playscape and talking in groups by the picnic tables. There’s a gleam in her eyes, a determination to hunt down the most unique and special of the bunch and earn their trust and friendship. She’ll do it too, of that Stan has no doubt. Mabel’s sixteen, but she’s still got that innocent charm and air about her. Stan hopes she never loses it.

Dipper, for his part, has never been as outgoing as his sister, preferring to spend his time engaged in his own more private interests. Much, again, like Ford at his age. Stan is surprised, however, when Dipper chooses to sit down next to him on the bench, comfortably close, and with a fond smile on his young face.

“Not gonna go play on the swings or something?” Stan asks, somewhat teasingly.

Dipper rolls his eyes, but his grin is wide. Kid’s learned how to take Stan’s jibs in stride. “Nah. It’s not really my thing. Mabel has enough social presence for the both of us.”

“Heh. She certainly does.”

Stan tries to relax a little, sitting back against the bench and coaxing the tension in his muscles to dissipate. His breath evens out a little, as he watches Mabel, the girl already rounding up a posse of her own, a collective of like-minded souls. Beside him, Dipper huffs in amusement before he settles his journal lying open on his lap, flipping through to a blank page and taking a pen out from behind his ear. Stan turns to watch as the kid starts to sketch.

“…You’re getting pretty good at that.”

Dipper startles, one hand going to try and hide the page, like he’s ashamed to let anyone see it. “Huh?! A-At what?” he stutters.

“That.” Stan indicates the evolving drawing with a nod. It’s good. Very good. “You’re not even finished and I can tell what it is. That tree over there, across the street, right?”

Dipper nods, shy. “There’s not really much I can sketch around here, outside of buildings and the occasional bush or tree. People aren’t really my thing, but, I try them too sometimes. Or peoples’ dogs.”

Stan huffs in understanding. “Yeah, I imagine Piedmont doesn’t have much for mythical beasts to inspire your creative side.”

Dipper gives a wry chuckle. “Try none. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. This is home. But Gravity Falls is home in a different way. A special way. If…that makes sense.”

Stan hums. “It does. It’s the same way that the Stan O’War II’s become home, and yet isn’t. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up confused on that boat, thinking I’m back at the Shack. Ford does too, sometimes. To some degree.”

“Huh.” Dipper gazes down at his drawing, contemplative. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you’d taken up drawing, though,” Stan presses gently. “Guess the talent runs in the family.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah, I mean, a little. Just sketching really.” Dipper shrugs. “I’ve always liked drawing, but I wasn’t very good. But if I practice, maybe I’ll get better?”

Stan squints at the sketch, taking in the loose, skilled lines, soft against the slight grain of the paper. He takes in the smooth shapes and appealing style, grunting through his nose in amusement.

“Looks pretty good to me.”

Dipper turns a bit pink in the cheeks. “Pfft. As my great uncle, you are officially biased.” He smiles softly. “But, still…thanks.”

“Mm.” Stan returns the smile, making sure it’s tinted with a bit of a smirk. He leans sideways a little, bumping Dipper’s shoulder with his own. “Moses, you really are a lot like my brother.” Love flares in his heart, so strong it almost hurts. “You’re a good kid.”

“Well, you’re a good grunkle.”

And that’s almost laughable. “Nah, I ain’t that good.”

A good ‘grunkle’ wouldn’t make the same mistakes in life over and over again. He wouldn’t have gotten involved in gangs, in illegal dealings. He wouldn’t have made acquaintances with men like Rico. And he certainly wouldn’t have gotten sucked back in after thirty-something years, cornered by his own stupidity. Controlled by a puppet master who knew that the strings of Stan’s family ties were his only blaring weakness.

No, Stan wasn’t good at all. He had to be the worst great-uncle in the history of great-uncling.

Dipper frowns. “Don’t say that. How many great uncles out there do you think would give literally their all to defeat a dream demon?” There’s a little grim sass in his tone. Like the idea that Stan is anything but amazing is ludicrous. “Not a lot.”

Stan just feels hollow. “Is that a fact?” he murmurs weakly.

“Facts don’t lie.”

What facts the kid is referring to is beyond Stan, but he knows how to pick his battles. At least in this regard. “Huh. Guess they don’t.”

They lapse into a pleasant silence, Stan turning back to watch the kids playing on the park swings and slides. A cool breeze breaks through, tugging at their coats and rustling what’s left of the brittle fall leaves. Somewhere a car is blasting music, the base a dull thrum as it passes a few streets over. In the ball field, some teens play fetch with their dog, while a couple of mothers make use of the paved track to get in some exercise, pushing their baby strollers as they jog.

It really is a nice park. Stan can see why the kids like it.

The ex-conman breathes deeply, letting the chilled air enter his lungs, drags the sweet scent of Californian winter into his chest. He holds it, then releases it slowly. There’s still no sign of Rico’s men. A miracle that Stan can’t help but be both grateful for and suspicious of all at the same time. He’ll have to explain things later. Smooth it over, so that Rico doesn’t think he’s squandering his generous deadline. But that’s a problem for later Stan. Right now, his only defense is his diligence. He keeps a watchful, observant eye on everything, keeping his mind sharp and body ready to take action should something truly happen.

It won’t. He prays it won’t. But…

Just in case.

“…Grunkle Stan?”

Dipper’s sudden question makes Stan jolt the slightest bit, despite that it’s soft and hesitant. There’s a heaviness to Dipper’s voice, enough to settle a cold trickle of dread down Stan’s spine. With a sudden sense of trepidation, the conman sends a side glance back toward his grandnephew.

“Yeah, kid?”

Dipper is studying his pen nervously. “Great-Uncle Ford…told me about what happened at the conference.”

Stan winces, moving his eyes forward again. His hands on his knees curl, fingers bunching up the fabric of his pants. “Oh. He did, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dipper lets his hand holding the pen flop tiredly to the sketchbook. “What…What happened?”

“…Listen, I think Ford already—”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Stan shrugs. “Got into a fight. Not really much more I can say about it. It was stupid. I was stupid. Because of that, I…missed the conference.”

Dipper sighs, setting his pen down completely and looking up at Stan, disproving. “You being there meant a lot to him, you know.”

Stan swallows, keeping his gaze forward. Being chided by a child shouldn’t hurt this much. “I know. Like I said, it was stupid.”

Dipper frowns, an edge of concern slipping in. “Was there anything else?”

Stan blinks, finally turning his head to meet Dipper’s soft, brown eyes. “What you mean?”

“Like…I know you being there for the conference was important to you, too. I know you’re really proud of Great-Uncle Ford, and how far he’s come. How far you’ve both come. And…I just…find it hard to believe that you’d let something as…as simple as a fight get in the way of that.”

Another gentle breeze blows through the park, tossing Stan’s gray hair, tickling it against his forehead. An answer should be easy to come up with. A lie should be an easy thing to dredge up from the bottom of Stan’s time-worn soul…

But Dipper’s right. He’s hit the nail right on the head. Because Stan wouldn’t. He wouldn’t allow something like a simple squabble to possibly ruin what he and Ford were only just getting back. They were finally brothers again. Twins again. Family again. Stan would have never let anything come between him and that audience seat shy of the end of the world…

If Dipper could see that…

Ford was conceding. He had to be. Because if a sixteen year old could see through Stan’s brittle lie, then so could an adult with a thousand alien worlds under his belt.

In his mind, Stan swore. Out loud, he gave a tired snort. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

Dipper’s eyes narrow. “So there was something else.”

“…Yes.” If he can’t lie, he can misdirect. It’s all he has. “But I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Okay?”

“Grunkle Stan—”

“I’m not ready,” Stan repeats, firmer. “When I am, I’ll…I’ll tell all of you. Alright? For right now, you don’t have to worry. Me and Ford already worked everything out last night. We’re okay now. You saw us at breakfast. Did we look like we were still at odds?”

“I…Fine.” Dipper’s expression shifts from annoyance to pure, honest concern. “But you’re okay, right?”

“Me? Sure. Always am.”

“…You and I both know that’s not true.”

Stan chuckles, forcing down the lump in his throat and the sudden urge to do something unmanly. “Maybe. But, if for some reason, I wasn’t okay, you’d at least be able to believe I could handle myself, yeah?”

Dipper does not look reassured. “Yeah…Yeah, I guess so.”

It’s the best Stan can hope for. “Good. So for now, how about we drop it. Right now, things are fine, and I want to enjoy this time with you and your sister.” That is the most genuine truth he’s spoken in the last two days. “You both mean a lot to me.”

Dipper sighs again, closing his eyes and shaking his head fondly. When he opens them, all Stan sees is his grandnephew, a kid he’d give his very life to save.

“You mean a lot to us too, Grunkle Stan.”

They both fall into another, far more companionable silence after that. Dipper continues to draw his tree, while Stan keeps an amused eye on Mabel…while also keeping an eye on their surroundings. But no matter how hard he tries to see something to be suspicious of in the various people milling about, he can’t spot a single one worth his paranoia, which continues to grow the longer they sit out in the open. There’s just him, the laughter of children, the occasional bark of a dog, and the sound of passing traffic toward the main road. Nothing more.

At least as far as he can tell.

And that’s what worries him.

They stay for a good while, and though Stan’s thoughts are almost constantly on Rico, his maturing anxiety making him a restless and twitchy guardian, he still manages to enjoy his time with the kids. In between casting worried glances over his shoulder or scanning the area for any dangerous individuals, of course. It wears on him. And by the time Mabel starts eagerly squawking about moving on with their day, Stan is well and truly ready. He feels hyper aware of everything, which is not the best mix when you’re already exhausted from a bad night of sleep.

From the park they make their way toward the center of town, to a line of small shops and stores, all bustling and cheery, many already decked out for the holidays. Mabel insists on showing Stan some of her favorite craft shops, and he loses track of how many different kinds of glitter he’s shown. Mabel purchases a few supplies, and then they move onward.

Dipper leads the way to an ice cream stand, and Stan gives in to their wide-eyed, pleading stares and buys them each a cone. So it’s dessert before a meal, sue him. They’re his grandniece and nephew, he’s allowed to spoil them. Still, Stan makes a point to tell the kids to keep his splurge a secret. She might not approve of his junk food influence.

Finally, after a fair amount of time moseying in and out of little shops and boutiques, they reach the burger place the kids had mentioned that morning. By then the satisfaction from the ice cream had thoroughly worn off, and even Stan had to admit he was getting hungry. So they make their way inside.

It ends up being a pretty nice restaurant, far exceeding Stan’s expectations. For some reason, he had been anticipating some run of the mill, fast food chain kind of establishment, but this was actually more reminiscent of Greasy’s Diner. Homey, impressionable, cozy, and personable. There were clean, plush booths nestled against smudged windows, with a fine view of the street no matter where you sat. The lighting was slightly dimmed, giving the place atmosphere as warm, stain-glass lamps hung down from the ceiling over each table. There was a long, bar-like counter top with stools spaced along it running the length of the diner, laminated menus available, offering staple diner foods. However, it was more than apparent by the advertising pinned all over the walls that their specialty was burgers.

When they arrive the place is crowded, though not overwhelmingly so. It’s almost exactly noon, so the lunch rush is gearing into full swing and they have to wait a good ten minutes for a table. The diner is filled with the sounds of clinking cutlery and the chatter of people. Most of the customers are either couples or families, painting the restaurant in a pleasant, kid-friendly light. There’s a pretty young waitress a couple tables over, warmly listing off their specials for the day, and the place smells fantastic. Everything permeates with the scent of cooking meat and onions, frying oil, and warm ketchup. It’s heavenly, drifting out from beyond the swinging kitchen doors.

Stan finds the tension in his shoulders easing a little in the lively, bustling environment. It’s…pleasant. Surprisingly so.

They’re shown to their table, a booth, one that Stan is silently grateful to find is in the corner, that way Stan can sit with his back to the wall. From there he can keep an eye on the rest of the restaurant, particularly the doors.

Stan approvingly eyes the stocked metal napkin holder by the window, along with the full salt and pepper shakers, and a bottle of Heinz ketchup. The tabletops are well-scratched from use but recently wiped down, dried so as not to leave them sticky.

By this time, Stan is truly hungry, his meager breakfast long since gone, and while he’s still anxious — Moses, the butterflies in his gut are almost unbearable—his stomach tells his emotions to shove it. He needs food, and with how the mere smell of the diner makes his mouth water, he believes he can keep it down. He’s uneasy, but no longer nauseous.

Barely are they seated when another pretty young waitress makes it to their booth, a pad and pen in hand. She gives them a warm, winning smile, overly bubbly.

“Hello, I hope you are all doing well today. My name is Suzanne, and I’ll be your waitress this afternoon. Is there anything I can get you to drink to start off?”

Mabel beams, already dubbing the kind young woman a friend. “Soda please!” she crows.

The waitress chuckles, amused by the girl’s enthusiasm. “Any particular kind?”

“Nope!”

“She’ll take a sprite,” Dipper expounds on his sister’s behalf. “Can I have a root beer?”

“Absolutely, honey.” While Dipper blushes himself into a puddle, Suzanne turns to Stan. “And you, sir?”

Stan surveys the menu tiredly. After a bad night of sleep and being constantly on edge, his focus is off. The words seem to swim around on the page, making reading difficult. But this is a diner, right? There’s at least one thing that a place like this has got to have.

“Got any coffee?” he tries.

The waitress nods. “Yes, sir.”

Stan ignores Dipper’s confused stare, instead letting the menu settle on the table in front of him and smiling up at the woman. “I’ll have one of those then.”

“Regular or decaf?”

“Regular.”

Suzanne scribbles a quick note on her pad. “Alright. Perfect! I’ll be right back with those and if you’re ready by then I can take your orders.”

Right. He still has to order actual food. “Thanks.”

“No problem, hon. Be back in a few.”

The moment the waitress is gone, Dipper frowns, attention zeroing in on Stan. There’s an inquiry in his eyes, and Stan’s too worn out to play twenty questions.

“…What, kid?”

“I…didn’t think you liked coffee,” Dipper observes. “That’s more Great-Uncle Ford’s thing.”

“Mm. Just need something with a little caffeine. I feel like I’m gonna keel over.” Stan smirks, saying it like it’s a joke and not how he actually feels. “And who’s to say I haven’t gotten a taste for it, huh? Hanging out on a boat with my nerd brother in the middle of the ocean. Habits die hard, and spread like wildfire, as they say.”

Dipper looks nonplussed. “No one says that.”

Stan shrugs. “Anyway, let’s figure out what we’re getting so we don’t keep the pretty lady waiting. You say you’ve been here before, so, what do you suggest, eh?”

And so the subject is easily averted.

True to her word, the young waitress returns about ten minutes later, balancing a tray with two fake glass cups filled to the rim with soda and a steaming mug of hot coffee. She sets each drink in front of their respective persons and then takes out her pad and pen again.

“Alright, are we ready to order?”

Mabel grins, spinning her menu around on the table so she can point the meal out to the woman. “Yes! I’d like to order the AvoCATO Deluxe Burger, please! With extra fries!”

The image she points to is, in essence, a cat-shaped burger bun and patty, slathered in ketchup and aimed to look ‘cute’. It stares out from the laminated paper with unholy emptiness through twin sesame seed eyes.

Suzanne gives her a wink. “You got it, hon.” She takes note, then turns to Dipper and Stan. “And for the two of you?”

“I-I’d like the regular single patty burger, please,” Dipper requests. “Oh, and no onions, if that’s alright.”

“You got it. And you, sir?”

Stan had decided to go with what the kids had suggested, seeing as he really wasn’t in any state of mind currently to make any sort of small scale choices. “I’ll just take the ‘John Wayne’ and fries.”

The waitress jots down the order then beams. “Alright, sounds good. The John Wayne takes about twenty minutes to cook, is that alright?”

Stan shrugs, too tired to care. “Sure.”

“Very good. I’ll be back in a while. If you need anything, just flag me down.”

And with that, the waitress bounces off again, leaving Stan and the two kids alone at their, admittedly, very comfortable table. The kids launch into an animated conversation about some movie they’re looking forward to coming out, Dipper having brought out his sketch book again while they do so. Stan just sits back and listens, nodding and humming every few minutes, even though he’s barely paying attention. In the warmth of the diner, his eye lids have started to feel heavy, and the lull of the kids’ voices makes him feel safe and at home. He fights it, or thinks he does, but his eyes must slip closed at some point because the next thing Stan knows is that he is startling awake, something gently having brushed his arm.

“Gah!”

“Sorry!” Dipper apologizes, just as spooked, hands held up, placating. “Sorry, I just—”

Stan places a hand over his heart, breathing deeply as he tries to convince his stomach that he didn’t just fall off a metaphorical cliff. “J-Jeez, kid! Gah, shoot…I’m fine, it’s okay, I’m fine. Just, caught me off guard is all.”

Dipper nods, resettling. “You fell asleep,” he explains. “I…wasn’t sure whether we should wake you or…”

“Nah, you did the right thing,” Stan agrees, mourning the loss of a chance to rest. Then again, the last place he’d like to take a nap is in public. Especially considering his situation.

Mabel cocks her head, worry dampening that beautiful smile of hers. “You really didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?”

Stan shrugs. “Eh. It is what it is. Still get to enjoy the day with you two, though, so I see it as a win-win. I’ll sleep better tonight. Guaranteed.”

“You can always barrow Waddles,” Mabel offers. “He’s an excellent snuggle buddy.”

“Ah. Yes. Because a pig in my bed is a sure cure for insomnia,” Stan deadpans. He sighs. “No, I think I’ll be worn out enough from being out and about that I’ll just drop off naturally. No need for…extreme measures, Pumpkin.”

Dipper opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the return of their waitress.

“Alright, here we go! An AvoCATo Deluxe, Regular Burger, and a John Wayne.”

“Thank you!”

“Thanks!”

Stan accepts his meal gratefully. “Yeah, thanks, this looks good.”

Suzanne looks pleased. “You enjoy, and, again, if you need me just flag me down.” When they all nod in thanks, she scampers off to another table.

“She deserves a big tip,” Mabel chirps, approving. She’s already wrapping her fingers around that cat-burger monstrosity, ketchup oozing from the side like some gory horror picture.

Stan huffs, turning to his own lunch. “What’s the tipping percentage these days, again?”

“Fifteen percent for average tip,” Dipper supplies. “Twenty if the service was above average.”

Stan grumbles, but doesn’t refute the standard. He takes a bite out of his burger and melts in his seat at how good it tastes. It’s quite the meal, a thick burger topped with BBQ sauce, onion rings, cheddar cheese, and bacon. Basically a heart attack in food style, but it’s okay, he’s been good. He’s allowed to cheat every now and then. Ford and his healthy smoked fish and seaweed salad diet could go fly a kite for all Stan cared.

Now fully awake, Stan actually listens as Dipper and Mabel regale him with stories around each bite of their burgers. Some of it is a repeat from the night before, but in all honesty Stan doesn’t mind. He’s just happy to be with them.

And so it goes. They make quick order of the food, Dipper taking a fair bit longer while they wait. Stan orders a second cup of coffee, a last ditch effort to stay awake. With his stomach finally full, that heavy feeling is back, beckoning him to close his eyes. But he’s not doing that again. Not when it leaves the kids un-watched and unprotected.

Another gentle touch on his arm makes Stan look up, and thankfully he doesn’t startle this time. His eyes meet Mabel’s, the girl giving him a loving, but also slightly concerned expression.

“I know you said you’re just tired, Grunkle Stan, she says kindly. “But…you look really distracted. We’ve been talking a lot, but maybe you have something you want to say? Like, if something’s on your mind? We can be good listeners too.”

Beside her, Dipper sends Stan a pointed, but open, glance. An invitation. A ‘the ball’s in your court now’ kind of look.

And see, that’s just what Stan means. These kids…they’re really something. They’re smart. Smarter than kids their age have any right being. And, more than that, they love. And loved Stan, of all people. He’s trying his best to act all normal, but he’s low on sleep and he’s scared, and he’s shaken and—

He can’t just keep brushing them off. That’s just not gonna fly for much longer. And he certainly can’t tell them the truth. But what he can do is come up with a better excuse. It doesn’t have to be anything ornate or complicated. And it doesn’t even have to entirely fool them. It just has to be enough that he can talk and they can listen. Enough so that he can pass the time until he can jump to another subject.

Then again…

Stan blinks, a sudden idea forming.

Huh.

Wow. He really was desperate.

“Can I…run something past you two?” he asks, choosing his words carefully.

Dipper looks surprised. “Uh…sure?”

Whereas Mabel is much more delighted. “Absolutely! Whatever it is, hit us with it, Grunkle Stan!”

“Okay, uh.” Stan takes a breath, lies forming on his tongue, knitting themselves into existence like a familiar art. “So, I’m reading this book, okay, and—”

“You read?”

Dipper probably didn’t mean it how the question came out, but regardless Stan sends the boy an indignant glare. Thankfully, Mabel once again saves their sinking ship of a conversation.

“Gasp! Are you becoming a nerd, too?!”

“What? No! I—“ Stan shakes his head. Focus. “Look, it gets boring when you’re out at sea, in between all the monster punching and map following, there’s a lot of dead air. So, I’ve been taking up a few hobbies. And it ain’t nerd books, either. More the story kind.”

It’s not a complete falsehood. Stan has picked up a few books here and there. Mostly stuff about pirates or monsters. Things he’d read as a child and had since nearly forgotten. It made this whole charade the smallest bit less like he was digging his own grave.

“Okay…” Dipper says slowly.

“Oooh, is it a romance?”

“No.” Stan finds himself very adamant about that. No way is he leading his kiddos to believe he’s reading love stories out at sea. He has an image to maintain. “No, it is not. It’s…It’s about a man who, uh. Gets into trouble.”

Dipper’s eyes narrow. “…Go on.”

“It’s a—a space novel! And this astronaut used to be a space marauder, in with a gang of really…bad…um, aliens.”

How has he gotten this bad at lying? He used to do this for a living.

“Oh! Oh!” Mabel, at least, is buying it. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Was he ruggedly handsome?”

Stan chuckles. “I’d guess so. I mean, the author said he was, so maybe.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, this guy, he left the criminal life a long time ago, settled down, had a family. All that stuff. He ended up real happy.”

“This is sooo good!” Mabel coos and leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her palms with a dreamy look in her eyes.

Dipper cocks his head, thinking. “But I take it that things don’t stay happy. There has to be conflict to progress the plot.”

“Well, you’d be right there,” Stan chuckles, impressed. He’s also relieved, seeing the suspicion fade from his grandnephew’s gaze. “His old buddies, the bad ones, they come looking for him. Corner him, and demand that he pull one last job for them. If he don’t do what they ask, they’re…they’re gonna hurt him. And hurt his family, too.”

“That’s awful!” Mabel cries dramatically. Somewhere in the diner some poor waitress drops a plate, taken off guard by the exclamation.

Stan winces. “It really is. But, uh, that’s as far as I’ve gotten in the story. And my book’s back on the boat, so. Guess my mind kind of keeps wandering back to it, wondering what the poor sap’s gonna do to get out of that whole mess.” Stan takes a sip of his coffee, aiming for nonchalant. “Hey. If it was one of you two, how do you think you’d handle things?”

Mabel’s eyes sparkle, and Stan instantly regrets asking.

“I’d hire an army of sparkly spy fuzzles to secretly find out all of the bad guys deepest wishes and desires! Then I would offer them all everything they’ve ever wanted, plus hugs! They’d be so happy, they’d change all of their nasty ways and become good! Then they’d leave the astronaut and his family alone, and they’d all live happily ever after!”

“…Uh, Pumpkin, that’s…Heh. I don’t think it’s that kind of a story.” Stan almost wishes it were, in a desperate, twisted sort of way.

Mabel shrugs, grinning. “I know. I just wanted an excuse to say fuzzles.”

“Ah. Well…thanks for the feedback, Sweetie.”

Stan turns his gaze to Dipper. The boy is staring down at his sketchbook, obviously putting more serious thought into the supposed scenario.

“What about you, kid?”

Dipper hums. “Well, I guess, if I were him, I’d try to find a way around what the bad guys want. What they’re doing is wrong. They deserve to be exposed.”

Easier said than done.

But an interesting point.

“How so?” Stan asks. “I mean, how do you turn something like that around? Remember, if he makes a move the bad guys don’t like, that’s the end. Things won’t be pretty.”

Dipper concentrates. “But he used to be one of them, right? He must know how they think, how they go about the things they do. Maybe he’ll use that to his advantage. He can make it look like he’s following along, but in reality he’s setting them up.” Dipper pauses, then adds. “He’d need some outside help though. Someone he trusts. Like a space cop or something. Someone who could step in where he can’t.”

A very interesting point, actually.

And Dipper was right. Stan did know how Rico’s whole operation worked. In fact, now that Stan could remember, he knew a lot more than he is sure Rico would be comfortable with him knowing. Granted, that was assuming that nothing had changed in the last few decades. But Rico had always been a creature of habit. He might have adjusted a few protocols here and there, but the backbone of the organization was probably the same basic structure. Stan could use that.

And as for outside help…

He couldn’t go to the police. Rico would catch on in a second, and there would go any hope of Stan getting out of this alive. Ford was also off the table. As were the kids, Roy and Caroline, and…

Wait.

Wait…

Oh, now that was an idea.

A little spark of a plan blooms in Stan’s mind, and he mentally cradles it. It’s a fragile, desperate little thing, but it’s a possibility. A complicated one, but there all the same. He just has to figure out a way to make it work.

“That’s…pretty good,” Stan replies slowly. “Heh. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Dipper shrugs. “What’s the name of the book? It sounds pretty good.”

Stan nearly chokes on his own spit. “Uh—I…I can’t remember. Something…something in the dark, maybe. Dunno. Not really a book name kind of guy.”

Dipper looks confused, but again Mabel saves the day. She folds her arms over her chest and flops back against the booth, pouting.

“I still think adding in some fuzzles would really jazz things up.”

Dipper makes an exasperated noise. “Mabel, what even is a fuzzle?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

Stan can’t help but laugh, long and hard and genuine. All while his mind finally kicks into gear. Sleepiness abandons him and adrenaline pumps through his every vein. Hope flickers to life in his chest.

Finally, he might have a plan.

Chapter Text

It is dark and quiet in the Pines household.

Almost too quiet.

Stan is used to the creaking of timber, the splash of waves against hull, and the occasional shrill cry of a seagull. Even the Mystery Shack hadn’t been completely silent, with moans and groans of its own, the patter of creatures in the forest scurrying around, the hum of Ford’s wards and safety spells. But here, in the admittedly nice but very new house, there isn’t so much as a peep. The world beyond almost seems muffled, like the thick carpets and sturdy walls suck all sound from the air, leaving a burdensome, noiseless void. With no happy voices to fill it, no laughter or familial chaos, it feels silent as the grave.

It’s getting fairly late now, well past midnight, and exhaustion tugs at Stan’s heavy eyelids, but he fights with every fiber of his being to remain awake. He puts all of his energy into lying utterly still in bed, on his side, staring fixedly at the wall and waiting for the brother at his back to fall asleep.

They’d had a busy day, Ford finally making good on his promise to join Stan and the kids out on the town. They’d visited a local museum and planetarium, as well as gone out to eat again at that burger place. The kids had loved every moment of it, and Ford had looked so incredibly happy it had made Stan’s heart ache. It had been really nice, and Stan had felt the slightest bit safer with Ford with them than he had felt watching the kids alone. His paranoia had still been present, but having someone as formidable as his brother at his side at least gave them a fighting chance if things went sour.

It never did. Despite Stan’s vigilance, he saw neither hide nor hair of Rico’s lackeys. Yeah, he was probably a little out of practice, and yes, Stan didn’t know everyone on Rico’s payroll anymore, but what he did have was street sense. The instincts of a man who had grown older among thieves and snakes. And no matter who Stan scrutinized as they were out and about, no one stood out to him as dangerous. And that was…odd. Good, but odd. Maybe Rico figured fear for his family would keep Stan in line, that he didn’t need to be monitored as closely. He was ‘getting old’ by most people’s standards, perhaps Rico didn’t think Stan could get away with much. It was unlikely, but possible.

But that was hardly the issue.

Rico had given Stan three days to come up with some sort of knowledge regarding Stanford’s research. Three days to try and dig up something that Stan was only growing more and more convinced didn’t exist. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d grilled the kids, as inconspicuously as he could. He’d even asked Dipper where he could find a copy of Ford’s article, with the hope of maybe figuring out what had led Rico’s employer to be so sure that Ford had secrets they wanted. He’d stayed up all night reading it, searching for even the slightest clue.

No dice.

Half the stuff Stan didn’t even understand. It was all dull, dry scientific jargon, full of big fancy words and animal names in Latin. But Stan hadn’t needed to understand what his brother had written to know that it wasn’t what he was looking for. There was nothing there, nothing of use, nothing that could have possibly tipped someone off that Ford was some secret agent-type scientist with knowledge to be had. It was all exactly as Stan had said, public knowledge mixed with fistfuls of Ford’s creative theories and research. None of which he had ever hidden from the world at large.

Stan had given up, tossing the article aside with a groan of despair.

Time had begun to slip away from him after that, like sand through his shaking fingers. Desperation rose, a little higher every hour that passed, and worse yet was he couldn’t completely hide it. He paced, he fidgeted, he mumbled, he bounced his leg under the dinner table. His family was starting to notice, and that was bad, but there really wasn’t anything Stan could do about it. The noose of time was slowly closing around his neck, and he was determined not to take his family down with him. He’d do anything to keep them safe. Anything.

Before Stan knew it, it was the evening of the second day, and he was no closer to coming up with a plan than he had been while tied up in Rico’s hideout. Every tick of the clock was a death march singing his song, matching the frantic beat of his own heart.

And so, that left one final, desperate idea to be tried.

Ford’s soft snore catches Stan off guard, making him flinch out of his spiraling thoughts. Mindful of the bed springs, Stan carefully turns to look over his shoulder, finding his brother finally —finally—fast asleep. Ford lays there, on his back but head facing Stan, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. The nerd isn’t even under the covers, laying on top like the lovable weirdo he is. His chest rises and falls gently, deep and definitely steeped in real, genuine slumber.

Stan breathes a sigh of relief. He’d wondered, earlier, if he’d tipped his hand, having finally reached the end of his rope enough to ask Ford questions outright.

. . . . . . .

It had been the first time the brothers had been alone together since that first night. Stan’s mind had been a whirlwind of fears and uncertainty. Rico had fixed himself to all of Stan’s thoughts like a disease, like a wound festering deep in his soul and mind.

“…Hey, Ford?”

“Yes?”

There had been no natural way to go about it. “Um. Weird question, but…you ever, uh, work for the government?”

Ford had paused in what he’d been doing, staring down at his notes before finally looking over, expression pinched in confusion. “….I…What?”

Stan had shrugged. “Did you ever work for the government? Just wondering.”

“Stanley,” Ford had said slowly. “You know perfectly well that I am not for that sort of thing. Other than one particular commission I took in college—”

“The mind-control tie,” Stan had guessed.

“…Yes. Other than that I have tried to keep my distance. Governments can be corrupted. They shift and change as one person is elected and another is discharged. One can never be sure if the services they are offering will be used for something good or something distasteful. Not to mention that, in later years, the government was rather a hindrance to my research, as you well know.”

Stan had chuckled, recalling his own issues with the feds. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He’d turned back to getting dressed for bed, but Ford’s voice had stopped him.

“…Stanley?”

“Mm?”

“What brought this on?”

“Brought what on?”

“This.” Ford had gestured between them. “This conversation. Not to mention that you’ve been awfully flighty lately. Are you doing alright?”

Stan had shrugged again. “I’m fine. And no reason. Like I said, just wondering. I was thinking back on some old memories. I was more the one who always wanted to play spies as a kid. Surprised I didn’t become one. Not that they’d take high school dropouts.”

“Stanley—”

“Still, I mean, of the two of us, you really did end up living that sci-fi fantasy life we used to dream about. My brother, the inter-dimensional space outlaw.”

Ford had snorted. “And my brother…the hero.” He’d smiled then, warm and bright. Proud. “Guess we both turned out to be more than our father ever deemed us worthy to be. He could have had so much more influence on us than he did if he’d only cared enough.”

“Yeah. Well, all I can say is his loss.”

“Agreed.”

Ford had nodded. And that had been the end of the conversation.

. . . . . . . . .

Stan takes another shaky breath, murmuring to himself soft and low. “Alright…Here we go.”

Carefully, pausing multiple times when his movements prompt Ford to stir slightly in his sleep, Stan manages to sit up. Another few agonizingly slow moments later and he has his legs free of the sheets and swung over the edge of the mattress. He bites his lip as he eases off, wincing as one of the bed springs twangs despite his extreme care. He freezes, but a glance behind him shows that Ford is still sound asleep, laying on his side now, facing away from him. His breath barely even hitches.

Ford really has come a long way. Stan can remember a time when the slightest sound or movement in the night had his brother springing to full alert, hand on his blaster and eyes wide and haunted. Stan had hated that look. But now, despite Stan’s apparently terrible stealth skills, Ford slumbers on, peaceful and safe.

Stan sighs and glances at the window, taking in the gray clouds that are gathered around and obscuring the moon. Not the best conditions for pulling this off, but beggars certainly couldn’t be choosers.

Resigning himself, Stan pushes onward.

He’s mostly already dressed, seeing as he’d opted for sleeping in a t-shirt and slacks, all according to his plan. Ford hadn’t questioned it. He couldn’t judge anyone on their sleeping attire, and rarely cared. Unless Stan was particularly in desperate need of a shower.

It’s easy making his way across the room; the house too new to have loose boards, and even the door as he carefully pulls it open makes hardly a sound. Finally feeling like he’s getting the hang of things, Stan slips out into the hall with a single, smooth movement, pulling the door closed behind him. It latches quietly, and Stan stands there a moment, ear pressed to the wood, listening just in case. Nothing. Not so much as a murmur.

Satisfied, Stan straightens back up with a nod of approval, before he turns around to head for the stairs—

—and almost jumps right out of his skin.

“Moses—!”

Stan bites down on a muffled yelp of surprise, nearly stumbling back against the door of the bedroom. He claps a hand to his chest, heart pounding hard beneath it, and closes his eyes as he takes a steadying breath through his nose. After a moment he reopens them to glare down at the animal gazing up at him with innocent, beady eyes that seem to pierce into Stan’s very soul.

“Waddles,” Stan murmurs accusingly.

The pig cocks his head, one ear flopping over as he gives Stan a soft snort, but otherwise gives no reaction to Stan’s annoyance, nor to his somewhat haggard appearance. Gathering himself, Stan holds a finger to his mouth, signaling the animal to stay quiet as he gingerly slips past, hoping the porcine pet won’t follow.

“M’just goin’ for a ride, don’t worry,” Stan whispers, eyes already fixing on the stairs. Waddles seems to track Stan’s gaze, putting two and two together in that tiny piggy brain of his. “Be back before ya know it. Hold the fort down for me until then, okay?”

Waddles frowns, as much as a pig can, as Stan steadily makes his way to the staircase, hand landing on the rail. Waddles glances between the retreating old man and the closed door where Ford remains undisturbed, giving a soft whine that Stan is quick to discourage.

“Shhh. Stay. Be a good pig.”

Another questioning grunt and Stan leaves a sorrowful looking Waddles behind, easing himself down the stairs, one carpeted step at a time.

On the first floor, the house is just as dark and quiet as it had been upstairs. The rooms and halls are bathed in a gentle blue shadow, highlighted in dim white wherever the congested moonlight manages to break through the window curtains.

Stan steps down from the final stair, pausing at the base to breathe a silent sigh of relief, hand still on the rail, gripping it tight in shaking fingers.

Not for the first or last time, he’s tempted to head back up to bed, but the fact remains that he can’t afford to wait any longer. He needs help, and his options are drastically limited. Time is running out, closing in on him like a noose around his neck, and he’s got nothing left to grasp for.

Nothing but Dipper’s disguised solution from the day before.

“But he used to be one of them, right? He must know how they think, how they go about the things they do. Maybe he’ll use that to his advantage. He can make it look like he’s following along, but in reality he’s setting them up. He’d need some outside help, though. Someone he trusts. Like a space cop or something. Someone who could step in where he can’t.”

Well, ‘space cops’ were off the table. The only one Stan could even think of who even marginally matched that description was Blendin, and that guy drove Stan up a wall every time they had the misfortune to meet—which was rare. The futuristic pain in the neck was more trouble than asking him for aid was worth, not to mention Stan had no idea how to contact him.

But Dipper’s general idea was sound. Stan needed someone with standing, someone with more power than he currently had, without being part of the authorities or anyone Rico would see as a threat. At first, the only other person Stan could think of was Fiddleford, but in the end brushed the idea aside. The old inventor was doing better these days, but he was still unpredictable at best, downright kooky at worst. No, Stan needed a more stable ally.

Stan needed someone smart.

Someone understanding.

Someone who knew Ford, and who might be able to offer help.

Someone, Stan had realized, like Alistair Brewster.

Stan glances at the clock on the wall above the television, hand tightening on the rail as he reads the time. It’s a little after eleven. If he gets going now he can make it to Fresno in about three hours —sooner if he pushes the speed limit a little. Stan still has Alistair’s business card, and by extension his address. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, and if all goes well Stan could be back on the road by four. He could make it back to Piedmont before anyone even knew he’d left.

If everything went well.

And if he got going right now.

Stan licks his dry lips, eyes flitting to the keys in the small dish on the hallway table. There’s really no way this will end well, because he’s never had good luck when it came to such things. Worst case scenario, people were going to know he left. His family was going to know. Ford was going to know.

But, somehow, in relation to everything else on his plate, Stan has to admit that’s not really the first thing on his worry list.

Taking another breath and mentally chasing away his anxieties, Stan moves closer to the hallway table. His hand flexes nervously, gaze flitting up the stairs then back to the innocently available keys. Swallowing any lingering doubts, Stan reaches forward, scooping the keys out of the bowl as quietly as he can. They’re cold to the touch, heavy in his grip.

Ugh. This is such a bad idea.

Getting outside is easy enough. Stan’s had to bust his way through plenty of doors back in the day, and it’s so much easier when all he has to do is slide the latch and turn the knob. He does so gingerly, all the whiling trying to convince himself this is all necessary.

If his family knew what he was dealing with, they’d understand. If they knew, they’d know he had no other choice. Rico had left him with no other options, and even now Stan isn’t sure he’s not walking right into his old boss’s hands. But desperation is a powerful drive, giving Stan that final courage and determination needed to step out of his family’s front door.

It’s freezing out, colder than it usually is in California in the winter, especially in the city. The moon is visible, and though Stan can’t see them with the glow of the city he knows the stars are twinkling high up above. It’s chilly enough that he can see his own breath, soft puffs of gray among the blue of night, and in the glow of the moon. It’s only then that Stan realizes he forgot his coat, before abandoning the notion of going back for it.

He’d dealt with worse conditions without an extra layer of clothing. He’d be fine.

Roy’s car is parked by the curb. It’s nothing as elaborate or elegant as Stan’s own car back home, but that’s good. It’s easier to stay off peoples’ radar when you don’t stand out. Stan unlocks the vehicle with a deft turn if the keys and opens the door as quietly as he can. The steering wheel feels like ice against his fingers as he slips inside, and the seat is equally frigid. The car smells of paperwork and those little pine tree air fresheners that dangle from the mirror. Closing the door soundlessly is a little tricky, and even once it’s closed Stan isn’t sure he put enough force behind it to have done so properly. But that doesn’t matter. He can always re-close it a little down the road, when it’s less likely to wake any of his family.

Stan sits for a moment after coaxing the engine to life. Exhaust rises around the exterior in the cold, the hum of the motor tickling at the joints of Stan’s bones. The reality of what he’s truly doing sinks in a little deeper, and Stan has to wrestle the urge to turn back yet again.

“Moses, what am I doing…” Stan whispers to himself, and he grits his teeth as he shifts the car into gear.

Ten minutes later and he’s on the freeway, hands tight on the steering wheel and the safety of his family’s home behind him.

The drive feels unbearably long. After the first hour Stan’s eyes start to feel heavy and sticky, blinks getting longer and longer, and he resorts to blasting the radio in an effort to stay awake. It helps a little.

The roads are, thankfully, pretty much empty, only the occasional late night traveler or semi truck joining Stan in his journey. The second hour is rough, but the third gets easier, all the while Stan trying to keep an eye out in case he’s being followed.

He’s fairly sure Rico will find out about his little trip. Among the dark underbelly of the business world, the man was a god. He had ears and eyes everywhere, and Stan would have to be a fool to think he could pull this off without being found out. But that didn’t spell his doom. He had a rehearsed explanation, one that Rico would either buy or suspect, but that would balance the scales enough that his past employer wouldn’t throw in the metaphorical towel. It was toeing the line, to be sure, but Stan could deal with the consequences, if he played his cards right.

Still. He tried his best to keep watch behind him in the rear view mirror, scanning for any sign of being tailed. And, so far, the way seemed clear.

Finally, the exit for Fresno loomed before Stan, and he turned to follow the ramp down into the major, populous city.

Fresno, California was not a place Stan was familiar with. Back in the day, when he’d been dodging both the authorities and his more dangerous associates, Stan had done his best to skim around the bigger metropolises, knowing it was better to remain off the map, ghosting the outer rims of society. Because of this, Fresno had never really been an option. Now, as Stan drives into the heart of downtown, he’s somewhat overwhelmed by the instinct to hide in the shadows. Old habits die hard, even after so many years.

Roy doesn’t keep maps in his car, and Stan has no idea how to work the GPS sitting below the dashboard, so he has to resort to stopping and asking directions at least twice, at any open public establishment he can find, usually gas stations. But, after what feels like an eternity of frustration and anxiety, Stan finally finds himself rumbling down a somewhat remote road on the outskirts of Fresno, heading toward a large estate surrounded in well kept lawns. As he nears the gate, his headlights display the signage mounted beside the house number on one of the brick pillars of the perimeter wall.

Brewster Hall.

It’s three-thirty. A little later than Stan would have liked, and that sets him on edge. He pulls off the road a little, mindful of the ditch, and parks Roy’s car, making sure to remember to turn of the headlights. The moon supplies enough light for Stan to exit the vehicle and make his way toward the entree gate.

It’s a fancy place, no denying that; great stone walls with brick trim and marbled posts. Too high to be climbed safely, not that he’d try it. At the entrance tower two stone lions with wings and beaks— ‘griffins’ Ford’s voice supplies in Stan’s head - their faces turned outward as though to glare at all who dared come near with fierce eyes and lowered brows.

Not particularly welcoming.

The gate, unsurprisingly, is locked, but that doesn’t stop Stan from getting in. All it takes is a few minutes of patience and steady hands. He manages to pick the lock, the great iron grating swinging open with a forlorn creak.

“S’like somethin’ out of a horror film,” Stan mumbles uneasily. He glances behind him at the long, empty driveway before turning forward and slipping through.

It’s a brief walk across the circular path and garden before Stan finds himself at the front of the mansion. Because that’s exactly what it is, a mansion. It’s huge, a great hulking edifice in the moonlight, big and beautiful, elegant and rich. The kind of place that probably offered tours on weekends during the summer. The doorway alone is an impressive work of craftsmanship, built in Roman Catholic style, full of grace and intricate detail.

Here, Stan pauses yet again. But only for a moment, before he reaches out and finds the doorbell, giving it a long and insistent push. Then, he takes a step back and waits.

The wind kicks up a bit, cold and bitter in the dead of night. It brushes against Stan’s clothes, drags across his hands and neck, making him shiver as he waits, tugging his coat closer to his frame. Time passes, second by second, moment by moment. Long enough that Stan begins to wonder if he should try the doorbell again, but then a light snaps on in the little window above the double doors, warped and beautiful through the crystal. There’s a muffled shout from within, slurred by sleep and confusion. A moment later and Stan can hear someone unlatching the lock, rattling and turning, and then like a blessed miracle the door slowly opens inward.

Alistair Brewster appears, eyes still hazy with slumber, hair unkempt and frame draped in a robe thrown over his bedclothes. It’s a far cry from the elegant gentleman who had shown Stan and Ford around Pasadena, though Stan supposes he probably doesn’t look so put together himself. It’s the middle of the night. Any sane person would be fast asleep.

Stan feels a twinge of guilt at having disturbed his brother’s friend at such an ungodly hour.

Alistair squints into the relative darkness, only holding the door open enough to peer out, tired but growing increasingly more alert. Stan blinks, eyes sensitive to the sudden light blaring out at him from the indoors. Alistair blinks in turn, before his eyes widen just a bit.

“…Stanford?” He opens the door a little wider, casting the rest of Stan in the warm glow. “No… No, you’re Stanley. Stanley, what are you doing out here at this time of night?” He frowns. “And I thought you and Stanford were up in Piedmont.”

Stan gives a tired chuckle, “H-Heh. It’s…kind of a long story.” His voice sounds terrible, rusty and weak from exhaustion and three hours of desperately trying not to swerve off the road. “Sorry to wake you up like this, but I—”

“No, no,” Alistair insists, the last bit of sleepiness gone in an instant. He throws the door all the way open, reaching out with a kind, concerned expression to urge Stan across the threshold. “Please, come in. You’ll catch your death of cold out there dressed like that, without a coat. Come in and I’ll make us some tea. Then you can tell me what you’ve come here for, eh?”

Stan breathes a weary ‘thank you’ as he’s ushered inside, Alistair closing the door behind him while Stan steps forward, still hugging himself for warmth and glancing about at his new surroundings.

He’s in some sort of entree hall, a circular room with a door on each end and a staircase winding up the middle. It’s all smooth marble tile and white walls with elegant fixtures and a small chandelier. It’s warm inside, though not as warm as Stan would have liked. The chill outside seems to have sunk into his very bones.

Stan vaguely hears the door latch being locked back in place behind him, Alistair still speaking at his back.

“I really must say I wasn’t expecting to see anyone at this time of night. You must excuse my appearance, and I regret that all of my staff have gone home for the night, so it may take me a moment or two to navigate the kitchen.”

Alistair steps down from the door and lays a comforting hand on Stan’s arm. “Why don’t you head into the library and get yourself warmed by the fire. It’s the door to your left. I’ll join you once I get something hot for us to sip.”

Stan nods numbly, a little overwhelmed by the man’s hospitality. Alistair beams, giving Stan’s shoulder a pat before he strides off toward, what Stan can only assume is the direction of the kitchen, leaving Stan to traverse the entree way and make his way toward the indicated door. It’s a heavy oaken thing, intricately carved, laced with bronze and silver inlets. Stan gives it a tired but appreciative glance as he pushes against it, carefully forcing it open before he slips through.

He finds himself in a large, tall room, mostly dark but for the blazing fireplace at the farthest end from the door. Large windows stretch along one side, from floor to ceiling, heavy drapes drawn, leaving the glass completely obscured. Stan steps all the way through, allowing the heavy door to slowly swing closed behind him. He pays it no mind, fully enraptured by the space before him.

It reminds him—embarrassingly— a little of that scene from that movie Mabel liked so much and forced him to watch. The one with the girl who ends up stuck in an enchanted castle with a beast, falling slowly in love with her captor. Not exactly Stan’s film genre preference, but it hadn’t been bad, and he’d appreciated the story as a whole. But this room before him now reminds Stan of that one scene when the beast is starting to weaken against the girl’s charm, presenting her with the gift of an entire room full of books.

This is undoubtedly a private library, walls lined with lacework wood trimmed shelves and row after row of well dusted tomes. It’s a mottled quilt of mustard yellow and crimson bindings, with a few spruce green thrown in here and there. A ladder leads up to a small balcony within the room that too is lined with shelves and stocked with books. The floor is polished wood — dark wood, maybe cherry? Mahogany? It’s nice whatever it is. Fairly new, too, by the looks of it. Not a scratch to be seen. A red and gold Persian rug holds place in front of an overly ornate, marble fireplace, around which sits a tall upholstered chair and a side table.

And to top it all off, above the fireplace hangs perhaps the largest painting Stan has ever seen. He marvels at it, slightly awestruck by the vibrant and stunning masterpiece. It’s of a woman - not a modern one - in a long, frilly dress. One arm is draped with a bundle of flowers spilling over her arm while the other is reaching out to a park bench as though she were tired of walking and only just barely making it to sit down before she collapses. She wears a large brimmed hat with ribbons, and dainty, little, black shoes, all of which are captured with impressive detail. She limps forward along a brown dirt path, trees and park trails smudged in the background. On the bench, what looks like a dove or pigeon is stretching its wings.

All in all, it’s a lot to take in. An impressive show of wealth and decor. Alistair has obviously done very well for himself.

Stan lets out a low whistle, arms finally dropping to his sides. He takes a step, then another, before finally making his way toward the pleasant glow of the fireplace. Stan eyes the high backed chair, considering taking a seat, but decides to stand. If he sits he might not be able to keep himself from getting too comfortable and falling asleep. So he finds himself just standing there, warming his old bones as he exists awkwardly on the handwoven Persian carpet, letting his eyes continue to wander over the ornate library.

He finds his attention drawn back to the painting over the mantel, how the low light glitters along the gold frame, and licks ever so gently across the canvas. Stan would never admit to being an art lover, but he could occasionally find a piece that touched him in some profound way or other. This one was unique and beautiful, the woman mesmerizing in her simplistic charm and loveliness. He finds himself staring into her soft, kind eyes, captured by her gaze. Time seems to slip away, leaving little else.

God, he was tired.

“Do you like it?”

Alistair’s sudden appearance at Stan’s side startles him badly, the ex conman turning around with a jolt to find his host smiling fondly up at the painting himself, a shy and appreciative look on his face. In his hands is a tray, expertly balancing a steaming china teapot and two sets of cups and saucers, along with what Stan can only assume is little vessels of cream and sugar.

Stan chokes back his surprise, stuttering out an inelegant, “Wh-What?”

Alistair nods upward. “The painting. It’s rather impressive, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” Stan says dumbly. “O-Oh, yeah, it’s, um…It’s….pretty? Very….paintery…esque…ish.” Stan internally winces at his own clear lack of artistic vocabulary, but Alistair doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Mhm,” the man agrees, setting the tray down on the nearest flat surface. All the while his gaze on the painting rather than Stanley. “It’s called ‘Afternoon in the Park’, painted by Alfred Émile Léopold Stevens, a Belgian artist, in the year 1885. You could say that he had an eye for capturing the delicate grace of the modern women of his time. A master of oil and canvas, a true captor of the romantic age.”

“Huh…yeah. It’s pretty good.” Then Stan frowns and shakes his head to clear his thoughts, turning to the other man fully. “Hey, uh, listen. I’m sorry about coming here like this, but I really need to talk to you about…something. Something important.”

Alistair nods, sinking gracefully into his antique chair. He gestures to the nearby ottoman for Stanley to claim. “Of course. Please, have a seat. Do you take cream and sugar in your tea?”

Stan doesn’t care much for tea, but he’ll drink anything warm right now. Stan nods, silently hoping his host will slip up and dump in the whole thing of sugar into the nasty, tasteless leaf water.

Alistair pours him a cup, expertly drops in some sugar and cream, and then hands it to Stan, saucer and all.

“Thanks,” Stan says.

“But of course. Nothing like a spot of tea to chase away a cold winter chill.” He takes a sit of his own cup and hums appreciatively. “Mmm. Now, Stanley, why don’t you tell me what brings you to my doorstep so late at night. Is something wrong?Are you and Stanford alright?”

The sound that forces its way out of Stan’s throat is too shaky and unsteady to be a laugh, too breathy and fake. Alistair’s brows raise in concern and Stan quickly shuts his mouth, swallowing down that stressed, high strung urge.

Stan runs a hand through his hair, balancing his teacup on his knee. “I…I really don’t know how to go about saying this.”

Alistair cocks his head, acknowledging. “Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning?”

Easier said than done.

“Right…“ Stan takes a deep breath. “Right, yeah. So, uh. You know the conference?”

“From last week?” Alistair nods. “Yes.”

“And you know how…I wasn’t there? For Ford’s speech, I mean.”

Alistair frowns, uncertain in where Stan is going with this. “…Yes?”

Stan nods stiffly. “Well, see, I…I told Ford it was because I got into a fistfight with some snub-nosed twit in a back alley somewhere. But…I wasn’t.”

That frown deepened, stained with confusion. “You…weren’t?”

“No.”

Alistair narrows his eyes, trying to understand. “Then—and I mean this with all due concern and comrade respect — why weren’t you in attendance when your brother was onstage?”

And wasn’t that just the question of the hour.

“I…ran into some old…acquaintances of mine,” Stan explains slowly. He huffs. “Or they ran into me. Were looking for me, really. And they’re not really the kind of folks to take no for an answer, ya get me?”

“I’m…I’m afraid not, Stanley.”

Stan groans and stands, setting his teacup on the mantel. He runs his hand through his hair again as he starts to pace in front of the fireplace.

“Gah! Why is this so hard?!” He sighs, coming to a standstill, and his shoulders slump. “When I was younger I lived on the streets. I got caught up in things that…I’m not proud of. Got involved with people I shouldn’t have. By the time I realized I was in trouble, I was in too deep. Stanford…whether he knows it or not, pulled me out of that life. I thought I left it far behind.”

Stan fidgets. “At the conference, I left to go use the—I went to freshen up. On my way back, I was ambushed by some of my old boss’s men. They beat the crap out of me and dragged me out to a van.”

“Good Lord, man!” Alistair sputters, a horrified look on hi face.

Stan holds up his hands, wincing. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but—”

“Why shouldn’t I?” the professor inquires, concerned. “Stan, lad, you came all the way from Piedmont in the dead of night. Do you really think I would assume that whatever you thought so important as to trek all that way was a lie?” He sighs. “It is a bit…hard to swallow, I’ll admit, but I have no reason to think you would tell me a falsehood. What happened? Obviously you got away somehow.”

And so, feeling a little less anxious, Stan sits back down on the ottoman and tells his tale from start to finish, tea long forgotten. He describes his kidnapping and the van ride, his arrival and escort through the warehouse, and then finally Stan tells of his reunion with Rico. Stan tells about the criminal’s demands, going into specific detail in regard to the type of research they expected him to dredge up. Until this point, Alistair had remained utterly silent, nodding along with each new piece of information. At Stan’s explanation for Rico’s deal, he frowns.

“Research? But…isn’t Stanford’s research more or less accessible to anyone?”

Stan slaps his knee and points at Alistair. “See?! See, now that’s exactly what I told him! But Rico, he’s got it in his head that Ford’s got some ‘valuable government secret’ rattling around in his head, and he’s more or less commissioned me to get it for him. With some not-so-nice consequences if I don’t come through.”

Alistair hums in thought. “Stanford never worked for the government, other than a few small projects, but I believe those were all well documented. They would be easily accessible in the Backupsmore archives.”

“Again, exactly what I said.” Stan growls softly in frustration, running both hands down his face.“I don’t know where Rico is getting this stuff. And I can’t imagine how he was able to even find me. I faked my own…Well, let’s just say he had no reason to even think I was still alive. And then to pull all this crap out of thin air? It doesn’t add up!”

“Have you gone to the authorities? The police?”

“Eh, heh, no. See, that’s one of several very strict guidelines I was told not to cross.”

“But you came here,” Alistair comments, a hint of fear in his voice. “Were you followed?”

Stan scratches his chin. “Not that I can tell. Even if I was, you’d be easier to explain if Rico came looking for answers tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Alistair grunted. “How so?”

The ex-conman gestures to Alistair in general. “You’re a scientist, like Ford. You two went to college together. If Rico asks what I was up to, I could just say I was doing a bit of digging into Ford’s past, trying to get answers. Exactly what Rico told me to do.”

“…That isn’t a very sturdy argument.”

Stan shrugs tiredly. “It’s all I have. My time is almost up, and Rico don’t take kindly to being double crossed, which is exactly how he’s see it if I don’t come through. But, you see, the problem is, I can’t come through if there’s literally nothing to come through with.”

Stan drags in a shaky breath. His heart is pounding in his chest and his whole body tingles with anxiety and stress. He hasn’t eaten much in the last day or so. He hasn’t slept more than ten minutes in two. His body is achy and sore from the night of the conference, and he’s mentally at the end of his rope.

Stan drops his head in his trembling hands. “Look, I don’t know how this all happened, how my past managed to catch up to me like this, but all I know is that if Rico gets a hold of my family and hurts them…it’ll be all my fault. And I…I-I can’t—” He swallows and looks up to meet Alistair’s gaze head on. “I just can’t.”

The room plunges into a dark, exhausted sort of silence. The shadows seem somehow blacker, thicker, like they could smother Stan and choke the life out of him. Over the last three days this has all been a crushing weight on his shoulders, but now that he’s talking it out, saying it out loud, it’s almost more than he can bear.

After several moments, Alistair clears his throat gently. “What can I do? Why come to me?”

Stan lets out a slow breath. ”I need help. I know how Rico thinks, how he does his business, so to speak. I want to use that to my advantage. I need to make it look like I’m following his orders, without actually doing so. I need to set him and his men up. But I can’t do it on my own. I need someone on the outside, someone Rico doesn’t know or suspect, to step in where I can’t.” Stan grins weakly. “You just so happen to fit the bill.” His smile fades. “I can’t go to the police. I can’t tell Ford, or anyone in my family. That will only put them more in harm’s way.”

“I see…” Alistair says carefully.

“Now, I know I’m asking a lot, but I swear I’ve thought this through. You won’t be in any danger. Please, I don’t know what else to—”

“I’ll do it.”

Stan blinks, afraid to hope. “You’ll….You will?”

Alistair nods, determination lining every inch of him. “Stanford is a friend and fellow scientist. If he and his family are in danger, I would like to try my very best to get he and them out of the fix they’re in. I consider you a friend by extension, Stanley.” He smiles encouragingly. “What do you need me to do?”

Stan feels like he might melt into a puddle, breath hitching on a sob of relief. But he can’t afford to break down yet, time is ticking, and Stan has a plan to run by his new partner.

“Okay. Alright, here’s what I’ve got…”

By the time Stan gets back to Dipper and Mabel’s house, he’s beyond exhausted. Poor sleep, plus an all nighter that night, leaves him feeling shaky and frail inside, strangely jittery and yet ready to drop. It used to be so easy, staying up to ungodly hours, back when his sole purpose in life was to bring Stanford back through the portal. But since his life took a turn for the better he had been getting used to a more regimental sleep schedule. It’s softened him up a good deal.

But the trip to see Alistair was a success. And right now, that’s all that matters.

Finally pulling up to his family’s driveway, his muscles and joints ache from tension and his eyelids feel as heavy as lead. To the east the horizon is just beginning to turn a dull bluish-purple, and as Stan eases himself out of Roy’s car and carefully closes the door, Stan can hear the first few birds of morning beginning to chirp, shrill in the quiet. A few of the houses further down the street have one or two lights on, early birds of a different sort already up and getting ready for work. Stan can only hope Roy isn’t one of them.

Stan takes a steadying breath, exhausted beyond anything he thinks he’s ever experienced. Or, at least, experienced in a while. He can barely keep his feet walking in a straight line, swaying to and fro like a drunken man as he makes his way up to the front door of his family’s home. The knob turns without any resistance, still unlocked as Stan had left it, and it’s only a matter of slipping into the dark interior and shutting the door gently behind him, and Stan can finally release a breath of shaky relief.

But that relief catches in his throat a moment later when the living room lamp all at once turns on with a sharp click, warm light filling the dusky room. Stan whirls around, choking back a strangled yelp, and is greeted by the sight of his twin, standing beside the lamp and sofa, arms crossed over his chest, and a very stern expression on his face. One that instantly tells Stan that any excuse he could possibly come up with, good or bad, will do nothing in the face of Ford’s disapproving glare.

Chapter Text

For a long, tense moment they stand in silence, staring across the living room at one another, Stan by the door and Ford over by the lamp. If it weren’t for the absolute scowl on Stanford’s face, the anger and frustration radiating off of him like a sun about to go nova, Stan might have found the whole situation comical. As it is, he’s as good as caught, sweaty hand still resting on the door knob behind him. There will be no talking his way out of this one.

Then again, it never hurts to try.

Stan pastes on a tired, shaky smile, one that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He keeps his voice low and soft so as not to wake any of the other occupants of the household.

“Uh…Hey, there, Sixer. What’re you doing up?”

Ford’s glower strengthens. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says with forced calm.

“Ah. Well, um, funny thing, so—”

But Stanford evidently doesn’t have the patience for Stan’s floundering explanations. He gives a frustrated huff and steps closer, the anger in his posture making him move stiff and agitated. Apparently it’s contagious, because Stan can already feel his own tired muscles knotting up in anticipation of a fight.

Ford gestures sharply to the door, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. “Have you been gone all night?” he hisses.

“Not….technically?”

His brother gives a growl, hand dropping to his side with a soft thwat. The poor guy looks like he’s ready to squirm out of his skin, and Stan wonders guiltily how long Ford has known he was gone and how much sleep he lost because of it.

Stan sighs, changing tactics. “Look, I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d go for a drive.”

“In your nephew’s car?” Ford demands hotly. “Did you even ask?”

Stan winces. “Uh…yeah. Yeah, okay, that’s…my bad,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That,” Ford states lowly, finger jabbed in Stan’s direction, “is an understatement. Stanley, what if you had gotten lost? Or hurt? By the oracle, what if…what if—”

He doesn’t finish. Ford doesn’t have to. His hesitation is enough and Stan can’t help the way it raises the hackles on the back of his neck like a dog on the streets. This is an old argument, one that he feels he has a right to get a little defensive about. With everything that’s been going on, it’s almost refreshing to have something familiar to latch onto.

“Stanford,” Stan murmurs, voice even lower than before, a warning. “I’m not made of glass. I’m a full grown adult. You ain’t the boss of me. I can go wherever I want. I’ve been doing it since I got kicked out as a kid. You don’t gotta treat me like some crippled stray.”

Ford seems to shrink back from the icy anger in Stan’s tone for a moment, a flash of guilt lighting in his eyes before the annoyance and frustration return. Another testament of how much his brother has grown. Back when they were children, Ford wouldn’t have kept pushing. He would have backed down at the first sign of resistance, too soft and cautious to stir things up further. Now he does so like with the same steadfast energy he faces every other threat in his life, with a straight back and clenched fists at his sides.

“If you want me to treat you like an adult than start acting like one! Honestly, Stanley, what has gotten into you the last few days? First you don’t show up for the most important event of my life and now you’re sneaking out of the house at night to drive around town? Stealing your own nephew’s vehicle—”

“Technically, I borrowed—”

“Stealing,” Ford grits, “without a thought as to what could happen, that we wouldn’t know where you were—”

“Oh, like you didn’t ever hijack some stupid alien car for a joyride once or twice—”

“Stanley—”

“Look, I filled the gas tank on my way back. Roy won’t even notice.”

“That’s not the point!”

They both wince as Ford’s voice breaks the silence of early morning a little too loudly. They hold their breaths, listening. Stan thinks he can vaguely hear the sound of Roy showering upstairs, getting ready for work. Nothing else stirs. It takes several long moments for the extra tension to fall from their shoulders.

Ford is the first to move, sighing. He turns slightly and allows gravity to take him down to the cushions of the couch, leaving him perched there with one hand pressed against his face. He looks like a sad statue in a Renaissance museum, the very picture of exhausted despair. Stan sees the way his fingers shake a little against his cheek, and hates it. Hates how this is stressing out his twin so badly.

“That’s not the point,” Ford repeats, softer, less passionate. Like all the energy just bled out of him. He rubs his eyes as Stan dares to step a little closer, joining his brother properly in the living room.

When Ford looks back up at him, Stan feels something cold settle in his chest. Stanford shouldn’t look that tired and defeated.

“All I want to know is…” Ford struggles for the right way to get his words out. “If you were…If something was wrong…you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Stan wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “…Wrong?”

“Yes. Like…if you were having issues with your memory again, or if you were experiencing symptoms of-of dementia or Alzheimer’s, or—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. You…You think I went out for a drive because I’m…because I’m senile?” Stan almost wants to laugh. He doesn’t. The very idea of losing his identity again scares him half to death. “Ford, it was just a drive. A tad bit of insomnia, no big deal. Maybe I didn’t think things through, maybe it was a bad idea, but there’s no harm done, right? Just because I went out in the middle of the night doesn’t mean you have to think—”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ford hisses again, the frustration returning with a vengeance. “All I know is that you’ve been acting strangely, first at the conference and now here, and I’m—I’m worried.” He glares up at Stan, but there’s fear and hurt in those eyes, too. Deep and pleading, terribly afraid. “I’m worried about you.”

Stan is so sick of people worrying about him.

“I know, I just—” Stan slumps. He’s too exhausted for this. He slowly moves over to sit beside Ford on the couch, close but not quite touching. He feels hollow. “…I know.”

Silence returns, the brothers simply sitting side by side. Outside the first few rays of morning sunshine are starting to touch the roofs of the houses on the other side of the street. Traffic is picking up, cars rolling by, men and women on their way to work. Upstairs, Roy is likely getting out of the shower. Caroline and the kids will be up soon.

This is their second argument in less than a week, and it’s jarring after having grown so close again. Even if Stan believes he has a good reason to have done what he has, it still stings in ways that are all too familiar. Ford’s angry and upset. Fine, Stan supposes he has that right. After all, all Ford knows and understands is that his brother disappeared from their bed, borrowed their nephew’s car, and disappeared for most of the night with no way to be reached. Stan tries to imagine how he’d feel if it had been him rolling over in bed and finding his twin missing.

Probably not well.

Ford sighs. “…You need to stop doing this to me.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m serious, Stan.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Stan really, really is.

And just like that Ford seems to have settled. He trusts Stan’s word, that he just went out for a late night drive, and while that should be a victory in and of itself, all Stan can afford to feel is guilty. He’s betraying that trust. He’s dragging their honesty-bound brothership through the muck and mire. The result on his end is a feeling of a grimy weight on his soul. Stan really is the worst kind of human being.

“Do you think you could sleep now?” Ford asks, tired.

Stan considers. He’s honestly exhausted, but what with his upcoming plan to execute and the deadline running down to the wire, he figures he won’t be able to do much more than rest his back. But that’s better than nothing, and he can’t have himself keeling over partway through the plan he’d devised with Alistair. Resting for a bit couldn’t hurt, and it would probably soothe any suspicions Ford still had.

“Yeah,” Stan concedes. “I probably could."

Ford nods, standing up from the couch. “Then go get some rest. I’ll send one of the children up later to wake you for breakfast.”

“M‘kay…” Stan also stands, eyes fixed on the floor. “Listen, I really am sorry, Ford. I just—”

“Get some rest,” Ford interrupts, not unkindly. “We’ll…talk more about it later.”

Stan nods and turns to leave, secretly hoping Ford would change his mind, and equally hopeful that he wouldn’t. But even as Stan reaches the stairs and begins to ascend, hand on the rail, Ford remains as he is. Back to Stan, shoulders slumped, hair still ruffled from sleep. Stan sends his twin a forlorn glance before trudging quietly up and out of sight.

Only then does Ford turn, concern brimming in his worn and weathered face. Part of Ford is relieved that Stanley had been easy to corral back to bed, the other fights the urge to scold Stan further for his carelessness.

But something isn’t right. Ford can’t put his finger on it, but it’s undeniable. Ford’s instincts are screaming at him, but there’s no use in trying to pry an answer from Stanley, that much is clear. At least not now. All Ford can do is watch and wait. Perhaps whatever funk Stan had found himself in would work itself out, and if it didn’t….

If it didn’t Ford would have to dig a little harder. For Stanley’s own sake.

Upstairs, Stan collapses onto the unmade bed, ribs complaining but him too drained to really care. The mattress accepts his weight, the room spinning slightly as his ragged body surrenders to the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him all night long. He doesn’t bother to undress, or even remove his shoes, fully accepting of the fact that sleep won’t come.

But the respite is welcome all the same. And it gives him time to lie there and think. To work out the trickier aspects of his and Alistair’s plan...

“My, you’re up early.”

Ford jolts slightly from the research spread out before him. He looks up from the table, meeting Caroline Pines’ sweet, caring smile and bright green eyes. She’s dressed in a flowery print, the top graced with lace around the neckline, and a pair of light faded jeans. Her hair is already brushed and weaved up into a seamless bun, leaving two small rose colored earring studs visible.

Ford glances at the kitchen clock, noting the hour. “Oh. I suppose. Though, back aboard the Stan O’War I am typically up far earlier.”

Caroline nods, making her way over to the coffeemaker. “Mm. Well, you’re on vacation don’t forget. You’re allowed to sleep in a little if you like. I can always tell the kids to let you be so you can get proper rest. Would you like some coffee?”

Ford nods eagerly. “Yes, please.”

“Regular or decaf?”

“Regular.”

“I thought so, just wanted to make sure. It’s Keurig, I hope that’s alright.”

“I’m sure that will be fine,” Ford assures. In his experience, coffee is coffee. Even in other worlds and galaxies, even when he had been handed the thickest, rawest forms of the beverage, he had found it satisfying. By this point, he was rather immune to a lot of the nastier textures most humans found distasteful. Particularly in their drinks.

Caroline hums and begins the process of booting up the machine, fetching a few mugs from the cabinet and setting them within easy reach on the counter. Ford watches her, mind wandering back to his argument with Stanley earlier that morning. It had been a good hour and a half since then, and Ford had been given the chance to further relax and think over the situation. But, try as he might, he still couldn’t justify his brother’s actions. Nor could he deduce whether he had approached the situation properly. It was all so frustrating, and confusing, and worrying.

Because, really, when it all came down to the honest truth, Ford was just plain worried.

He’d woken up sometime around four-thirty, only to roll over and find his twin’s side of the bed distressingly empty. Ford had stumbled out of bed, disoriented and concerned, before methodically checking every unlocked room in the house. He’d even peeked in on the children and their parents, but there had been no sign of Stanley. It was only after he’d worked himself up into a mild panic that Ford realized that Royland’s car was missing from the driveway. He’d put two and two together and surmised that Stan must have gone somewhere. Frustrated at not having been told of his brother’s plans, and still riding the adrenaline of searching for his lost twin, Ford had decided to wait up for Stan’s return.

That, he found out, wouldn’t be for another good three hours or so. At around seven in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise in the east, Ford had heard Roy’s car pull back in front of the house. By then his annoyance and worry had festered into a deep-seated anger and fear, and he hadn’t been in the best control of emotions at that time. However, considering, Ford thought he handled himself rather well, despite the circumstances.

Ford glances down at his papers and sketches once again. He’d been trying all morning to distract himself from the issue of his brother’s frustrating disappearing acts, but it haunted him, teased his every other thought. Typically, when Ford’s mind was looping like this he’d talk to Stanley. But…

Well. That was not really an option at this time.

Upstairs, Stan was —hopefully— sleeping; catching up on the rest he had missed by gallivanting around Piedmont in the dead of night. Stan could blame his actions on insomnia and the like, but Ford was still guarded. It wasn’t like Stanley to go off on his own without telling anyone. Not since he’d regained his memories. It was a sort of unspoken rule between them, to never just disappear without a word. Not unless they were in trouble. Not unless they had no choice.

And yet Stan had broken that rule twice inside of the last week.

Ford sighs, raising a hand to rub at his forehead, tired and irate. The bubble of coffee brewing, however, and the delightful smell that follows, eases some of the tension from his shoulders. He continues to watch as Caroline finishes up with the Keurig machine, warm brown ambrosia slowly filling up their mugs.

“…Caroline?”

“Yes, Uncle Ford?” Caroline turns around, mugs in hand and smile bright, before she notices Ford’s somewhat bleak expression. “Is something wrong?”

The scientist winces. “No? Or, maybe? I just…”

He trails off, not really knowing why he opened his mouth in the first place. But if he couldn’t go to Stanley with his problems, perhaps Caroline would suffice. She was a kind soul, and even though Ford had only known her for a short few days, he’d come to both like and appreciate her greatly.

“You mentioned you have a brother?” he settles on asking.

Caroline nods, eyes still questioning. She sets Ford’s mug down in front of him and takes the chair opposite him, sitting down. Giving Ford her full attention.

“Yes. His name is Franklin. He lives on the east coast, somewhere in Tennessee. I…don’t see him too often, but we’re on good enough terms.”

Ford nods, thinking. He absently picks up his brew and gives it a gentle swirl. “If you don’t mind me asking, older or younger brother?”

“Younger,” she supplies, a fond smile tickling her lips.

“Ah. So…perhaps you will understand when I say that…being an older sibling is not the easiest position.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Caroline chuckles. She takes a sip of her coffee, humming appreciatively. “He was always getting himself into trouble. Stopping him from getting into fights at school was like trying to tell water not to be wet. Growing up, mom and dad weren’t always readily available, so it was my chore to keep an eye on Frank. And let me tell you, it was a full-time job.”

Ford gives a hum, taking a sip of his coffee, aware that his niece-in-law was watching him closely. Caroline smirks gently at his resulting unease.

“Something’s up with you and Uncle Stan. Is that it?”

“That, as you say,” Ford admits, “is putting it mildly.”

“Mm.” Caroline settles more into her chair. “Well, maybe you’d like to talk about it. Sometimes it helps to have someone to bounce ideas off of. And if I know Stan, you’ve probably got your hands full.”

Her demeanor is so much like her daughter’s, open and caring, that Ford can’t help but give in with an almost grateful groan. “It’s just…this past week or so he has been acting…oddly.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Little things, really, in most regards. He’s been fidgety. Quiet. Jumpy.” Ford messages his temples. “If that were all I really wouldn’t be too worried, but he’s been…acting out in other ways as well. Argumentative, secretive, and…and he seems to keep disappearing off on his own, all without giving me even the simplest of explanations.”

He holds up one of his six fingers. “First, he gets up and leaves during the conference. he’d promised to be back in time for my presentation, and not only was that a lie, but he didn’t show up until much later back at our motel. Covered in bruises and cuts and sporting a black eye.”

Caroline nods, frowning. “He said he got into a fight."

“That much is obvious. But to have prioritized a alleyway brawl over something he knew meant the world to me? It’s just not like him.” Ford holds up another finger. “Second, he snuck out last night.”

“What?” Caroline blinks in surprise.

“My sentiments, exactly. He was gone for most of the night, returning early this morning. He claims he hadn’t been able to sleep and had simply been…wandering. But he knows how I feel about him going off on his own, especially when no one knows where he’s off to. And I know he’s an adult, and I know he can handle himself, but I’m—I’m—”

“Worried,” Caroline finishes with understanding.

“Yes!” Ford sighs, exhausted. “Is it so wrong of me to want to keep him safe? To want him to, at the very least, let me know when something’s bothering him before he goes off, traipsing the city on his own?”

Caroline shakes her head slowly. “No. No, I don’t think it’s wrong that you want those things. He’s your brother, and you love him, just as we all do. But, well, he’s always been a bit of a free spirit.”

“Heh. That’s what Ma always used to call him.”

“Mm. And a free spirit, by definition, is someone who is incredibly independent.” Caroline pauses, expression gentle as Ford takes a sip of his mug. “Have you tried telling him how you feel?”

“I’ve expressed my frustration.”

“Yes, but…what about what you feel when he’s gone? How does that make you feel? When he leaves without telling you?”

Ford grits his teeth, trying hard to keep the waver out of his voice. “Like everything is falling apart around me.”

Caroline smiles softly. If they weren’t having such a serious conversation she’d probably coo at the, admittedly, very raw statement. She reaches out and gently places her hand on top of Ford’s on the table.

“Then maybe you should tell him that. As one big sibling to another, we can scold and nag them until we’re blue in the face, but until we’re open with them, how can we expect them to be open with us?”

Ford stares into Caroline’s green, jewel-like eyes, then lets his breath out in a long, calm exhale. He turns his hand so he can hold hers back, giving a tender squeeze.

“You are very wise.”

Her gaze twinkles. “No, just experienced. It was a lot of trial and error on my part, believe me.” She nods toward the living room. “Why don’t you go talk to him.”

“Right now?”

Caroline shrugs. “Why not? If he’s asleep then it serves him right for worrying you all night like that. He needs to hear just what his actions are doing to you. And then maybe he’ll realize being honest about what’s going on with him is what you both need.”

Emboldened, Ford gently lets go of her hand and stands. “Yes. Yes, I believe you are right.” He bobs his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Caroline.”

His niece smiles warmly, hands wrapping daintily around the sides of her mug. “You are very, very welcome, Uncle Ford.”

Ford nods and immediately heads out of the kitchen. Caroline is more than correct, this is something that should be handled now rather than letting it fester any longer. Something is up with Stan, and it’s driving Ford to the very edge of his patience and anxiety. And while frustration still swirls in his chest, concern and worry are far stronger. He wants to lay all their cards on the table, like they’ve learned to do over the last few years. Honesty and—despite both being slow to pick up the habit—talking has more or less become the backbone of their relationship. Up until the past week or so.

But Ford was going to put an end to that right now.

The scientist rounds the corner, entering the living room and making a beeline for the stairs at a brisk stride. However, just as he passes the front door, there is a loud and authoritative knock.

Ford halts.

It’s fairly early in the morning still. There shouldn’t be anyone coming around knocking on the Pines’ door for any reason ford can surmise. But, then again, Ford isn’t used to living in the city. Perhaps it was more common here in Piedmont.

Either way, he is the closest person to the door, and certainly only one of the few who are actually awake. The door is solid, with only a few small windows fanned out at the top, but even those are covered in mottled glass, making it impossible to see who is knocking without opening the door.

And so, still fired up and moving briskly, Ford moves to do just that.

He grasps the knob with a six fingered hand and pulls the door open, revealing the last thing he had expected.

A pair of Piedmont City policemen, grim faced and serious...

Chapter Text

It’s a testament to Ford’s strong sense of self control that he does not, in fact, slam the door in the officers’ faces out of reflex. Too many years running from alien authorities under Bill’s payroll had ingrained the reaction deep, but not so deep as to completely take over, thankfully. The officers doubtless would have found his response incredibly rude, and likely would not have been pleased.

And so it is to Ford’s credit that he only flinches slightly, stopping his arm from swinging and his feet from running. Instead he gives a respectful, if not a bit stiff, nod of his head and tightens his fingers around the door knob to keep himself in place. He opens the door a little wider, just enough as to not seem unwelcoming, and clears his throat meekly.

“Good morning, officers. Is there something I can help you with?”

The policemen nod back cordially, taking Ford in at a glance, sizing him up as they have probably been trained to do. Ford doesn’t mind, as he’s doing much the same; using his keen skills of observation to take in the two men before him.

The forefront officer is an older fellow, dark skinned and sporting a finely trimmed mustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face. His eyes are a molasses brown, kind and warm, and there’s that familiar gleam of passion and duty in his gaze. He is obviously a man who does his job and does it well. He is tall and fit, and his demeanor commands both instant and time-earned respect, while not coming across as stern or unfriendly. A model officer of the law, who followed the book, but not so closely as to have sold his soul to the rules.

His partner, some years younger and holding an air of ‘rookie’ about him, is almost an exact opposite in every way. Blond haired and blue eyed, he stands behind his elder with a static sense of excitement and determination burning in his gaze, all masked behind a grim, serious expression. He stands straight and puffs out his chest in an effort to make himself seem larger, more intimidating. He’s a boy trying to prove himself a man. Ford knows his type very well.

Together, they make for a rather comical pair. Like an wild stallion yoked with a weathered war horse.

“Good morning,” the older man greets. “My name is Lieutenant Sheldon and this is my partner, Lieutenant Harrison. I’m sorry to come calling at such an early hour, but we received a call that required some looking into.”

Ford frowns, feeling baffled, but nods in acknowledgment. “Of course. I will be happy to help if I can.”

Some of the tension seems to fall from both officers’ shoulders at that. The younger, Officer Harrison, takes out a pen and pad from his uniform pocket with a flare, ready to take notes Ford can only assume. Now that the shock of the authorities’ sudden appearance is wearing off, Ford can feel a trickling sense of dread slowly forming in his chest.

“Thank you,” Officer Sheldon hums. “We appreciate your cooperation. We just need to ask a few questions.”

Ford nods again, stepping fully into the open doorway. He lets go of the knob, going for a more casual stance.

“Firstly,” Lieutenant Sheldon starts, “is this the home of Royland Pines?”

“Yes,” Ford answers honestly. He sees no reason to lie, seeing as the officers are probably already aware that it is, indeed, the right abode. Though he certainly won’t be volunteering too much information. Only what seems necessary. Better to let the officers lead the conversation than babbling on about things they have no business knowing.

“Very good. And…are you Mr. Pines?”

“In a manner of speaking, but no, Royland is my nephew. My name is Stanford Pines.”

“Ah, I see. Visiting?”

Ford keeps his tone level and calm, factual to an almost boring degree. “Yes, for a few days. My brother and I were down in Pasadena and drove up after attending a conference.”

“Mm. And where are you from? Prior to this trip?” Sheldon inquires.

“Oregon,” Ford supplies, and determines that’s probably enough of a location statement. They don’t need to know that he and Stanley have been living on a boat, on and off for the last three years or so. That would probably garner more questions than answers, at best.

Officer Sheldon nods. “Thank you, Mr. Pines. Again, we appreciate your willingness to cooperate. Now, is your nephew home?”

“No, not currently. He’s at work.”

“Do you know where he works? The address?”

“I…” That feeling of dread from before is growing, cold and weighted in Ford’s gut. For the first time in this conversation, he falters, looking worriedly between the two men. “Is Royland in some sort of trouble?”

“Yes,” the younger policeman chimes in, almost too eagerly.

“That,” Sheldon reminds Harrison with a look, “remains to be seen. We are simply conducting an investigation.”

“What do you mean?” Ford demands. “What for?”

The tension is back in the officers’ shoulders. Ford can feel his own hackles rising, protective and afraid of what his nephew may have gotten himself into. To Ford’s knowledge, Royland had always been a very decent man, law abiding and kind to a fault. He hadn’t even known his nephew long, and even Ford knows that the very idea that he had gotten himself into trouble with the law was nigh on ludicrous.

Instead of answering, Officer Sheldon asks, “Do you know if your nephew was home last night? At approximately three-thirty A.M.?”

Ford blinks, and opens his mouth to inquire just what the man is insinuating, but just as he’s about to emphatically deny that Royland had gone anywhere during the night, Caroline comes out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel and brows raised in curiosity.

“Uncle Ford, I thought I heard a knock at the—”

She catches sight of the policemen in the frame of the doorway and pulls up short, the smile dropping from her face to be replaced with a pale, growing worry.

Her brows pinch, concerned. “Oh. Oh, hello.”

“Ma’am,” the older officer greets, and he tips the brims of his hat. “Sorry to intrude so early in the morning, but we have a job to do. You know how it is, I hope.”

“Yes…Yes, of course.” Caroline makes her way over to stand at Ford’s side, exchanging a worried look with him before turning back to their visitors. “Is…Is something wrong?”

Officer Harrison looks a little annoyed at the interruption to their questions. “We can’t say either way at the moment, lady,” he responds, clipped.

That earns him another stern look from his partner. Who, thankfully, has the decency to be a little more sensitive. “Are you Mrs. Pines? The wife of Royland Pines?”

Caroline goes even paler, fearing the worst. “My name is Caroline, and yes, Roy is my husband.” Her voice wavers. “Did something happen? Is Roy alright? Is he hurt?!”

Officer Sheldon holds up a placating hand, voice calm and soothing. “Oh, no, ma’am. This isn’t that kind of visit.”

“Oh, thank heavens.” Caroline sags against Ford’s shoulder in relief, twining an arm around his, fingers digging in just slightly. “Then…what is this about?”

“That is precisely what I wish to know,” Ford seconds. He sends the men a firm look. “What is this about? Surely you can tell us that much.”

The elder lieutenant sighs, giving in. “A call was received this morning, reporting that someone broke into one of the mansions down in Fresno.”

“Oh, my,” Caroline breathes.

“We have been unable to get in touch with the owner of the estate,” Sheldon continues, “but a witness account, and some available evidence, led us here. It is our duty to look into it and see what we can find out.”

“So, we have to ask, Mrs. Pines,” Harrison adds snidely. “Was your husband home all of last night?”

“…Yes?” Caroline flusters. “Of course he was. I don’t see why—”

“Are you certain, ma’am?” Sheldon presses gently. “This is very important.”

“And don’t make things worse by trying to cover for him, lady,” the younger officer insists, again to his partner’s visible disapproval. “That’s called aiding and abetting.”

“I know where my own husband spends his night, lieutenant!” Caroline snaps, buckling a bit under the stress of the situation. Her nails are starting to dig into Ford’s skin, but he remains still and silent. A pillar of support.

Caroline takes a shaky breath and runs a hand over her nose and mouth. Calmer, she addresses Sheldon. “Yes. Yes, he was in bed all night. I’m certain of it. He’s a deep sleeper, and once he’s out he’s fairly motionless. I’m a light sleeper. If he had gone anywhere, I would have noticed him leave the bed.”

“Mm.” Harrison still doesn’t seem convinced, but he jots something down in his notebook with sharp, hurried movements. For a moment the only sound is the busying traffic of a waking city and the scratch of pen on paper. “Fine. Could you give us the name of your husband’s workplace?”

“Please,” Sheldon adds.

Caroline opens her mouth to replay, clearly distraught and confused, but Ford decides it’s time for him to step in again. He cuts her off gently, stepping in front of the woman a little, to shield her from the situation just a little.

“Now, wait a moment. I think we are entitled to a bit more explanation. Just what are you trying to say? Has my nephew done something illegal or not?”

“As we said, that remains to be seen,” Lieutenant Sheldon tries to keep the peace. “All I can tell you is he was spotted trespassing last night on a property in Fresno. It is suspected that he might also have something to do with the home occupant’s disappearance.”

“What?!”

“Please, ma’am—”

“No, that can’t be right!” Caroline trembles. “Roy was in bed all night, it couldn’t possibly have been him!”

“Was he seen? Do you have a description?” Ford demands.

“Well,” Harrison falters, just a little. “No, only a license plate. The neighbor was the one to report things, but it was dark and they didn’t get a clear view of the trespasser. Said a man pulled up to Brewster Hall, parked, and then a man got out. He picked the locked gate and went in. We haven’t been able to contact the home’s owner since.”

Ford blinks. “Wait. Brewster Hall? As in Alistair Brewster?”

“Yes.” Sheldon cocks an eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

Stanford reels in confusion, but manages to answer. “We’re colleagues in the field.”

“The field of…?”

“Academics. Mostly science.”

“Officers, please,” Caroline begs, “I swear Roy was home all night long. His car was parked in the driveway this morning, completely untouched until he left for work!”

And that’s when something clicks in Ford’s brain. The inkling of dread blooms into a cold knot coiled in the core of his chest as he realizes that his niece-in-law’s statement isn’t entirely true.

Royland may have been in bed all night, but his car had not remained parked in place.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Officer Sheldon discloses. “But we traced the license through the system. There’s no mistaking. He also ran a red light somewhere in Modesto, so we have an actual image of the license plate besides.”

It was about three hours to Fresno…Six round trip…Add an extra half hour or so for whatever reason and…the times matched up almost perfectly…

Oh, Stanley.

“We’re just looking into things,” Officer Sheldon reminds carefully. “Doing our job. So, please, if you would give us his workplace address…”

Stan wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Why would he? Why would Stanley drive all the way to Fresno, to Alistair’s house specifically, in the dead of night? And, furthermore, why would he lie about it?

A numb feeling veins in Ford’s heart as that thought sinks in. Stanley had lied. Blatantly. When all Ford had wanted was to ensure that his brother was safe. When so much of their mending relationship was dependent on truth and honesty.

If Stan had lied about where he had gone last night…what else had he been lying about lately?

Caroline is practically in tears at this point, wringing the life out of the hand towel as she pleads. “Please, he’s done nothing wrong! I-I don’t understand. Why is this happening?”

“Ma’am, we would appreciate your cooperation.”

Not a threat, but a warning, the statement of a man who is doing his best to keep a delicate situation under control.

Caroline releases a choked sob and turns her desperate gaze to Stanford, one trembling hand catching hold of his sleeve.

“F-Ford, I—”

“Wait.”

The new voice prompts everyone to freeze then turn, the policemen craning their necks to look inside. Ford turns last, eyes falling shut as the sinking feeling in his stomach falls right through the floor.

Stanley stands at the top of the stairs, perched on the uppermost step. He looks, in a word, awful. He’s pale, paler than he’d been earlier that morning after a full night without sleep. Then again, perhaps the light hadn’t been good enough for Ford to notice. Stan’s hair and his clothes are ruffled, probably having just rolled out of bed. And Ford notes, with growing confusion and frustration, that his brother is still wearing his shoes.

But Stan is smiling, despite the bags under his eyes and the slightest tremble in his legs. He beams down at the officers with his trademark Mr. Mystery grin, though those who truly know him well would have no trouble telling that it was forced and strained. Behind him, and off to the side, Dipper and Mabel peer our from their bedroom, looking concerned and as distressed as their mother below.

“I, uh—“ Stan begins to make his way down the stairs, gingerly, one hand gripping the rail. “I don’t mean this with any disrespect, officers, but there’s really no need to keep harassing my niece-in-law.” His grin turns the slightest bit sheepish. “I’m the man you want.”

Caroline sputters, blinking rapidly and looking between her two uncles like either of them have the time to truly explain. “Stan, what—”

“I drove to Fresno last night,” Stan informs. He reaches the bottom of the steps, keeping his movements slow and his speech calm. “I had to make a house call. And, I’ll admit, I did pick the gate lock, just so I could get in to knock on the door. And I guess I did run that red light. But I give you my word that I entered that house as a guest. Alistair Brewster let me in, we talked, and then I left.”

Stanley comes up to the open doorway, laying an apologetic hand on Caroline’s shoulder. “Sorry for all the fuss, Carol.”

The woman blinks away confused tears, still wringing her towel while Ford silently seethes. If Stan can feel his twin’s heated gaze locked on him, he ignores it, retaining his forcibly laid back demeanor.

The policemen exchange uncertain glances, Sheldon turning back to face them a moment later.

“Do you have anyone who can vouch for you?” he asks carefully.

Stan shrugs. “Other than Alistair himself, no.” Then more worriedly, “You said he’s missing?”

“He is currently unaccounted for, yes. Though that could simply be circumstantial. Regardless, we’d like you to come down to the station with us, sir. We have some questions for you to answer.”

Harrison steps forward, already reaching for the handcuffs on his belt, but Sheldon stays his hand. Caroline gasps, and upstairs Ford can hear Dipper and Mabel cry out in objection. Stan, on the other hand, barely bats an eye.

“I under arrest?” he queries.

Lieutenant Sheldon eyes Stan, takes in his open stance and lax muscles. He observes his non-confrontational tone and the fact that Stan stepped forward all on his own to claim the truth. It seems to make an impression on the seasoned officer.

“I wouldn’t call it an arrest. More of a…temporary holding. A man is never guilty until proven so. But we still have to be cautious. And ready. In case some folks end up being bad man with lies on their tongues. Understand?”

Stan breathes a small, tight sigh, somehow relieved. “Got it. Do I need to bring anything?”

“Identification is advised. A passport or driver’s license will do.”

“Right.” Stanley side eyes Ford, shy, as if knowing he hasn’t a right to ask anything of the brother he’s been lying to. “Can you…Can you go get that for me?” he asks quietly.

Ford glowers, concern and anger all mixed into one big ball of betrayal. He holds the look for a moment, hoping his silence will properly convey his displeasure, and then he turns to do as was asked of him. He doesn’t say a word, just stomps off to head upstairs and grab Stan’s moderately doctored license.

When they had first set out to get everything arranged for their life on the Stan O’War II, Ford had insisted on getting Stan some sort of identification. Which was difficult, seeing as, as far as the world was concerned, Stanley Pines was dead. It had taken the combined efforts of Ford, Fiddleford, and Blubbs and Darland to work into the system some semblance of Stanley’s existence, erasing what was known of his death and more or less ‘resurrecting’ his identity. The authorities may or may not notice a hiccup when they looked into things, but in the end Stan’s existence and identification would all smooth out, and no questions should be asked.

And if they were, they had practiced stories in place.

Ford passes the children in the hall, but doesn’t spare them a glance even though he can feel them staring at him, looking for answers of their own. He doesn’t have any to give. He’s just as baffled and upset as the rest of them, twinned with his simmering anger at Stan’s apparent lack of honesty and trust.

Ford heads straight for their designated sleeping quarters. Finding Stan’s ID is easy enough, it’s always slipped into the first pocket of Stanley’s wallet, which Stanford finds plopped carelessly on top of his brother’s open luggage. Ford just grabs the old leather pouch, still glowering to himself, and marches his way back downstairs. He slaps the wallet into his brother’s palm with a direct glare that Stan can’t possibly misinterpret.

I’m angry. I’m hurt. We WILL talk about this later.

Stan winces the slightest bit, tucking his wallet into his jeans pocket.

“Again, we just want to ask you a few questions downtown,” Officer Sheldon reminds, sensing the distress and growing tension in the household. “If we manage to locate Mr. Brewster, one of your family members will be notified that they may come to pick you up.”

“And..if you can’t locate him?” Stanley asks hesitantly. And for the first time that mask of his crumbles just a little, true anxiety shining through.

Officer Harrison gives Stan a suspicious look. “Is there a reason that we wouldn’t be able to?”

“Moses, I hope not,” Stan breathes as he’s invited out into the chilly morning air. He glances back at Ford and Caroline, giving them a weak smile. “See ya later.”

Stanley Pines is an insufferable human being, and Ford both loves him dearly and wants to strangle him.

The officers lead Stan out to their squad car, Harrison opening the back door and guiding Stanley down and into the seat. Stan manages to meet Ford’s gaze just as he slips below the vehicle’s roof. There’s apology in his eyes, but Ford can’t bring himself to stop glaring just yet. He’s mad, and Caroline is trying to comfort Dipper and Mabel behind him, their youthful voices and babbling words of concern and fear harsh through the static crackling in Ford’s brain.

But as angry as Ford is, he refuses to close the door or move away from it until after Stan and the policemen are long gone. Stanford would never again turn his back as his brother drives away, no matter how much he wants to. Because they would work this out. They would talk, and probably yell, but in the end everything would be okay.

It had to be.

This was, sadly, a very familiar situation for Stan. Granted, it had been a good thirty years since his last arrest, official or otherwise, but jail wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you forgot. Unless you’d had your memories wiped—which, lucky him, he was one such person. Or had been.

His memories of Rico had come back in a whirlwind, dragging a lot of other related recollections with them. He’d had a few days to process the ten years of his life he’d been missing since Weirdmageddon, and…

It was…a lot.

But time-faded memories were one thing. Actually sitting in a window-less interrogation room? Well. Let’s just say it made some of his nastier memories a little more real.

Stan had been brought in under the charge of ‘suspicion of burglary’. He’d admitted it himself that he’d picked the lock, and until Brewster made an appearance Stan had no one to act as witness to him not having meant any harm. As things were, Stan had to admit, it looked pretty bad. Officer Sheldon—who seemed a nice enough guy, for a cop— was very adamant on Stan not being charged until proven guilty, and Stan could only hope that was true.

Small comforts.

He’s just grateful the officers hadn’t handcuffed him until after they’d reached the station, sparring his family the sight of his temporary incarceration. Even then, as he’d been driven away, Caroline and Mabel had been crying, scared and confused, and Dipper had looked equally upset, just minus the visible tears.

Ford…

Ford had looked pissed.

The ride down to the station had been quiet and uneventful. Stan had made sure to mind his ps and qs, not giving the officers the slightest bit of trouble the whole way, even though inwardly he was panicking. He was escorted into the police station and led to one of several rooms, an old routine he was more than just familiar with. To his immense relief they didn’t frisk him, or anything else uncomfortable, and Stan concluded these were just nice men doing their difficult jobs as professionally and carefully as they could.

The room was small and carpeted with a mottled salt and pepper rug. There was no one way glass, but there was a camera in the corner above the door. The only furniture was a plastic folding table, the kind sometimes used at picnics, and three folding metal chairs. Stan had been un-handcuffed and told to take a seat, which he had done without question.

And then he’d been left alone in the closed, muffled space, to wait. He’d sat utterly still, trying to appear as innocent as he actually was, but the camera was an unblinking eye and it made him nervous the entire time. By trying to act natural, he felt unnatural, the feeling building until he was fairly convinced he’d succeeded in making himself look utterly guilty.

Not to mention that his brain was working on overdrive. Fear cradled close to his heart, making it beat hard and uneven in his chest as anxiety crawled up and down his spine like ants. He had two main concerns, the first being the most glaring: that Alistair Brewster was more or less missing. That alone was enough to make Stan uneasy, seeing as the man’s word was needed to prove his innocence. Not only that, but Alistair played a very important part of Stan’s plan to expose Rico and his crime ring. Which led Stan’s mind to the more terrifying expl;aination for Alistair’s sudden disappearance.

What if Rico had…

But Stan had been so careful. Even if he’d been seen leaving for Brewster Hall, he’d been so certain that Rico would have confronted him about it before…doing anything rash. Rico might have even come to his own conclusions, that Stan had simply been doing what he’d been asked—looking for information on Ford’s research.

But now Stan wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure of anything. And here, in this room, where there was no clock or windows to help Stan deduce the hour, he was left reeling in a time vacuum. Set adrift with no way to know how close he was to passing Rico’s deadline, or whether that was even still a thing. What if Rico had been alerted to Stan’s arrest? What if he thought Stan was spilling his guts to the authorities? Rico had warned him to stay clear of the cops, what was to say this wasn’t a breach of their strained little contract? And if it was broken…

Oh, Moses. Stan had as good as killed his own family.

And so Stan Pines was left to stew in his anxieties, growing more and more twitchy as time passed. Eventually, an officer came in. He wasn’t in full uniform, his coat missing and leaving him in a plain white button down and suspenders. It gave him an intentionally casual appearance. This man was soon accompanied by another officer, the two friendly but very clearly on the case. They offered Stan a bottled water, which Stan had gratefully accepted, as the room was rather warm and his panicking had left his mouth incredibly dry.

What followed was a long, arduous round of questioning. Thankfully, the officers were pretty nice about it, especially considering the treatment Stan had gotten back in his grifter days. Particularly in Columbia. He got the feeling they were trying to get into his head, using every trick in the book to get him to trip up and give something away, but for perhaps the first time in Stan’s life, under these very specific circumstances, he was honestly, truly innocent. It was a rather disorienting flip to the routine.

He answered their questions truthfully, to a point, in all the ways that mattered. There was no yelling, no threats—some pretty far out speculation but Stan had expected that. When finally there were no more questions to answer, the officer and his partner left, promising to bring Stan a protein bar. The door was locked behind them and once again Stan was left to his spiraling thoughts.

Until, finally—

“You’re free to go.”

Stan jolts, head rising from his hands. His back crackles in protest of the hunched over position he’d been sitting in. “I…W-What?”

The officer sticking her head in through the door smiles warmly. “Sorry, I should have knocked. I said you’re free to go. Alistair Brewster was reached and was able to verify your story. All charges have been dropped. Though, you will still have to pay a fee for that red light you ran.”

Stan shakily stands to his feet, giving a weak laugh and a returning smile. Man, he’s exhausted. “H-Heh. Yeah, I figured. How much I owe you guys?”

“A hundred. Jack talked it down from two-fifty for you.”

“Who?”

The woman chuckles. “Officer Sheldon. One of the guys who brought you in.”

Stan blinks, surprised, but grateful. “Oh. Heh. Tell ‘im thanks for me?”

“Of course. You can pay your fee on the way out. Just head down the hall to your left and straight on down through the lobby. Your family has already been notified and your…brother? He will be picking you up shortly.”

Stan is so dead. Regardless, he nods, patting his pants down to make sure he has his wallet. “Got it. Um, when you guys heard from Mr. Brewster, did he have anything to say for me? To pass along?”

“Oh! Yes, he did. He simply wanted you to know that your plans for tonight were still on, and he hoped all was well with you.”

Stan breathes a sigh of relief. Alistair was okay and still willing to go through with their plan. Now Stan just needed to see if his little trip to the police station hadn’t ruined everything and thrown his deal with Rico to the wind.

“Before I go,” he asks, “do you guys have a payphone or something I can use?”

The woman hums, opening the door the rest of the way. She points down the hall, in the same direction she’d already directed him. “There’s one in the lobby. It’s free to use, just press one before entering the area code.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Stan moves past her quickly, eager to get his hands on the device. The female officer merely nods and heads on her way in the opposite direction. Not that Stan really takes any notice. He’s already casting his gaze around, frantically searching for some kind of time piece. A few doorways down he finally spots one above a desk.

12:45 PM

Not as late as he had feared, but certainly later than he would have liked.

Stan stumbles his way into the lobby, eyes flitting around until they land on the aforementioned payphone. It’s nestled in the corner, away from the main desk, giving a bit of privacy. Heart in his throat, Stan quickly makes his way over, lifting the phone off the hook and punching in the one and area code as directed, before dialing the by now morbidly familiar phone number.

It rings…

“Come on…” Stan breathes shakily. “Pick up, come on…”

And rings…

“Please, for the love of—”

It keeps ringing. And with every shrill trill Stan’s heart hammers a little harder in his chest. Rico’s not answering. No one is answering, and Stan has never had that happen. Not in all those horrible months working for the boss had he ever not been able to reach him or any of his associates, even if all he got in response was light breathing or the extremely rare murmur of a threat. But this…

This was somehow so much worse.

Eventually, he has to hang up. People have started to take notice of his growing distress, and he feels eyes on him, making his skin itch. He feels lost and frightened, in a way he hasn’t felt for a very long time. Like a rat in a trap. But he can’t stay here, not in the station. He needs air, and he needs to wait for Ford. Some treacherous part of his brain mockingly adds ‘if Ford is even still alive’, and Stan has to bite down on his knuckles to keep down the choked sob of panic that thought nearly evokes.

There’s nothing else he can do but pay his fee at the front desk and make his way out onto the street outside the police station. He shuffles several steps down the sidewalk, as though that would absolve him of having had any contact with the authorities, hands clenching and unclenching as he waits. And hopes.

Stan is in downtown Piedmont, not far from the park he’d visited with Dipper and Mabel at the beginning of their visit. People are bustling up and down the stretch, talking on their phones or walking with friends. It’s deceptively happy, for all the fear brewing in Stan’s mind and soul. He staggers a few more steps down the way, facing the street, eyes pleadingly scanning the road for any sign of Roy’s red Sedan.

Normally he’d be more in tune with his surroundings, rather than focused only on one direction. In his and Ford’s line of work, that was important, because you never knew what eldritch horror might be sneaking up behind you. But now, in his distracted, frantic state, Stan forgot one very simple rule: always be alert.

And that was the only reason the man in the alley was able to get the drop on him.

Stan yelps as something snags his shirt and tugs him backward into the shaded alleyway behind him. He goes in for a swing instantly, out of instinct, but his opponent seems to already be expecting it. A moment later Stan finds himself slammed chest first up against the dirty brick side of the alley, out of sight of any casual passerbys, and his arms forced harshly up against his spine. Someone is breathing heavy and loud just behind his left ear, and Stan swears and struggles for a few moments longer, hoping to break free.

They don’t budge.

“No hagas ninguna tontería, viejo,” a voice chuckles lowly. “It would be best for you to stay still and listen. You are in enough trouble as things are.”

Stan freezes, chest heaving as he processes. His skin feels raw, even beneath his shirt, from writhing against the gritty texture of the bricks. “Y-You’re—You’re one of Rico’s men,” he notes breathlessly. He’s not sure whether to be relieved or scared out of his mind.

“Sí. And el jefe is not pleased with recent…developments.”

Of course he isn’t. Now Stan just has to figure out which of the many recent developments the guy means. “I-I can explain,” he offers in a strained grunt.

“Mm. You had better, viejo. Or else I may have to do something unpleasant on el jefe’s behalf.”

He forcibly slides Stan’s wrists further up his own back, and a fire burns between Stan’s shoulder blades. The ex-conman winces, biting his lip to keep from crying out.

“Explicar.”

“Ngh! I didn’t squeal!” Stan hisses. He pants against the discomfort. “They came looking for me.”

“That, we observed. What we want to know is why.”

“I went to Fresno last night—ngh. To visit someone!”

“That, we also know. You are not giving me any new information, sénior. Continuar.”

“I-I went to do some digging for Rico. An old friend of my brother’s. He h-had answers that I needed. Answers about my—gah—m-my brother’s r-research.”

The man behind Stan presses him harder against the bricks with every word. A silent threat. “And were you successful?” he inquires, bored.

“Y-Yes!” Stan gasps. “Yes, dammit! But I goofed, and the cops traced the car back to my—to someone I was staying with. I couldn’t make a fuss without giving myself away, you know that! So I came. But I didn’t breathe a word about Rico, the gang, or our deal, I swear! Now, will ya let go?! Ngh!”

“They let you out?” the nameless lackey asks, suspicious.

“The guy I visited was able to verify my story, and they released me! Now. Get. Off!”

Stan manages to twist free of the stranger’s grip, whirling around and stumbling back a few steps. The guy had more or less given in, letting go in a disinterested manner just as Stan had turned, putting space between them. Which gives Stan the chance to take in his contact for the first time.

It’s a younger man, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s Hispanic— as a good portion of Rico’s men typically are, by matter of preference. Stan doesn’t recognize him, and he hadn’t really expected to. It just hurts, to see yet another lost boy, raised in a life of ruin by Rico’s ever growing crime syndicate.

“If you are lying, viejo,” the man warns gravely, “you would be better off dead.”

“H-Heh.” There’s no humor in Stan’s tone. “You forget, I used to work for ol’ jefe. I worked for him before you were even out of diapers. I know perfectly well what he’s capable of.”

“Good.” A grin breaks out on the guy’s face. “Now, I well have your report.”

And isn’t that a shocker. Because, even after all this time, Stan knows that’s not protocol. Rico’s the sort to not trust anyone with what he’s after. He’d claw, mime, and murder before he let one of his own get their grubby hands on his prize. Which leaves Stan with a very eye-opening realization.

This kid’s got guts. And it will likely get him killed.

“Nah-ah. No can do.” Stan is going to save this idiot’s life, whether he’ll appreciate it or not. “You should know better than that. I report only to Rico, or not at all. Them’s the rules. I remember that much. What, you trying to get on his good side? ‘Cause, let me tell you, it’s not much better than being on his bad side.”

“Callarse la boca.” The guy huffs, unimpressed and annoyed. He’ll probably never know the favor Stan just served him. “Very well. You have a meeting place?”

Stan hesitates. “Alistair Brewster…”

“Who?”

“The man I visited in Fresno,” Stan growls back.

“What of him?”

“You didn’t touch him?”

Rico’s follower rolls his eyes. “We had no need to. Unless he proved a threat. It is as you say, he is merely a colleague of your brother. Nothing more. You took a great risk in seeking him out, anciano. Had we not done our research, his life would have been forfeit. It still may be.”

Stan is not impressed. He knows that if Alistair has been spared, it can only be to further Rico’s ever thriving agenda.

“Yeah, well. Rico always does his research. It’s his most redeeming characteristic.” He huffs. “His only redeeming characteristic.”

The smug amusement drops from the man’s face, replaced with clipped annoyance. “Choose a meeting place.”

“Wait, one more thing.”

“¿Ahora que?” his opponent hisses, impatient.

“My family.”

“Por el amor de Dios, they are fine,” the younger man growls. “But if you don’t come through with your end of the deal, they won’t stay that way. ¿Lo entiendes?”

Stan takes a deep breath and nods. “There’s some abandoned apartment buildings in Oakland. I saw them when I passed through last night. There’s one on the south side, next to an old high rise. It’s remote, and a good block or so from anyone who’d notice us or care. I’ll be waiting on the fourth floor, around four o’clock. The door’ll be marked. Will that work?”

“Sí, por ahora. He will be there.”

“Yaaaay,” Stan drawls sarcastically.

The lackey spits to the side, apparently having been chewing tobacco or the like, sneering. He gives Stan a final look over, obviously just as unimpressed with what he sees as when he first crawled out of the shadows. He smirks, and begins to move further into the dim light of the alleyway. Just before he disappears completely from view, he pauses at the far end.

“And, anciano?”

“…Yeah?” Stan answers uncertainly.

“Do not cross him.”

Stanley Pines grins sharply. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter Text

It’s not long after Rico’s man leaves and Stan makes his way shakily back out of the alleyway that Ford and Roy show up. They pull alongside the curb in the red sedan, Roy not even bothering to turn the engine off before he’s getting out of the car and running up to Stan, fussing over him. Ford, however, remains unmoved and impassive in the passenger seat, silent and doggedly staring straight ahead. Refusing, it would seem, to even spare his brother a glance.

Stan had known Ford would be angry. He had expected it; mentally prepared for it. But it still makes his heart stumble a little in his chest, fear and shame already seeded and ready to sprout. Needless to say, the ride back to the Pines’ homestead is anything but pleasant.

Roy —bless him—tries to strike up a conversation once or twice along the way, and Stan politely tries to oblige, but Ford remains icily silent. Tension hangs over them all like a dark cloud, like heavy smoke over a volcano getting ready to spill its guts, and it’s mildly terrifying. Stan knows it’s only so long before everything blows up in his face, and sadly, he also knows that’s what needs to happen.

When they pull into the driveway, Ford opens his door and steps out before Roy can even fully stop. His movements are stiff, jerky; mad. He slams the car door behind him and starts making a beeline for the house. Roy sends his uncle a worried, questioning look, but Stan is already fumbling to open his door. He manages, and steps out, calling over the roof of the car to his fuming twin.

“Ford! Hey, wait up!”

Ford doesn’t.

Stanley swears under his breath and, slamming his own door closed, strides around the back of the sedan and takes off after his brother.

Mabel throws open the front door as they approach, grin bright and mouth already opening to welcome them back. Her smile drops and the words die in her throat as Ford sweeps past her and into the house without even sparing her a glance. Mabel blinks, stunned, hurt spreading across her youthful face, and Stan finds that only fuels his own anger toward his twin. Dipper is there, beside her, equally unsettled as Stan marches in only a moment later, still focused on Ford. Stan can sense Roy following in behind him, his hurried footsteps stuffing up the few steps leading inside, and Caroline just makes an entrance from the kitchen as Stan finally catches up to his brother.

Stan grabs Ford’s arm. “Come on, Ford, I—”

Ford rips out of Stan’s hold and whirls around so fast that Stan stumbles back a step.

“You lied!” Ford yells. His voice is loud and startling, freezing everyone else in the room and leaving them staring.

And Stan blinks, facing his twin as they both stand in the center of the living room, the epicenter of the household’s attention. Stan feels his blood go cold at the slight waver in his brother’s tone, but Ford only seems to burn hotter. He’s breathing hard, shaking with rage. He glares at Stan with an anger Stan hasn’t seen for a long time, and yet there’s a helpless sheen to Ford’s eyes, like he’s holding back tears.

“You lied to me! You lied to all of us!”

Mabel whimpers and Dipper reaches for her shoulder. Caroline has a hand over her mouth, watching with wide eyes. Roy, being the man of the house, takes the initiative to step forward and try to deescalate the situation.

“Now let’s all just calm down a bit and—”

But by then Stan has recovered from his shocked silence, and he holds up his hands. “Ford, listen, if this is about getting brought in by the police, you gotta hear me out—”

“You think this is just about the police?!” Ford fairly shrieks, his usually deep voice rising a few octaves, a wild look in his expression as he quickly grits his teeth, biting back saying anything more. A last ditch effort in keeping his temper.

Ford runs a hand through his hair, trying to take a deep breath while Stan stares, at a loss for words. Stan’s floundering.

“O-Okay,” Stan stutters out, “so maybe I didn’t come clean about the whole riding down to Fresno thing. But I was going to tell you eventually, I swear!”

His assurance, apparently, doesn’t mean much. Ford takes a threatening step toward Stan, but suddenly Roy is between them, laying a careful but firm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His voice is firm when he murmurs to them both, eyes stern.

“Not in front of the kids.”

And isn’t that just hilarious. Stan has to wrangle a protest behind his tongue, wanting to argue that Dipper and Mabel were hardly ‘kids’ anymore, in as much as they were now well into their teens, but he holds back. He’s not angry with Roy, and it wouldn’t be fair to take his frustrations out on his nephew.

Ford keeps his gaze locked on Stan as he squirms out of Roy’s hold. He straightens his sweater and then takes a leveled, less intimidating step forward, jabbing his finger into Stan’s chest.

“You still don’t get it,” Ford hisses. “Stanley, I don’t care about the police. I don’t care about the late night ride to Fresno to visit Alistair for Oracle knows what. What I care about is us.” He grips his hand to his own chest, fisting the material of his shirt right over his heart. “I thought we were getting somewhere. I thought we were becoming brothers again. That I could trust you like I could never trust anyone else. And then I find you’ve been lying to me the last few days?!”

Stan can feel his heart pick up again. “What do you mean the last few da—”

“The conference!” Ford explodes, throwing an arm out to emphasize a vague direction toward Pasadena. “Do you honestly believe I’d fall for the whole fight in an alley story? Stan, I’ve seen you fight! I’ve seen you up against things most people can’t even imagine and you’ve walked away less battered! If some ordinary hoodlum got into a round with you they’d lose!”

Ford straightens, voice going softer, lower; more dangerous. “You lied to me, and you’re still lying, and I want to know why.”

“I’m trying to protect you, you idiot!” Stan defends himself.

“From what?!” Ford demands.

Stan flinches back, closing into himself. He fixes his gaze to the floor between them. “I can’t tell you that,” Stan whispers.

Ford grits his teeth. “Because you don’t trust me,” he accuses.

Stan’s shoulders slump and he remains silent. The quiet hangs heavy on them all, no one daring to so much as breathe. His lack of an answer seems to be one in and of itself.

Ford’s eyes narrow. “Nevermind,” he growls. He turns on his heel and starts stomping his way toward the kitchen. “Even if you would answer it’d probably be a lie.”

It’s like a parting shot right into Stan’s heart. He just stands there, hands hanging limp at his sides, ears ringing slightly and the ghosts of words past echoing hauntingly in his mind. From another time, another fight. But this time, deep down, Stan knows this is the way things have to be. Ford might never forgive him, he might hold a grudge for another thirty years, but at least Ford will be alive. An angry Ford was a reclusive Ford. And the farther away from Stan Ford was right now, the better.

It still hurts though.

It hurts a lot.

Stan’s so caught up in the turmoil of his emotions that he doesn’t notice Roy exchange a nervous glance with Caroline before he moves to follow Ford out of the living room. Caroline, likewise, slowly moves over to Stan.

“…Uncle?” she says carefully. She sets a feather-light touch of her hand on his shoulder.

And just like that Stanley takes all the pain and hurt and does what he did for thirty plus years—he scrunches it up and shoves it deep, deep down within himself.

Stan pastes on a grin and scratches the back of his head. “Well. That could have gone better. Don’t worry, though, me and Ford’ll work it out. We always do.”

He can’t bear to look at the kids. He doesn’t have the heart, knowing how much they hate it when he and his brother fight. He fears seeing their sadness, or worse yet, their disappointment. And Caroline…

Well, her eyes are too kind and sorrowful for Stan to meet for long.

Stan mentally shakes himself and hikes up his shoulders in a theatric shrug. “Heh. Guess I’d best make myself scarce until he calms down. Sorry for all the drama.”

Caroline makes a soft, choked sound, like she might cry. “Stanley—”

“I’ll be upstairs,” Stan interrupts, not unkindly. He pats her hand on his shoulder before gently removing it. He keeps his grin wide. “Gonna catch a few winks. Didn’t sleep too good last night and I’m beat. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

And then, like the coward he is, Stanley heads straight for the stairs.

He hears Caroline call after him again in a weak voice, but he doesn’t stop. He makes his way up the steps as quickly as his old knees can manage. When he reaches the top and turns the corner into the hall, he pauses, pressing his back against the wall to listen out of sight. There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then a strangled noise from Mabel, followed by the determined stomp of young feet starting after him. Stan’s heart jumps in his throat at the sound, but Caroline puts a halt to Mabel’s advance.

“Wait, honey, I…I know you want to help, but I think…I think your Grunkle Stan needs a little space right now. Okay, sweetie?”

“But they’re both hurting.” Mabel’s voice comes out strained and quivery, breaking Stan’s heart a little more. “They need to hug it out! They need to talk!”

“I know, Mabel. I know, but…” Caroline trails off, while Dipper’s silence is uncomfortably present.

Finally, after a long, tense moment, Mabel sighs. “…Okay.”

There’s a bit of shuffling, and when Stan takes a risk in peering down around the corner of the wall he can just make out Caroline pulling both her teens into a motherly embrace. She’s trying to soothe over the upset he and Ford had caused.

Stan can’t watch anymore. He turns away from the sad scene of his own making and heads for his and Ford’s assigned bedroom. He closes the door behind him once he’s inside, leaving Stan to stand beside the mattress, hands clenching and unclenching in uncertainty.

Everything’s falling apart, but that’s okay. He only has to worry about Rico and his plan with Alistair. He can’t afford to wait around and make amends with his brother, or apologize to Roy, Caroline, and the twins. He hopes they can all find it within themselves to forgive him if he doesn’t make it back. And if he does make it back…Well, maybe by then he’d have redeemed himself by putting Rico and his gang behind bars. For good.

But that’s a big if, Stan knows.

And that’s…okay. It really is. Stan has always been a gambler; a risk taker. And this isn’t the first time he’s put himself on the line for the sake of his family. So he moves, grabbing a few things from his luggage before slipping out of the window via the porch and drainpipe. He’s a little out of practice, and feels sort of like a desperate teenager again, sneaking out for a night on the town, but he manages. And then he’s hurrying off across the lawn, heading for the main road, mindful to stay out of sight of any of his family’s windows.

This time, Stanley can only hope that luck will be enough to win his gamble.

Stanford stomps out into the Pines’ backyard, slamming the door behind him. Childish maybe, but he’s not really in the state of mind to care. Instead, he stands there on the lawn, stewing in his rage.

Ford is no stranger to negative emotion. If he were to weigh it against all the positive feelings in his life, it would doubtless be a rather depressing ratio. But even taking that into consideration, Ford feels stranded and lost. His fury and hurt rise up like a tide to drown him, and he barely has the strength to swim. The waves swirl, filled with self doubt and righteous frustration, and instead of treading the waters he’s left to flounder, doggy paddling his way to an inevitable end. Whatever that may be.

So Ford weathers the sensation as he has for years, alone and silent, teeth pressed down on his tongue, shoulders hiked up and fists tightly clenches at his sides. His mind is a fiery inferno of angry thoughts, consuming all understanding or love that he would usually extend to his brother. All Ford knows is that it burned, and he despises it; wishes he had never let it spark in his heart. But now the flames were consuming him, and there was nothing to do but wait it out.

There’s the sound of the back door opening with a light creak, and Ford grits his teeth, expecting Stanley. He whirls around, another forked sentence already on his tongue, but it dies as he spies Royland standing there, looking both determined and incredibly patient. Seeing his nephew is like a dowse of cold water down Ford’s spine, and some of that hot anger diminishes to a sickening warmth. Ford turns away again, shame beginning to mix in with his other emotions, realizing what a scene he must have made. But he’s also still too upset to fully care just yet.

“I apologize for my behavior, Royland,” Ford says tightly, “But I must insist on some space for the time being.”

He grits his teeth into the following silence, listening for a response, or perhaps the sound of the back door opening and closing again —an audible sign of Royland’s departure. All Ford hears, however, is the city traffic and a few far off song birds. There’s the gentle fabric thwap of the wind tugging at a nearby flag, but nothing more. Ford waits several long moments before he sighs and turns back to face his nephew, finding the younger man standing there, waiting. Only when Royland has Ford’s full attention does he finally speak.

“The kids are upset.”

It’s enough to fully extinguish Ford’s anger. His shoulders lower and he looks to the grass beneath his feet, that feeling of guilt and shame now fully blooming.

“I…should have waited for them to leave the room,” Ford admits.

“Yes,” Royland agrees. “You should have.”

Ford feels chastened, but not entirely judged.

Royland gives a hum and moves to a lawn bench that sits up against the siding of the house. He brushes it off with his hand, then lowers himself onto it, leaving noticeable room for Ford to join him if he wished to.

“But since things are the way they are,” Roy continues, “maybe we should take a moment to breathe.”

Ford blinks, thrown off by his nephew’s calm demeanor. It’s in that moment that Stanford realizes just how little he knows about his eldest brother’s son. How few years of his life Ford has been a part of at all. He remembers Royland as an infant, their mother occasionally watching over him while Shermie and Rose were off house hunting. Ford can recall Roy lying in his mother’s arms the night Stanley was sent away, and it leaves an ache in his chest at the thought. Other than that, Ford remembers very little about his nephew. He had gone to college at Backupsmore and then on to Gravity Falls. Roy might have been at Ford’s graduation, the lad five or six years old, but other than that…Nothing. Yet another joy in Ford’s life robbed by his confounded grudge.

And now here he was again, harboring anger toward his twin…

Feeling subdued, Ford slowly moves to the bench and sits down, hunched over, elbows on his knees and hands tightly clasped in front of him. Royland waits a few minutes before he leans back against the wall behind him.

“You know…my father used to talk about you and Uncle Stan. Not often. It was…hard for him. But he loved you both very much, that much was always clear to me.”

Ford closes his eyes as Royland continues with a chuckle.

“He said you were a pair of little hellions. Always off on some adventure or other, getting into trouble and then somehow getting yourself right back out of it.” Roy pauses, then says, quieter, “You were inseparable. And then one night dad came to pick me up from Gram and Gramps to find that Stanley was gone. And you…He said you were never the same. He said you were torn. Consumed by anger and hurt and bitterness. It broke my father’s heart. For years he believed you two could still make up, that things could be fixed…But then we received news that Stan had…Well…It almost killed dad. Until his dying day he carried that grief.”

Ford drags in a slow, shaky breath. His voice, when he tries to speak, comes out weak and croaking. “Royland, I-I’m—”

“I don’t want your apology, Uncle Stanford,” Roy says quickly. He turns and gives Ford a warm, reassuring smile that practically screams Mabel. “I don’t need it. I had a happy childhood, a great father and a darling mother. I met a wonderful woman who I love, and we have ourselves two amazing children. My father lived a short but happy life, filled with some regrets, but even greater hopes and dreams.”

Roy pauses again, keeping Ford’s gaze with a stern but not unkind expression. “The only ones you and Uncle Stan have truly hurt are yourselves. The rest of us, we all moved on, paved a way to better lives, even if you and Stan weren’t in it. But what did that night, all those years ago, ever do for you?”

Ford doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t have to. They both know the answer.

Because the answer is nothing.

Nothing but pain, and fear, and hurt, and loneliness.

Royland nods as if he can hear Ford’s thoughts. He looks up to let his eyes wander the backyard. It’s not a big enclosure, fenced in by the city neighbors, but it’s nice. The grass is pale winter green, dried of all rain and dew. A single tree, currently bare, stands tall and majestic in the corner, a bird bath and sundial regally laid out beneath it. The sky above is bright and blue, though as the sun sets the shadows grow longer and the blue deepens. It’s peaceful. It feels like home away from home.

Roy smiles to himself. “The day Mabel’s letter came that said you were both back together again…Well, to be honest, it was a bit hard to believe. After all, for years we’d been living under the belief that Stanley had died. But once things were confirmed…I think my father would have been so proud of you both.”

Royland pauses, careful. “I also think…he’d be really scared for you two right now. Afraid that you were about to let another argument tear you apart again.”

Ford grits his teeth, some of his anger returning, this time defensive. “Stan has been lying. First at the conference, and then again last night. How am I supposed to trust him if I can’t be sure whether or not every word that comes out of his mouth is a deception?!”

Roy is undeterred. He merely shrugs. “You know Stan better than anyone else,” he says. “You tell me.”

The scientist growls in frustration and stands, beginning to pace. “Stanley has always bent the rules to get what he wants. Ever since we were children. He’s manipulative, and secretive, and—and—”

Ford stutters to silence, unable to continue. He’s tired. Tired of being angry, of being worried, and of not being able to be there for Stanley because his brother won’t open up.

Roy waits a beat, then says, “You know, my dad once told me a story about you two. About the time you both went on the hunt for some sort of demon in Glass Shards Beach.”

“The Jersey Devil,” Ford supplies in a mumble.

Roy beams. “That’s the one. He said Stan had stolen something from Gramp’s shop. Or, well, borrowed it. With the intention of cleaning it up and returning it. Do you remember why, Uncle Ford? Why Stan lied back then?”

Ford stops pacing, going very still, breathing and staring down at his feet. Tremulously, he dredges up those age worn memories to the forefront of his mind.

“Why did you steal Pa’s chain?! I trusted you! I defended you!”

“I-I didn’t steal it, okay?! I was borrowing it! I was gonna polish it up for Pa as a father’s day gift! But I accidentally smashed the case and got too scared and embarrassed to tell him what happened! No matter what I do, I’m not a genies like you. I’m a dumb idiot who screws everything up. Do you know what it’s like being the stupid twin? I wish just once Pa would look at me the way he looks at you. Like he actually likes me.”

“He was afraid,” Ford whispers. “Afraid and hurting.”

Royland nods. “My dad said Stan was always the more mischievous of the two of you. He got you both in a lot of messes over the years, but his intentions were always good, out of love for his family and a longing to just be loved in return. Would you say that’s true?”

Stanford doesn’t answer for a long moment, then he sighs. “If Shermie had been there the night Pa kicked Stan out, I doubt it ever would have happened in the first place. He always knew how to look beyond our actions and emotions, to see what drove them. Drove us.”

Roy smirks. “My father was very wise.”

“He was,” Ford huffs, amused. “Even after all this time, he’s still setting me and Stan straight.” With that, Ford turns and starts heading for the house.

Royland stands from his seat on the bench. “Where are you going?”

Ford pauses with his hand on the knob of the back door, sending his nephew a sheepish bit appreciative smile. “To talk to my twin brother. For real this time.”

Roy grins and nods as Ford disappears into the house. He’s left smiling to himself, standing there alone but happy. Roy casts his eyes heavenward. “They’ve come a long way, Pops. You’d be real proud of them.”

No one answers, of course, but the sun comes out from behind a cloud and Roy closes his eyes to soak up the warmth.

When Ford barges back into the kitchen, Caroline and the kids startle from where they’re sitting at the table. Dipper looks apprehensive, but Mabel’s worried frown instantly turns into a cheeky grin when she sees Ford’s lighter, more determined mood.

“Dad talk some sense into you?” she chirps as Ford passes, and the elder can’t help but chuckle at her bluntness.

“You could say that, yes. I will return shortly.” And Ford sends the kids a reassuring smile as he marches onward. Mabel’s triumphant whoop follows him out, along with Dipper’s instruction that Stan is up in his and Ford’s room.

Ford strides into the hall, through the living room, and up the stairs, his footing sure and passionate. He takes the steps two at a time, eager to work things out. He only pulls up short when he reaches the top of the stairs and turns the corner to find the door of their room closed, but even then Ford only pauses for a moment. Using his knuckles, he raps on the wood, three sharp but gentle taps.

“Stanley? Stanley, open up, I want to talk to you. And apologize. May I come in?”

There’s no answer, but Ford hardly expected one, at least at first, Stan was, after all, just as stubborn as Ford himself. Stanford waits a moment, then raps again, a little louder.

“Stan, please. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I want to listen to what you have to say this time. We can work out whatever is wrong. Together.”

Still no answer.

Ford releases a frustrated huff, but isn’t about to take no for an answer. “Oh for Tesla’s sake.” And he grasps the doorknob with a firm twist and opens the door, stepping through. “Of all the childish—”

The words die in his throat. Ford’s eyes widen and his jaw goes slack. He stands there, in the doorway, motionless, staring into the empty room. His gaze trails the unmade bed, Stan’s ransacked dufflebag, and finally comes to rest on the wide open window, where the cold wind rustles the lacy curtains.

“By the Oracle,” Ford breathes, before he turns and runs back for the stairs.

“You know, if you’re hungry I can stop and get you something to eat.”

Stan instantly lowers his nails from his teeth, sending an annoyed glance at Alistair in the driver’s seat. It’s a stupidly motherly thing for the guy to say, but he’s right. At this rate Stan will gnaw his fingers down to the nubs. He needs to try and calm down. Stan leans back against the leather cushioning of Alistair’s car, eyes turning to watch the landscape scroll by. Alistair, thankfully, notes Stan’s lack of humor and returns his focus to the road ahead of them.

“Are you nervous?”

Stan releases an anxious laugh. “What? Who, me? I’m just the guy about to try and double cross the most powerful crime boss in the western United States. For the second time, mind you. What could I possibly have to be nervous about?”

Alistair chuckles.

Stan sighs. “Sorry. Yeah, I guess I’m a little on edge.”

Alistair Brewster nods. “Understandable. Just remember, you aren’t alone in this. Together we can take this Rico fellow and his gang down.”

Stanley stares into his own reflection in the passenger side window. “You talk like you’re sure everything’ll turn out okay,” he mumbles.

“Mm. Call it intellectual intuition. Things will work out the way they’re meant to.”

“Yeah,” Stan huffs. “Sure.”

They continue to drive on in silence for the next few miles. Stan occupies that time thinking of his family and trying hard not to have a panic attack. There is so much hanging on this plan going right. If he fails…

Well. He just can’t. Failure wasn’t an option.

He thinks of how upset Ford will be when he finds Stan missing. Ford had already been furious with him. Stan had driven him away and caused a rift between them again, just like all those years ago. And, despite that having been part of the plan—the only true way to ensure Ford would stay away from Stan and out of Rico’s sight — it still sits in Stan’s chest like a heavy weight. Cold, solid, and uncomfortable.

Alistair must read into his somber silence. “He’ll forgive you,” the Brit assures gently. “After all of this is over, I’m sure things will go back to normal between you two. He’ll understand.”

Stan’s too tired to argue, so he just nods.

Alistair had picked Stan up as planned, several blocks from the Pines’ residence. The time had been prearranged, and Stan could only be grateful that he hadn’t been detained any longer at the police station than he had been. Still, he cut it close. Alistair had apologized profusely about the whole arrest scenario. He said he’d been out running errands, and he didn’t own a cell phone, so he’d been terribly shocked when the authorities had finally reached him and told Alistair about Stanley. He’d given a quick testimony, and demanded Stan’s release. They both aimed to stick to the plan they had devised the night before.

“You said the abandoned lots in Oakland, right?” Alistair checks.

Stan nods. “Apartments, yeah.”

“Why there?”

“Apartment buildings tend to have multiple exits,” Stanley explains with a shrug. “If I have to make a run for it, I’ll have more choices. That, and it gives the police more entry points to close in on Rico and his guys.”

Alistair seems impressed. “That’s good thinking.”

“Yeah, well, it won’t amount to much if this doesn’t work. Let’s not celebrate my genius just yet. In the meantime, let’s run through the plan again. Repeat it back to me.”

Alistair obliges. “I drop you off a few blocks from the appointed meeting place. While you go to meet with Rico, I drive to the nearest phone booth and call the authorities. I am to tell them where to find the criminals, and at what time they need to be there. Four on the dot, correct?"

"Yup."

"Why do you have to be there so early?"

"I have to get things set up for Rico. And get a lay of the land, I guess. Better than going in blind."

"Ah, I see," Alistair hums. "And then, after all of that, I'm to get into position to pick you up at the drop off point, also at four o'clock on the nose.”

Stan gives a tight sigh of relief and a nod. “We’ll have to be quick. Rico’s gonna smell that something’s off, so don’t take forever in getting to the pickup spot. I’ll distract him as long as I can.”

“Got it.” More concerned, Alistair adds, “Will you be alright?”

The other chuckles humorlessly. “I’d do almost anything to rid the earth of that monster. I’ll be alright. It takes a lot to take Stan Pines down.”

Alistair smiles. “Just be careful.”

Stan gives an affirmative grunt in return.

The rest of the short ride is spent in further silence, other than the occasional murmured question for directions. Otherwise, they are quiet, both occupied with their own thoughts. Clouds are rolling in, promising rain, though probably not until tomorrow. Stan regards them with narrowed eyes, hoping it’s not an omen of his luck to follow. He mustn’t let thoughts like that get to him, though. All he can do is his best, and pray it will suffice. Suburbs turn to city once more, until finally, after what feels like ages, Stan points to the wayside.

“Pull up to this curb. This is it.”

Oakland is a decent enough place, and the largest city in the East Bay region of the San Francisco Bay Area, if one wanted to get technical. It’s heavily populated, and a hub for trade and economics, but besides that Stan knows very little about it’s origins or overall statistics. All he knows is that it will supply him with a suitable meetup location, and may or may not be the last town he ever sets foot in.

They have encroached on the less pleasant part of Oakland, where buildings have, like in many major cities, been left to rot and decay in peace. Far from any notable inhabitants, it is both shady and exactly what they need. Here the streets are narrower, and cluttered with trash and homeless nests, with the gray, lifeless shadows of abandoned buildings towering high overhead. It’s like something out of those Twilight Zone episodes, where some poor sap somehow ends up the last man on earth after a nuclear war.

It’s far from inviting.

Once they stop moving, Stan opens his door and starts to get out. He’s startled when Alistair reaches out and grabs his arm, halting his exit. Stan looks up questioningly at his companion.

“I mean it,” Alistair says with sincerity. “Be safe.”

Stan nods. “I’ll do my best.” He starts to move again, then hesitates. “If…for some reason I don’t make it out of this,” he grunts without meeting Alistair’s gaze. “Tell my family I…”

He can’t finish, trailing off miserably, but Alistair understands, nodding solemnly. Stan takes that as his cue, getting out and closing the car door behind him. Stan shoots a glance every which way, hoping there is no one there to witness his arrival, then watches as Alistair peels away from the curb.

Stanley Pines is left to walk the few blocks to his destination, alone. With each step his heart beats faster and his stomach turns harder.

Sheesh. He gets himself into the worst situations…

Chapter Text

Ford doesn’t panic.

At least, not at first. He’s always been one to look at the logical side of things, reason them out before letting his emotions take the wheel. He’s not always successful, but he’d like to think, as a scientist, that he accomplishes it more often than not. In that line of thinking, Stanley very well could have just gone out for a walk to blow off steam, or hidden himself away in some solitary part of the house for a bit of peace and quiet. Nothing to get all worked up about, though Ford is frustrated that his brother has, yet again, wandered off without telling him.

Stanford races downstairs the moment he discovers the bedroom empty, concerned, but by the time he reaches the kitchen he’s got his head on a bit straighter, wrestling any unease back under control. He informs the family of Stan’s disappearance in a calm voice, with maybe the smallest edge of worry and annoyance. They all reassure him, just as he reassures himself, that Stan will come back when he’s ready, and not a moment before. Stan used to do this a lot during the early days of his amnesia recovery, going out to try and work through whatever he was feeling at any given time. It had driven Ford to near insanity, always trying to keep watch over his twin, but he also understood his brother’s need to sort through and re-assimilate the jigsaw puzzle of his life.

And so now, just as he did then, Stanford waits.

Then the clock hits the half hour mark. And that, even for Stan, is a fair bit longer than it usually takes for the ex-conman to cool off and gather his thoughts. Troubling, but no cause for alarm just yet. Ford becomes fidgety, leg jittering whenever he sits, and the scientist pacing whenever he stands. His family sends him and the clock uneasy glances.

At the one hour mark they begin to search. Ford and Roy — and by extension Caroline, Dipper, and Mabel — scour every inch of their home, yard, and the immediate neighborhood with not so much as a glimpse of Stan.

Then Ford starts to panic.

Stanley would probably make fun of him for it later, when he inevitably waltzed in through the door like nothing were wrong, asking why they’d all been so upset over nothing. But this…this feels different. Ford’s instincts are rarely mistaken, honed by adventures from a hundred alien worlds, and every one of those instincts is currently screaming at him that not only is Stan missing, but he is in some sort of danger.

When a full hour and a half has passed, and there is still no sign of Stanley, Roy and Ford climb into the red sedan and drive around a little, expanding the radius of their search. Still, they find neither hide nor hair of Stan, and time keeps clawing forward. They return to the house empty handed, Ford now at the end of his already frayed tether.

“Could he have hitched a ride to somewhere?” Royland murmurs, glancing out of the living room window toward the pavement for the hundredth time. Like Stanley will just appear, lumbering his way up the walk.

They’ve all decided to take a moment and sit, to try and work through things instead of running around in a whirl. Maybe, if they breathed and cleared their minds, some answer as to Stanley’s whereabouts would make itself known. So far, they hadn’t had any luck.

“Where would he go?” Dipper answers. He’s sitting on the couch with his sketchbook, the paper opened to a blank page now littered with a list of places they’ve yet to search. Most of them have already been crossed out.

Ford sits beside the boy, hands in his lap, leg nervously bouncing and gaze staring into the middle distance. “This isn’t like him. Yes, I know he was angry, and that’s my fault, but…even still, Stanley wouldn’t want to worry us. He would have told us where he was going.”

“Well, I think we should call the police,” Caroline asserts, not for the first time. She’s standing next to Mabel, an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, the two sticking close.

Royland hums. “I wasn’t so sure before, but now…They’ll be able to expand the search farther and quicker than any of us could do on our own.”

“But he was with the police earlier today,” Mabel sniffles. “Won’t it be kind of embarrassing to get picked up twice in one day?”

“Embarrassing for who?” Dipper chides.

Mabel shrugs. “Grunkle Stan.”

“At this point in time, I would say that Stanley’s pride is the least of our concerns.” Ford nods to the two other adults in the room. “I think contacting the authorities is the best course of action we have left to us.”

After all, Caroline is correct in her belief that the police may be able to help, and though Stanford would prefer to keep the issue at hand in the family…there’s really no reason to reject additional assistance. The authorities were not generally corrupt or dangerous in this dimension, unlike some other worlds Ford had known. And even if Stan later showed up, unharmed and confused by their worry, they wouldn’t have lost anything, other than perhaps a bit of credibility. And that hardly mattered when Stan’s safety was possibly on the line.

Mabel immediately takes off for the hallway. “I’ll get the phone!” No one stops her, knowing the girl has been aching for something to do, and a moment later she’s racing back, the wireless landline phone in hand. “Here, Grunkle Ford!”

“Thank you, my dear.” Ford stands from the couch, six-fingered hand already extended to accept the device. Mabel passes it over dutifully. “While I call, I would appreciate it if the rest of you could keep coming up with possible—”

The relative silence of the room is suddenly broken by a shrill ring.

The Pines’ startle, eyes flitting to the telephone now in Ford’s possession, the small digital screen lit up and flashing an unknown phone number. There’s a stunned beat of silence, the timing almost comical, before the spell is quickly shattered.

Dipper blinks. “Is that—”

“Quick! Quick! Maybe it’s Grunkle Stan!” Mabel squeals, at the same time Ford is already fumbling to press the button to answer. He manages and hurriedly holds the device to his ear.

“H-Hello?!” he yelps, a bit too loud. “Stanley?!”

There’s the sound of wind or rustling on the other end, some static, but then a voice yells out loud and clear, and Ford winces at the volume.

“Stanford!?”

Ford freezes, hand slowly raising to cradle the bottom of the phone as he frowns. “…Alistair?” It’s near impossible to mistake the other scientist’s lilting British tone.

“Yes! Yes, it’s me!”

Relief floods Ford’s mind, almost bringing him to his knees. Stanley had driven to Alistair’s the night before, spent time down at the police station for it. If anyone were to know what was going on with Stanley, and where he might be, it would be his old Backupsmore colleague.

“Alistair, do you—”

“Stanford, I’m so sorry, I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen to me! He’s so stubborn and reckless and—”

That first sentence alone is enough to make Ford’s blood run cold. Alistair sounds panicked, his usually calm, measured, accented voice all but hysterical as it blasts over the wireless connection. Ford finds himself turning his back to his family, taking a few quick steps to the side, like he can shield them from wherever this horrible conversation is going.

“Alistair—Alistair, slow down!” Ford cuts in to the other man’s rambling, that cold sort of lump forming in his stomach growing that much denser. The relief is gone now; there is only fear.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Royland asks, speaking for the rest of the group now staring, growing more and more worried by the second.

Ford merely holds up a finger to his lips, motioning for everyone to stay silent. He only vaguely notices that his hands are shaking as he reaffirms his hold on the device and presses it tightly to his ear, putting every effort into remaining calm.

“Breathe. Breathe, and then tell me what you are talking about.”

“It’s Stanley!” Alistair gasps out. “Stanford, I didn’t know what he was asking of me, I swear! Had I known what he was planning I never would have agreed to be a part of it!”

“What—”

“He’s in danger, Stanford! He needs you!”

And like the deep knell of a time-worn chime, Ford feels a strike to his very being. Nerves and anger fall aside like they’re nothing — because when weighed against Stanley’s safety and well-being, they are. Stan could lie to Ford all he wanted, he could con and weasel his way through any scam he liked; all Ford cared about was that his twin brother was out of harm’s way.

Ford straightens, already snapping his fingers and gesturing to Dipper’s pen and paper. The boy is sharp as always, and quickly hands the items over. Ford settles on the edge of the couch, readying the pen to write with his leg as a brace.

The question strangles out of his throat. “Where is he?”

“O-Oakland! Oh-Oh god, what have I done—”

“I need a bit more than that,” Ford snaps out. Writing is hard with his hands trembling the way they are, but he manages. Thankfully, Alistair doesn’t seem hurt by his impatience, and Ford can apologize later, when Stanley is safe.

“R-Right. Right. He’s in an abandoned apartment building on the south side of Oakland. The—The one next to the old high rise.”

Ford frowns. “There could be a dozen or more such buildings! Alistair—”

“That’s all I know! I’m sorry! Stanley plans to meet with some terrible man there! Some fellow called…called Rico!”

Rico.

The name itself means nothing to Ford. There’s no face, no figure, no voice he can match it up to. He doesn’t know anyone in this world, or any world, with that name. Not personally.

But…

Ford recalls the whimpers and pleas for mercy coming from Stanley’s bunk on the Stan O’War II, his brother suffering through the worst of his nightmares. They’d started not long after Stanley regained his memories, and Ford had hoped they’d get better once they were out at sea.

They did, but not at first.

Even three years later, on nights Stan was especially worn and tired, or under the weather, his cries in the darkness still haunted them both, punctuated by the gasping, strangled name…of Rico.

Stanford had long since surmised that the name was a ghost from Stan’s past, the part they couldn’t restore. And seeing how much distress it caused in Stan’s sleep, Ford was almost grateful to his brother’s ten or so lost years. His twin never remembered the dreams when he awoke, other than a sense of feeling trapped and alone, leaving Ford to hold his brother and assure him that he was neither. The nightmares had grown more infrequent over time, but they still persisted.

Stanford had come to dread them.

Ford tightens his hold on the phone, his shoulders tensing as adrenaline starts pumping through his veins. Whoever this Rico individual is, Ford is going to make sure he can never hurt Stanley again.

“I’m on my way,” Ford grits, and he hangs up the phone before Alistair can so much as stutter through an answer. He tosses the device to Dipper, the boy fumbling the catch before he gets a hold, eyes wide. By then, Ford is already by the door and tugging on his coat, sketchbook with vague directions still in hand.

“Whoa, wait,” Caroline contends, stepping forward with a sense of apprehension. “Who was that? Where are you going?”

“Time is of the essence, I’m afraid. Please, just trust me, and I will fill you all in later.” Ford doesn’t bother zipping up his jacket, instead he meets Roy’s confused gaze and demands, “Keys.”

Royland automatically gropes for his pocket, and the set of keys still shoved inside from when he and Ford had searched the block for Stan. He tosses them to Ford without question, trusting unconditionally. “Do you want us to do anything?”

“Just…”

For the first time, Ford hesitates. In his mind he can hear Stan’s voice, desperate and frustrated, claiming that his actions were to protect him. Protect their family. That, alone, makes up Ford’s mind for him.

“Stay here. Please. I will call if I need assistance, but for now it would be best if I fetch Stanley on my own.”

“Uh, do you even know how to drive??” Dipper squeaks out, stumbling after Ford as the scientist heads for the door.

Ford doesn’t answer this question, but he does turn to give both teens a stern look. “Do not follow me. I can understand the need to help, but this is…this is something Stan and I need to work through, just the two of us. Understand? Do not, under any circumstances outside of a call from me, come after us.”

Mabel droops, apparently having already been planning something. Stanford has never been so grateful for not supplying the children with any more information than needed in his life.

“Fiiiine,” Mabel groans, while Dipper nods.

“Give me your word,” Ford insists, and the kids’ eyes widen, caught off guard by just how serious he sounds. Good. That’s what Ford needs them to know, that this is no joking matter.

The teens exchange uncertain looks, before nodding to each other, Dipper answering for them both. “We promise.”

Excellent. Ford knows they’ll keep that.

“Stay alert in case I call,” Ford shoots over his shoulder as he grasps the door knob and pulls. He’s out on the front lawn before any of his family can try to stop him.

It’s later afternoon, the sun far in the west. Ford only notes it with the intention of gauging how much time he has until true dusk, hoping that he has enough time to find his brother before it’s too dark to see. It takes about eleven minutes to drive from Piedmont to Oakland, but the time of day will ensure traffic, particularly over the bridge. He’ll need to push the speed limit, but not so much as to get pulled over. His license is expired by a good thirty years—something he really should get around to fixing.

The red sedan is right where Royland left it, and Ford climbs in and slams the door in a swift, hurried motion. He jabs the keys into the ignition and starts the engine, quickly taking note of all the gauges and buttons, trying to reacquaint himself with the ins and outs of piloting an Earth vehicle. It’s fairly standardized, no matter what dimension you drive in, so he grits his teeth and decides he’ll have to take a page from Stan’s book and just ‘wing it’. He slams the car into reverse, and with a squeal of tires — and a sharp clang as he accidentally takes out an empty metal trash can— he careens out onto the street.

A few moments later and he’s long gone, the driveway empty and the open door of the house crowded with worried family faces.

The old, abandoned apartment building is perfect.

Or, well, as perfect as a spot for a meeting with a dangerous criminal can possibly be.

The outside of the structure is inconspicuous and nondescript, the apartments inside nothing out of the ordinary other than that they are old and probably haven’t been used in decades. The location is ideal, in a relatively low-income area of town, so no one would look twice at an aging man entering or exiting the building, most residents either too far to see, or too disinterested to care. The apartment ruins are just another crumbling property in a sea of ill-kept structures, nothing to catch anyone’s attention. Just as Stan had hoped for.

Stanley is grateful for his foresight in arriving early, allowing him to take in his surroundings. He imagines his escape routes, knowing that trouble will inevitably occur and he will need a viable exit to evade Rico’s wrath. The criminal boss is no fool, and Stanley isn’t exactly on the guy’s Christmas card list. Rico will be suspicious and cautious from the start. A part of Stan, a very old and weary part, doubts he’ll be able to pull this off at all. But with Alistair helping on the side, Stan can’t deny that spark of hope from growing in his chest; the hope that this will all actually work. Rico won’t be expecting Stanley to team up with anyone, believing him to be too cowed to try something so risky. And that’s just what might tip the scales in Stan’s favor.

Stan wanders carefully throughout the abandoned apartment complex. It’s dark and gray, and covered in dust and bits of plaster. The concrete floors are bare, all carpeting and furnishings removed long ago. Graffiti marks most of the walls, swirling stains depicting indecipherable bubble letters and the occasional lewd painting. Stan winces and moves on.

He locates the front door of the lobby, and two sets of stairwells, one on either side of the building. They’re in terrible shape, but testing the steps and rails proves that they can more than hold Stan’s weight, so that’s a relief. The front entrance itself is boarded up, meant to discourage the homeless and curious from waltzing in. Obviously, it didn’t do much good, but at least the town made the effort. It’s a viable escape route, though Stan would prefer a clearer path. He spends about fifteen minutes dragging debris aside and plying off a few planks, making it easier to access.

The elevators are completely out of the question in Stan’s opinion. He would rather go another round with a dream demon than risk stepping into one of those death traps. He doesn’t trust the old cables, and, even if he did, the electricity has surely been cut off, rendering them inactive. It would be best to stick to the stairs, despite their moderately decrepit state.

And so Stan is left with three sure exits: the main entrance, the fire escape in the right side stairwell, and the second fire escape in the left. There was also the roof — which Stan was likely not to use — and an odd assortment of old, dusty windows, some of them with glass panes and some of them without.

All in all, it isn’t the most ideal situation, but it’s a lot better than most other places Stan could have chosen.

Routes mentally plotted, Stan moves on to the next order of business. He follows his own vague instructions to pinpoint the room he had in mind originally, a small apartment on the fourth floor. It takes a bit to find something he can use to mark the door, but he ends up using a sharp chunk of broken plaster to etch a large X in the wood, deeming that good enough. He tosses the plaster aside, surveying his work with grim satisfaction. It will have to do.

Now, all Stan has left to do…is wait.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Time drags on slowly.

Tortuously so.

Stan is glad he came early, he really is, but that doesn’t mean he gleans any enjoyment from having to sit around. Mapping the apartment building out had taken less time than he had anticipated, leaving him a good hour or so to just…stand there. He’d decided to actually hold himself up in the appointed meeting room, sitting on the side of an old, dust-covered mattress. The silt and cobwebs tickle his throat and burn his eyes, but there’s nowhere else to go so he deals with it. He can handle physical discomfort, because, honestly, he’s had a lot worse.

No, what really gets to him is the achingly hollow voice of his own mind plaguing him with doubts and regrets. Because of course it is.

Stan could be the first to admit that he didn’t have the best mental health track record. Then again, looking back on his life, it really isn’t much of a mystery as to why that was true. A father impossible to please; a mother who barely said a word of truth her whole life; getting kicked out as a teen to live on the streets; getting involved with Rico’s gang; losing Ford to the portal—Yeah, that really didn’t do much for the old brain chemicals or whatever. But Stan had learned to live with it.

Things have been pretty good for him lately, though. And Stan can’t help but feel he doesn’t really deserve it. He’s done some not so nice things during his lifetime, got caught up with the wrong kind of people, lied, cheated, frauded, and pilfered. That’s not really the credentials of a man who had earned a happily ever after ending.

So as Stan sits there on the dusty, musky old mattress, hands folded tightly in his lap while he stares emptily down at the floor, his mind decides to remind him of every little thing that could possibly go wrong. It echoes that he’s a failure, a fool, and a screw up. That all he’s doing is setting himself up to ruin everything again, and that this time the stakes are so, so high.

Stan thinks of his family: of kind father-figure Roy; dear, sweet Caroline; fun, cheerful, sunshine Mabel; and clever, imaginative Dipper. He thinks of Gravity Falls, of Soos and Wendy, of all the townsfolk. He thinks of the Stan O’War II, stowed in a marina not far from where he is now.

And Stanley thinks of Ford. His brother. His twin.

All the doubts and regrets fall silent. Because, when it comes down to it, Stan can’t fail. Wittingly or no, his family’s lives depend on him bringing Rico to his end. Stan might not be able to pull this off for himself, but for the others…

He’ll save them, even if it kills him.

Any further thought is cut off by the sound of a door slamming shut and multiple heavy footsteps echoing up the nearest stairwell. Stan stands stiffly to his feet, not even bothering to brush the dust from his pants. He pastes on his best poker face and waits as the steps grow closer, and closer still. Until, finally, he sees the doorknob rattle and slowly turn.

“Show time,” Stan whispers to himself.

Driving is easier to pick back up than Ford expected. Then again, he has flown, driven, and commandeered countless machines throughout his time in the multiverse, a simple automobile certainly shouldn’t pose much of an issue. Still, it’s been a good thirty-something years since Ford had last reviewed Earth’s rules of the road, and while his memory is typically impeccable, even he has to admit he’s a little rusty.

That, paired with the fact that he has very little information on hand to pinpoint Stan’s location, makes for a frustratingly slow and confusing journey. While the drive to Oakland is fairly short, other than some tight traffic over the bridge which Ford had been expecting, the true issue crops up after he makes it into town.

Circling around shady neighborhoods, navigating up and down narrow streets lined with trash and abandoned warehouses, Ford searches for a high rise near any desolate apartment buildings, but it’s too generic an illustration. There has to be dozens of properties that meet that description, and meanwhile Ford can feel the clock ticking, his unease and worry growing by the second.

Ford releases an alien swear, neck sore from craning his head in various unnatural positions, peering through the windows and windshield of Roy’s car in his search. The streets are getting narrower, dumpsters and chain link fences becoming more and more common, some even barring his path. At this rate, he’d probably do better scouring the area on foot…

Struck by the idea, Ford makes a decision and heads back to a less questionable part of the town. He finds an empty parking spot alongside what appears to be a fairly run down laundromat. There are more residential homes here, and while not the most ideal place to leave Royland’s car parked unattended, Ford can’t really bring himself to care. Not when Stanley’s well being is constantly on his mind. Ford parks, throws a few coins into the nearest parking meter, locks the car with the press of a button on the key ring, and then races off, back toward the warehouses and other dilapidated buildings. This way he can vault over any obstacles, climb fences and skirt around each property with far more ease. Still, this is taking too long. Alistair had sounded desperate, and Stan…

Ford can only hope Stan is holding his own….

Stan is, despite the almost overwhelming urge to run, indeed holding his own. He doesn’t let his anxieties show, even as the door opens to reveal the culmination of over thirty years worth of nightmare fuel.

Rico is as terrifyingly muscular as always—seriously how does a guy that old keep that fit?—and dressed in much what he’d been wearing the last time Stan had seen him. His eyes are sharp and dangerous, and his mouth is ticked upward at the corners by a smug and condescending smirk.

Stan flashes Rico’s accompanying goons a weak smile, even as he watches them take up guard around the room, fanning out and blocking him in inside the already claustrophobic room. He’s more than outnumbered, a discouraging five to one.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t we, amigo?” Rico huffs through a puff of cigarette smoke.

He’s cool as a cucumber, unconcerned and unimpressed with Stan in general, but what else is new. His demeanor speaks of confidence and power, two things Stan has never truly had, but learned to mimic by profession.

Stanley keeps his legs braced apart, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, but keeps the rest of his body loose, relaxed to most outside viewers with his hands easily in sight. No sense instigating a fight before it’s time.

Stan grunts. “You didn’t give me much time to work with, but I’ve met the deal, so what does it matter?”

Rico hums and flicks his cigarette to the floor. Thankfully, the carpeting in the room is long gone, and the butt simply smolders harmlessly on the cement flooring. Rico himself doesn’t shift his gaze from Stan, nodding while giving his gold tooth a contemplative lick before tilting his head, signaling one of his men forward.

“You were always a very compliant member of our little…familia,” the crime lord replies, voice light and almost fond before it predictably darkens. “Until you stabbed us in the back. Perro traicionero.”

Stan doesn’t grace the taunt with an answer. Instead he pulls the fake data sheets he’d had Alistair print out for him, handing them over to the approaching lackey. It’s snatched from his fingers with more force than necessary, but, again, Stan remains silent, allowing the man to return to Rico’s side, handing the documents over. Only then does Rico break his hard, cold stare to look down and study the papers.

The sheets are nothing special; a spattering of scientific terms and impressive looking equations that Alistair had promised would, at the very least, keep Rico’s attention. Stan, for his part, had no idea what they said, only that they looked official, and that would hopefully be enough. Even if it bought Stan a few extra minutes, it would be worth it.

Rico eyes the documents, and Stan finds some pleasure in the fact that his enemy has to squint and adjust his vision a few times in order to read them. The guy might still be more or less physically immaculate, but age was catching up to him, like with all mortal men. Stan finds a fair bit of comfort in that.

“Mmm.”

Rico hums, gaze scanning the lines of information. He looks back up at Stan, and the ex-conman tries hard not to sweat under the scrutinizing attention. Rico’s eyes narrow, before he hands the papers to another man standing behind him, just inside the open doorway. Stan recognizes the guy as the one he’d seen watching him at the conference. The one who had orchestrated his initial kidnapping that started this whole mess.

“This is Mateo,” Rico introduces, certainly not as a pleasantry but as a statement of intimidation. “He is, for all intents and purposes, my right hand man. Mi amigo de confianza.”

Stan glowers. “We’ve met.”

Rico grins rakishly. “So you have. Mateo is a well educated man. Among many other talents and skills, he considers himself a scientist in his own right. He will be able to authenticate your findings. I am sure you won’t mind the precaution.”

Ah. Well, shoot. There it is then.

Stan forces a calm smile, even as his brain unhelpfully starts a mental countdown to his doom. “Of course not.”

But he does mind. Oooh, boy, does he mind. Because if this isn’t a ruse or an outright lie, there’s no way Mr. Creepy Right Hand Man Guy won’t be able to tell exactly what he’s handed over—a desperate gamble for time that’s all too quickly sifting through Stan’s fingers. But there’s nothing he can do, not yet, and so Stan stays exactly as he is, watching with silent panic as Mateo’s gaze scans the content of his ruse.

Somewhere, Stan’s family is sitting around the kitchen table, phone set within easy reach, waiting for a call to arms. Somewhere, far up north, Soos is closing down the Mystery Shack for the evening, taking the money box inside for counting. Somewhere, a few blocks away even, Ford is tearing across pavement and various obstacles in a desperate search for his brother. But here, now, unaware, Stan feels incredibly alone. He’s pegged in on all sides by an enemy he’s not sure he can beat. Alistair’s backup won’t be arriving for another few minutes at least, and Stan is fairly certain he’s only got a few more seconds before everything goes down hill.

It’s not an unexpected turn of events, but it is far from desirable.

Mateo’s eyes wander over formulas and instructions, dark gaze flitting over the senseless material. His fingers tighten with a slight crinkle of paper, his shoulders hunching higher and higher the more information he takes in, brow lowering in an ever darkening scowl.

Years of experience reading his customers enables Stanley to detect the exact moment the goon realizes they’ve been had; that the papers he holds in his hands are little more than gibberish.

Stan doesn’t even wait for the guy to open his mouth and call him out for it, jolting into action with a left hook he thinks even his dad would have been proud of.

And the funny thing is?

It works. Just barely…

But it’s enough.

The only reason Stan even lands a hit at all is because, until now, no one has ever dared assault Rico directly. Not unless they had a death wish. That has to be the only thing working in Stan’s favor as his knuckles slam home against the hard but aging jaw of the great crime lord. Too fast for Rico to dodge, and too unexpected for his goons to interfere. There’s the clack of teeth, the whoosh of breath as Rico stumbles back in shock and pain, and then a stunned silence of about three seconds. Stan treats it like every other good opportunity he’s ever had come his way: he reaches out and snatches it up with all his might.

While Rico and his men are still reeling from his bold action, Stan lunges for the door and out into the hall. He pumps his legs as hard as he can, fear and desperation lending him speed, and he gets a good ten feet before he can hear the roar of Rico’s outrage and the clamor of lackeys giving chase. Stan can’t help but release a short, sharp whoop, adrenaline coursing through his veins even as terror rises in his heart.

Stan’s in fair shape these days, but the men racing at his heels are younger, faster, stronger, and their backs and knees aren’t sore with age. Their minds are slick and clever, and though Stan is sure he can give them a run for their money…Well.

As Ford would say, science is science and age is age. Stan can’t deny the fact that he won’t stay ahead of his foes for long.

And so, putting on a final burst of speed—enough to get him around a corner and out of their line of sight for just a moment—Stan darts into yet another abandoned apartment, slamming the door behind him and bolting it shut. Barely does he get the latch against the lock than the sound of heavy bodies slamming against the exterior of the door sends Stan staggering back several steps. He’s safe, but not for long. That door won’t hold forever.

But it doesn’t have to. Because he did it! No matter what Rico’s lackeys do, it will take them a few minutes to find a way in, and that’s more than enough. Stan has stalled until the appointed time, which means that the police are already there; they’re already in place.

Stan flinches as the loud explosion of a gunshot assaults his ears, momentarily sending his already pounding heart into a stuttering falter. It takes him a moment to connect the dots. They’re trying to shoot the latch from the outside.

Stanley grins, shaky. He presses himself against the far left wall, out of range of any stray bullets that might make it through the door and into the room. He knows the shots will only encourage the police to move faster. Any minute now Rico and his men will be surrounded. Any minute now and Stan will be free of the man’s tyrannical grasp. Any minute now and Stan’s family would be safe.

Any minute now.

Any minute now…

Any…

minute…

…now?

Something is wrong.

As the seconds drag on, and the sounds of Rico and his men still working on forcing their way in remain a horrifying constant, Stan’s grin starts to wane. At first he can make excuses for why it’s taking so long. He can assume it’s just his own fear-altered sense of time warping his perception, but that hope dies as Rico’s voice, vengeful and filled with blistering hate, growls through the door in between the shots getting closer and closer to hitting the lock. A long string of seething curses and promises of agony and death, all in a hiss of rage-garbled Spanish.

It finally sinks home.

The police aren’t coming.

The police were never there.

Something must have happened to Alistair.

A pang of guilt and worry stabs through Stan’s chest, but he shoves it aside for now. The immediate danger is what he must handle first. The door is a splintering mess from the repeated gunshots, and only the fact that the lock and latch were oddly placed has saved Stan so far, but that won’t last. Stan needs to flee, fast, and he’s only got one option still available to him.

Giving a soft swear of his own, Stan dives for the window. Like most places in shoddy neighborhoods, the window has been nailed to the frame, to keep poor fellas down on their luck from taking the easy way out. It’s a bum job though, or maybe Stan’s just frantic enough to not notice the effort, and the nails tear out easy enough as the window opens.

Stan can hear the unmistakable thud of a shoulder against compromised wood as he gingerly starts easing his way out and onto the sill. His knuckles whiten as he grips both sides of the window frame, peering down at the dizzying four-story drop. He can spot a fire escape a little further along to his left, but there’s nothing but empty air below him. To the west, the sun is setting dull and dark as storm clouds roll in, promising rain and cold. It somehow matches the despair slowly overtaking Stan’s courage.

Gritting his teeth against the anxiety roiling in his stomach, Stanley spies a thin strip of concrete that hugs the side of the building. It’s not much, barely a foot and a half deep, but if he can balance his way along the trim with his back to the brick facade of the apartment complex, he might be able to make it over to the fire escape and then work things out from there.

Another thud rings out behind Stan as he slowly lowers himself out the window, this time joined by the sound of one of the chain locks breaking free and hitting the cement flooring with a clatter. There’s still a few more for the thugs to break through, but Stan knows it won’t take them long.

“Pines!”

With shaking legs, Stan feels his feet touch on the concrete ledge, and with a dry swallow he lets himself down the rest of the way. It’s a balancing act to be sure, the cool evening wind drifting up to flutter through Stan’s clothes and hair, almost soothingly, despite the circumstances. Below, a few cars drive by, unaware of the man clinging to a hope and a prayer as he starts edging sideways sixty or so feet above the pavement.

Stan takes a stuttering breath. “O-Oh, Moses.”

Shoulders pressed hard against the rough brick of the outside wall, trying not to look down, Stan begins to inch along the ledge. He’s not afraid of heights like he used to be, courtesy of Mabel’s unique form of immersive therapy, but this would doubtless be a bit much for just about anyone. It’s a long way down if Stan misses a step or gets too cocky, and gravity reminds him of the danger with every small pebble or discarded cigarette butt he manages to knock over the edge. His breaths come out shaky and tight, burning his throat as he tries to reign in even the slightest hint of panic. It feels oddly familiar, this frantic-calm of being hunted down and fleeing, of taking risks no matter the danger and hoping he came out on top. Stan desperately begs his brain not to fall headlong into a flashback or memory. Something like that right now would probably end up signing his death certificate.

Despite everything—the fear, the shaking, the dizziness, and the need for slow caution when all Stanley really wants to do was run—Stan makes fairly good and steady progress. He makes it about four feet from the fire escape when he finally hears another loud thud and the muffled crack of a door giving way.

“Where is he?! Find him!”

“Boss, the room’s empty—”

“Look! The window!”

“He’s out on the ledge! Come on!”

Stan’s out of time. He takes a couple of risky larger steps sideways just as a head peers out at him from the window he’d managed to escape from. It’s Mateo—Mr. Creepy, living up to his assigned nickname, all slicked hair and dark, searching eyes. It doesn’t take the guy long to set his gaze on Stan. And then all it takes is the dull flash of light against gun metal for Stanley to muster the courage - or maybe the foolishness - for a leap.

A shot fires, hitting the brick and sending a puff of powder out from where Stan had been just a moment before. A half second later Stan slams into the metal grate of the fire escape, gasping in pain as his knees don’t take the landing well and almost buckle. But he made it; he’s still in the game.

Stan gives a slightly too breathless laugh and a salute, dodging out of easy range to start descending the metal grate staircase. He knows well enough that he won’t have much time. If Rico’s boys have even a spec of brains, they’ll be splitting up, some following his precarious route while others raced back down through the apartment complex to try and cut Stan off at the bottom. But Stan is well ahead of them, and adrenaline is lending him a fair amount of speed. Rust cuts into his palms as he swings and slides his way down the fire escape flights, taking the steps two or even three at a time. He makes it down to the road in a matter of moments, foregoing the lowering ladder completely and again taking a leap. He sticks the landing a little better than the first, only stumbling a bit before he’s racing off down the sidewalk, feet pounding and heart thudding in his rib cage.

Just in time, too. His little stunt didn’t buy him much, but every second counts in a chase like this. Stan had barely made it to the next street sign before Rico’s goons came thundering out onto the mostly abandoned street. They look right, then left, before spotting Stanley and taking after him, shouting and swearing fit to bust.

Stan’s still a bit giddy from his hazardous climb, even as he knows he’s not out of the woods yet, so he fails to hold back a few premature chuckles of triumph. He should know better, at his age, to count a win before the results are in, but something in him comes alive with the thrill, reawakened and familiar from all his adventures with Ford.

“What’s the matter?!” he crows over his shoulder, teasing even as he gasps for breath. “Can’t catch an old man?!”

His taunts are returned with a slew of foul language and curses, which only spur Stan to grin wider as he puts on another burst of speed.

This time of the evening there aren’t that many people out and about, and of that Stan is grateful. That blessing is somewhat assisted by the fact that they really aren’t in a thriving residential area. He only has to dodge the occasional tramp searching trash cans for recyclables or a few women smoking on the sidewalks. Still, it’s an obstacle course of uneven ground and rusty chain link fences, and that takes time to navigate. Stan’s not in his twenties anymore, and as the gap between him and his pursuers slowly grows smaller and smaller, it shows. And while Stan is vaguely aware that it would be wiser to head for some more populated area, he really doesn’t have much choice in the matter. He can only run forward, and that is only bringing him further and further into the more desolate, abandoned part of the city.

And, unsurprisingly, Rico’s men take advantage of it.

A loud bang rings out behind Stan just as he moves to take a corner. It happens too fast to dodge, and Stan’s sadly out of practice. A hot, burning pain pierces his right side, causing him to stumble and cry out, but adrenaline lends him a hand and he manages to keep going despite the concerning warmth spreading down his hip and leg.

Stanley wildly cuts down a side street, one filled with mostly abandoned homes and overfull dumpsters, pavement cracked and overgrown with tufts of grass. He puts all he has left into getting in a little more distance, hoping that he can move unpredictably enough as not to become any easier a target.

A nice hope, but entirely unrealistic.

He meets yet another corner and skids to a frantic halt when he spies a suspicious looking black van moving toward him at a frightening pace. He’s trapped. Closed in on all sides, side burning, blood soaking into his clothes—There’s not much Stan can do against a vehicle out to run him down, but there’s really nothing else to do but run.

Stan tears off in another direction, pushing himself to his absolute limits. There’s the squeal of tires behind him, as the van picks up even more speed. Panting, gasping, Stan’s eyes search the dark road ahead for anywhere to hide, anywhere to dodge, but it all comes up empty. Any moment and he’ll probably smack dead into the rest of the lackey’s chasing him on foot. On top of everything else, Stan vaguely realizes he’s lost his glasses somewhere along the way, and everything looks fuzzy and distorted in the dark. Even if there is a place he can duck into, there’s no way he is going to see it.

He’s starting to tire, his mad dash quickly chipping away at even his impressive stamina. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his breaths come out rasped and sharp. His feet keep faltering under him, a result of growing exhaustion and the throbbing, burning pain in his side.

The car lights are on him now, and he doesn’t even dare to glance back. Deep down he knows he can’t outrun a van, but he’s giving it all he’s got. His shadow grows longer and longer in front of him, the glow from behind and the sound of a powerful engine becoming more and more intense with every passing second. They’re right behind him! Almost right on top of him—!

A hand lurches out of the shadowy darkness of a narrow hidden alley just as Stan brushes past, latching onto Stan’s upper arm with a grip like iron. Stan cries out in alarm, but he doesn’t have much time to react any more than that before he’s being hauled bodily to the side and into the alleyway. It’s the very thin sort, the kind even most cats won’t venture into for fear of getting stuck sideways. It’s just big enough for Stan to fit into, pulled in backwards by the invisible presence that now latches on to Stan’s shoulders, trying to tug him back further into the alley.

Needless to say, with the sort of night he’s had, Stan panics, struggling desperately after only a stunned moment, even as the van that had been pursuing him shoots past the alley opening at full speed.

“L-Let me go!” Stan gasps. He won’t go down without a fight. “Let go!”

He stumbles over the feet of his captor, their legs entangling and causing them both to fall. Stan lands on his tailbone, but the sharp twinge of pain and the agony roaring in his side only prompts him to struggle harder. He’s vaguely aware that the van has screeched to a halt somewhere nearby, the smell of rubber and the sound of the breaks only adding to the screaming sense of danger. Red lights up the pavement, back up lights a dooming hue. A little further out, Stan can hear shouts and curses—the rest of Rico’s men closing in.

Stan is a dead man.

He’s so, so dead.

But then…

There’s firm but gentle arms wrapped around Stan’s shoulders, a broad, strong chest pressed against his spine, holding him and murmuring tense, desperate comforts.

“It’s me, Stanley, please! It’s me.”

.

.

.

“…F-Ford?”

Chapter Text

“Easy. Easy, Stanley.” Ford reassures, voice tight with stress and hold steady on Stan’s shoulders. “It’s alright, I’ve got you, I promise, please. Just-”

“S-Stanford?” Soft. Disbelieving.

“Yes,” Ford breaths, sagging into Stan with relief. “It’s me.”

Stan cranes his neck back, trying to catch a glimpse of his brother’s face, but his gaze seems hazy, unfocused. Stanley blinks and Ford takes a moment to note just how hard his twin is shaking.

Stan frowns, confused. “But..wh-why are you-”

A car door slams—more than one—and Stanley stiffens. Ford can only surmise that the occupants of the van that had tried to run his brother down are now exiting the vehicle, ready to pursue them on foot. Which is far from ideal.

Ford clenches his jaw. “We have to go,” he says firmly. “Can you stand?”

Stanley looks frazzled, legs scrabbling against the rough concrete in an attempt to rise, but his gaze is locked toward the entrance of the alley. “I-I don’t-”

It doesn’t matter; they don’t have time either way. Three men, large, burly, and dressed like stereotypical thugs, come barreling around the corner. Their features are more or less shrouded in the void-like darkness of encroaching dusk, but Ford’s trained eye can pick out the telling silhouettes of weapons—bats with nails and at least one pistol. The alley isn’t wide enough for them all, but it isn’t stopping the men from approaching, threateningly, in single file. Ford notes the man with the gun has taken the lead.

Stanley gasps and tries to shift back, and Ford is vaguely disturbed by the lack of coordination. He doesn’t get far, seemingly unaware of the fact that he’d have to literally climb over Ford to get away. He merely ends up pressing tighter against Ford’s side, one trembling hand gripping the alley wall like a lifeline, his breaths ragged and choked.

And Ford realizes, in that moment, with a cold wash of reality…

That his brother is frightened.

Stanley Pines. Who had given thirty years of his life to fight against insurmountable odds in repairing the portal. Stanley Pines, who had conned his way into a life not his own so that he could save the family who claimed to love him the least. Stanley Pines, who was willing to give up everything that made him who he was to stop a demon of Ford’s own making to save his family and the world. Rough, rugged, stubborn, courageous Stanley Pines—Ford’s brother—his twin—

Was afraid.

Ford growls as something protective flares in his chest. His mind is flooded with a dozen soft memories, of a much younger Stan, braced and scrappy, defending him against the myriad throng of bullies that always seemed to trail in Ford’s wake. Strong and brave, uncaring of the bruises and cuts he would doubtless receive, Stanley had never left Ford to fend for himself. Even when doing so got him in trouble; even when standing up on Ford’s behalf earned him nothing but a black eye, detention from school, and their father’s scorn. Stanley would have taken on the world if it had meant Ford could live a little more comfortably.

Ford’s grip on Stan’s shoulders tighten in resolve.

It is time to return the favor.

In a single, fluid movement he stands, leaving Stan to lean back against the front of his legs as Ford draws his blaster from its holster at his hip. He’d strapped it on during his and Royland’s search of the neighborhood, as Ford’s paranoia had gained footing. Now, Ford couldn’t have been more relieved that he had.

The familiar hum and neon blue glow is a comfort, the buzz of energy tickling at the nerves in Ford’s fingers. Stan must feel the telltale static in the air, because he ducks down, shoulders hunching in anticipation of the release. Ford won’t disappoint. He stands braced and intimidating at his twin’s side, alien gun held steadily in both hands, pointed at the approaching thugs.

Ford’s voice is an all warning gravel. “Don’t take another step. Or you will regret it.”

The blaster’s glow is bright enough to cast some light on the criminals’ faces, an eerie colored aura that oddly accentuates their scarred and sneering expressions. They don’t even balk at Ford’s threat, probably taking the weapon for some children’s toy in the hands of an elder. They exchange haughty glances before tightening their own grips on their weapons—and continue to advance.

Ford doesn’t let them move more than half a step before he fires. The electric hum crescendos into a powerful pulse that Ford can feel in his chest as it leaves the futuristic gun. The fine hair on his head floats, charged, the voltaic thrum sending a shot of adrenaline through his every vein. His skin tingles, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his scalp, and Ford can’t help but smirk with cold gratification as a colorful ball of plasma clips one of the three thugs in the side. The one with the pistol, to be precise, just as Ford had intended. Better to decommission the most dangerous variable first.

The hoodlum howls in agony, dropping his weapon and gripping his now scorched hip with trembling fingers. The others, realizing that what Ford has is, indeed, not a toy gun, drop their bats and run like the cowards they are, their injured companion limping away after them. A moment later, Ford and Stan are alone in the narrow alley.

Ford gives a snarl of satisfaction, stowing his blaster back in his belt with a smooth, practiced motion. He’s bought them a little time, he’s certain, though the thugs are sure to return with reinforcements. They need to leave before that happens.

Ford kneels once again, a hand landing gently on Stan’s arm. His brother still looks dazed, though there’s more focus in his somewhat misty eyes. More than anything, Stan looks lost, and simultaneously guilty.

As well he should. A little of the anger from earlier that day rises from deep in Ford’s heart, well controlled, but doggedly calling for answers. Stan is in some sort of trouble, that much is obvious. He’s somehow involved, apparently, with some very dangerous individuals. Which, all things considered, Ford shouldn’t be that surprised about. He himself had enemies waiting in the wings who would jump at a chance to end his existence, but most of those were in other worlds; out of sight, out of mind. But this is different. Instead of coming to Ford with his problems, Stan had decided to keep things to himself, outright lying to force Ford into the dark. And that…hurts. And it makes Ford angry. But he’s also just so incredibly relieved to have Stanley in his arms, safe for the moment, that the righteous upset mixes in with love, becoming a muddled mess of emotion that sits heavily in Ford’s throat.

He’ll metaphorically kill his brother later, when he can demand answers without the fear of villains taking shots at them.

Unaware of his older twin’s internal struggle, Stanley slumps, exhausted. He hasn’t gotten a full night’s rest in at least three days, and his adrenaline is running very low. Maybe that’s why the pure relief of Ford’s sudden rescue is enough to bring moisture to his old man eyes. Moses, Stan doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels so relieved he could pass out, and yet fire burns through his every vein, fueled by vague pain and insurmountable guilt. Ford’s gentleness, somehow, as he braces a firm hand against Stan’s arm, makes the shame burn all the hotter. Ford can’t be happy with him, and yet no yelling or scolding is forthcoming. Stan almost wishes he would. In the aftermath of so much stress, Stan finds himself stammering like a fool.

“I-I’m sorry,” he gasps. His chest aches, his head and heart are pounding. He flounders a bit, somehow managing to raise to a trembling stand by using the alley wall as a damp, gritty crutch. Ford rises with him, fingers loosely circling his elbow. “I-I know you’re m-mad at me but I did what I-I thought was best a-and—”

Before Stan can stutter out any more anxious apologies or excuses, Ford lurches forward—takes two fistfuls of the front of Stan’s collar—and tugs Stan into a desperate hug. Six fingered hands clutch at the back of Stan’s dirt and sweat stained shirt, and Ford buries his face into the base of Stan’s neck with a shaky breath that speaks volumes.

“Shut up.”

Stan blinks, uncertain and still off balance. “F-Ford?”

“Shut up. Just…Stanley, I-”

Ford’s voice is muffled, but Stan still has no trouble discerning just how wet and trembling it sounds. Ford can’t seem to finish whatever it is he wants to say, but Stan doesn’t really need him to. Articulate or not, Stan can read the meaning behind every line of his brother’s body.

Stan messed up. He’s already forgiven, but he’d messed up. Ford doesn’t care what he’s done to get into this mess, but Ford’s going to help him get out. Because that’s what brothers do.

Stan heaves a wobbly sigh and wraps his arms around his twin in turn. The two stand pressed together in the dark of the alley, both shaking, but both insurmountably relieved.

“I am mad at you,” Ford grunts, after a few moments of tenderness. He pulls out of the embrace, giving Stan a direct and steady glare. “But we can talk about that after we’re somewhere safe.”

Stan nods with a mental wince, discreetly scrubbing the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes. He’s not looking forward to that exchange, but he can live with it.

“Good. Now, do you think you can—”

Ford’s hand shifts and unwittingly brushes against his side, and Stan’s vision goes white.

“Gah-gk!”

Stan jolts back with a choked cry of pain, detaching himself from his startled brother’s hold. Scalding lava races along his nerves, reminding Stan with impatient vengeance that he had, in fact, been shot. Seems the shock or adrenaline which had numbed most of the injury up until that point had run its course. Now the agony is all consuming. Stan’s legs buckle and he drops back to his knees with a groan, hand hovering, quivering, over his wound but too afraid to actually touch it for fear of making it worse.

“Stanley!”

Ford’s crouching in front of him immediately, facade blurred in Stan’s again watering vision, but obviously concerned. Stan can’t really do much outside of breathing through the burning waves of sensation, bruises now on his knees adding to the cumulative torture. Ford seems to sense this, as he doesn’t ask any questions. Instead he starts quickly, but carefully, checking Stan over, which naturally answers any questions he might have rather quickly.

Gentle fingers once more brush against that tender spot and Stan gasps. “Ugh! M-Moses-nh!”

Ford’s hand comes away stained in crimson red.

“You’ve been shot,” Ford mumbles in shock.

Stan tries to grin through the pain, amused by his twin’s blunt obviousness. “Y-Yup, seems that way…” Another wave of discomfort nearly bends him double, his words tapering off into a hiss.

Ford’s expression is surprisingly calm, though anxiety gathers clearly in his eyes. “We need to get you to a hospital. I can call an ambulance—” And he starts to stand.

“N-No!” Stan huffs, grabbing onto Ford’s sleeve before his brother can dash away to find a payphone. “B-Bullet went clean through…ngh!…D-Didn’t hit any—anything important…If we wrap it up…i-it should be fine.”

Stanford frowns. “Stanley, you are injured. This is not a time to be stubborn.”

If only that were Stan’s solitary issue here. “I…I can’t go to a hospital, Ford.”

“Why-ever not?”

Stan winces, finally looking up and meeting his brother’s worried gaze. “Let’s just say the guys who did this—ngh!— they’ll—th-they’ll know where to find me if we do. And Rico, he—he doesn’t l-like lose ends.”

It’s true. Rico and his goons wouldn’t be taking Stan’s betrayal lightly. Alien blaster or no, they’d hunt Stan down and finish the job. Being in a hospital would just make him a sitting duck.

Ford seems to take in that information, his eyes flitting between Stan’s pale face and the wound on his side. Stan can practically see the gears turning, the situation being analyzed and calculated, checked for a different outcome. But Stan is right on this one, this is his area of expertise, sadly; and no amount of computing on Ford’s side will change that. Finally, some of the determination fades out of Ford’s eyes and his shoulders slump.

“I…suppose that makes sense. If they know you were hit, naturally the first place they would look for you would be in a hospital.” He huffs, one final plea on his tongue. “Surely they wouldn’t infiltrate a government established institution, just to…?”

Stan shakes his head. “R-Rico’s pulled off worse. It’s—It’s scary what he thinks he can g-get away with. What he has gotten away with.”

“So what do we do?”

Stan groans, shaking hands finally attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his side. “G-Gah! Hnn…haa sh-shoot…I-I was…was k-kinda hoping y-you’d have an…an idea…?”

Ford grimaces in sympathy, before moving to take off his coat. “Well, for one, we need to stop the bleeding of that wound. And then, if you think you can manage it, we should find someplace else to rest. If these ruffians are as persistent as you say, then it won’t be long before they return with reinforcements.”

Stan chokes out a weak chuckle. “Wh-Who even says that?”

“What?”

“R-Ruffians.” Jazz hands are far less effective when said hands are coated in blood.

Ford frowns. “Stanley, this is no time to be comedic. We are both in serious danger.”

“R-Right…Right, I know, m’sorry, m’just…m’feeling a little light headed.” He is. He really is.

“That would be the blood loss,” Ford determines. “Can you lean back? Here, against the wall?”

“Thought we—h-hn…Thought we had to make ourselves scarce.”

Ford has already started ripping sections of his coat into strips. It’s something both of them have done before, living the dream as a pair of anomaly hunters that have a knack for misjudging the reach of a monster’s claws. Gashes and scratches had nothing on this, though. Hell, being shot sucks.

“Well, we can hardly leave a trail to follow, can we,” Ford surmises, distracted. “And seeing as I just rescued you, I’d rather you not die of hemorrhaging before we get even three blocks. Now, sit still, and let’s see the damage.”

With a bit of pained hissing and cursing, the two finally manage to get Stan set against the side of the alleyway, shirt rolled up to expose the seeping injury. It’s as bad as Stan expected and not nearly as bad as he had feared. All the same, it isn’t a pretty sight.

The wound is bleeding steadily, though Ford determines after a few tense moments that Stan was right, the shot had miraculously not hit anything vital. It’s red and irritated, the skin around it startlingly pale in comparison, but there’s no real worry of it killing him so long as it’s properly taken care of and doesn’t get infected. Stan had also been right in that the bullet had gone clean through, and while that meant there were two holes to stop up rather than one, it also meant Ford didn’t have any foreign and potentially harmful objects to remove.

“I’m going to pack and wrap it for now. That should get the flow to stop. When we get somewhere safe, it will need to be flushed out and properly cleaned.”

“F-Fine,” Stan pants. “Whatever you’re…you’re gonna do, do it quick.”

Ford nods resolutely, taking up the strips he had torn and starting to pack the wound the best he can. It isn’t the greatest experience, and Stan finds himself gritting his teeth, head pressed back hard against the brick wall. Blood has started to dry on his hands, making them feel tacky and stiff. The scent of copper is heavy in the air, bringing back unpleasant memories, most of which Stan had faced alone. At least this time, he has his brother here to help him.

The whole arduous process takes very little time, considering, but the brothers find themselves getting anxious toward the end, sending frequent glances to the alleyway entrance.

“W-We gotta go, Sixer,” Stan breathes through the pain of Ford pulling the bandages taught. It marks the end of their little medical session, and now comes the hard part. “They’ll be back any second.”

Ford’s expression is set and steady, his tone only slightly strained. “Yes, I know. How does that feel?”

Stan reaches up, shaky fingers brushing the makeshift dressing. “It’ll work for now. Help me up.”

Ford rises and gently helps Stan to his feet, the wound protesting but not unbearable. Stan sways slightly, hand to his head.

“Euh boy…”

Ford hovers close, a hand on Stan’s arm. “Are you alright?”

“I have a hole clear through my side, Stanford,” Stan deadpans. “Nothing about that is alright.” At his brother’s unimpressed look, he sighs. “I can manage. Little dizziness never stopped me before.”

Ford grumbles something under his breath, but doesn’t argue. He’s already glancing to the far back of the alley, probably calculating their retreat.

“This backstreet opens up to another road. From there we should be able to retrace my route back to our vehicle.”

Stan winces and gingerly cradles his injured side, giving a weak but wry smile. “Our car. Sure. A good ol’ Royland rental, I take it, yeah?”

“Oh, please. At least I had the decency to ask first,” Ford counters, only half listening as he starts helping Stan limp his way toward the road. His real attention is to their surroundings.

Stanley laughs, more of a breathy exhale so as not to aggravate his wound. The mirth dies in his throat, however, that shame and guilt from before returning full force.

“Look, Ford, I…about the things I said earlier—”

“No,” Ford halts him, firm as stone, but not unkind. He sends Stan a quick look, one that promises tried understanding. “Later.”

Stan sags a little. Either because he’s relieved he doesn’t have to answer for his screw ups yet, or because he’s disappointed that he can’t. He doesn’t know, his brain’s running on too many emotions and too few hours of sleep. “Later,” he agrees tiredly.

Ford’s expression softens slightly and he steadies Stan, before they continue forward. Together.

From there on it’s pretty slow going. Stan’s pain and exhaustion hinders their progress to some degree, but Ford helps the best he can as they stagger their way along. They make it down one desolate roadside, cut through another narrow alley, and then tackle yet another empty street on the other side. Stan’s already turned around, but Ford seems to know where he’s headed, so Stan just gives himself over to being led. It’s fully dusk now, and other than a few flickering street lamps covered in ivy, it’s nearly impossible to see due to the growing darkness. Everything feels closed in and stifling. Even the sound of their own footsteps seem muffled in the night.

In the distance to their right the sky is lighter, the hazy dome of the city’s population chasing away the stars. There’s barely a soul in sight the whole journey, other than the occasional tramp, and those are few and far between. For the most part, the brothers are alone. Unsettling, but also blessedly.

Ford is on high alert. Stan can feel the buzzing tension of his brother’s wiry frame against his good side, coiled tight and ready to spring into action the moment things go bad. Ford keeps his free hand close to his blaster, fingers twitching at the slightest sound or movement. Stan can honestly say he’s not much better. His back and shoulders ache with how uptight he is, anxiety and fear woven into his joints making them stiff and sluggish. They cut down yet another alley and something skitters out from behind a dumpster. Ford nearly blows its head off before he realizes it’s just a stray cat and quickly re-stows his weapon. The cat hisses at them before disappearing once more into the inky blackness.

Despite Stan’s fears, neither Rico nor any of his goons make an appearance.

And, somehow, that’s almost worse. It has the same creep factor as being in a room with a big, nasty spider and not knowing just which corner it might be hiding in.

“Do you need to rest for a moment?” Ford’s voice breaks through Stan’s increasingly drifting thoughts. They’ve paused on a sidewalk, in front of some old, abandoned liquor store.

Stan blinks, eyelids feeling sticky. “What?”

Ford frowns, concerned. “You’re pale, and your breathing is stinted.”

Stan just wants to sleep. “Sixer, there’s nothing we can do about it until we reach the car. If it makes you feel better, I’ll try to warn you before I pass out.”

Ford does not look reassured.

“I’m fine,” Stan insists, to assure his brother or himself he can’t be sure. “Let’s just…keep moving.”

And, because they really don’t have much of a choice in the matter, they do. Alley after alley, street after street. Stan has to bite his lip to keep from complaining. Ford had said it wasn’t far to Roy’s car. Either Ford was a liar, or Stan was just that worn out. It’s the longest, most miserable walk of his life.

By the time they actually make it to the car—which Ford had left more or less abandoned on the curb just outside some sketchy looking laundromat—Stan is beyond fatigued and in considerably more pain than he had been before. Running around with a hole in his side certainly hadn’t done him any favors. His energy and stamina is fully spent, leaving him with stumbling steps and a wheeze in his chest he knows can’t be good. Stan remembers struggling to open the passenger side with Ford’s help, but everything after that becomes distantly hazy. He’s vaguely aware of Ford speaking to him, though he can’t decipher what sounds to him like gibberish, and then they’re moving…driving?

Maybe.

Stanley is honestly too tired to care.

Chapter Text

The first thing Stan becomes aware of outside the quiet void of his own mind, is the slow, familiar rocking of the Stan O’War II’s hull. It’s paired with the gentle creak of timber and the occasional, muffled call of a gull. It’s soothing, and brings a peace to Stan’s soul like nothing else on earth can.

He lies there, soaking it in, the soft mattress of his bunk cradling his aging bones. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes just yet, wanting the peaceful moment to last as long as possible. Not too long, though, or Ford will come looking for him. His brother was always an early riser. Stan is adjusting, but he still prefers to wake up after the sun has climbed a little. And he’s entitled, he thinks, to enjoy the peace after thirty years of stress and panic. Besides, they probably have a long day ahead of them, researching and hunting down anomalies together; living out that long-woven dream from their childhood.

Things are so wonderful now. Busy, but wonderful. And Stan never has to worry about being alone…

A twinge of pain in his side makes Stan wince, eyes still closed. He tries to ignore it, assuming it to be a cramp or muscle spasm. He’s getting up there in years, so honestly it could be anything. But he’s in pretty fair health these days, and he can’t remember getting hurt…

Or…

What…day is it…?

What did he do yesterday?

Stan frowns and slowly opens his eyes. Above him is the familiar wood of the bottom of Ford’s bunk, etched with Stan’s occasional jokes and crudely drawn sea creatures. The boat still rocks, trying to soothe him, but Stan’s mind feels like it’s stumbling, tripping over its metaphorical feet. Something is wrong. Something about being here isn’t right, and—

It all comes back to Stan in a rush so intense it knocks the wind from him in a wheeze. He remembers the conference—Rico—the trip to Piedmont—the kids—the fight with Ford— his plan and just how badly it had gone awry. He remembers running for his life. He remembers being shot in the side during his escape. And he remembers the pure, unhindered relief of his twin showing up to save him. It’s overwhelming, and more than a little frightening, but the pieces clicking into place bring with them a sense of wholeness and stability.

Stan goes to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk, and gasps, giving a full body flinch as his side angrily protests. He’s left hunched over, one arm wrapped gingerly around his middle as he struggles to get his breathing under control. His brain is desperately trying to fill in more of the answers he needs, but the journey from the alley to Roy’s car is a hazy one. He’d been so tired, so worn out and hurt, and Ford had been a solid presence of salvation. His mind had sort of checked out along the way, knowing he was safe.

So why was he on the Stan O’War II?

Stan supposes the answer is fairly obvious—Ford had probably determined they needed a secure place to hide out and take care of Stan’s wound. A glance down at his side proves that the injury has been cleaned and re-wrapped with proper bandages. Stan is shirtless other than the thick linen strips, but otherwise still in the outfit he’d been in the day before. His eyes shift to look out the nearest porthole, supplying Stan with a glimpse of the marina in San Francisco, where he and Ford had moored their boat until after the conference and their time spent with their family.

Something gives a slam in the galley, causing Stan to jolt back to attention. The door of the bunk cabin is closed, but he already has a fair idea of where his twin brother is currently. And from the series of further careless sounds of movement, Stan surmises that Ford must be in the kitchen, and very much aware of his awakening.

Stan thinks over the night before, grasping at straws in an effort to gauge his brother’s mood. Ford had been a pillar of strength in that alley. He’d been calm, and steady, and more than willing to help Stan, but…that didn’t mean he hadn’t been angry. And he had, in all honesty, every right to be. If Ford had been the one to get into trouble, and he hadn’t spoken up—hadn’t asked for help or at least talked about what was going on—Stan supposes he would be pissed, too.

Since they were now relatively safe and Stan’s wound had been treated, Ford had doubtless spied all his other bruises and cuts courtesy of Rico’s thugs. There had been sufficient time for Ford’s anger to simmer properly, and Stan is sure whatever awaits him outside the cabin won’t be pretty. But he can’t stay hidden all day. Ford would come drag him out eventually. The least Stan could do was save himself that indignity.

And so, after slipping on a clean shirt and taking a deep, steadying breath, Stan makes his way over to the door and opens it.

He grimaces at the sudden increase of natural light. He and Ford had wanted the main interior of the boat to get more sunshine than most, installing special long windows around the tops where the walls met the ceiling. Outside the sky is a dazzling blue, matching the otherwise murky swell of the marina’s water lapping at the base of the windows. The rare cloud, white and soft, adds to the beautiful outdoor scene, what would typically be a perfect day under any normal circumstances.

Stan tears his gaze from the pleasant sight to focus on his brother.

Ford is at the sink, up to his elbows in suds and scrubbing rather savagely at one of their larger cooking pots. He looks, in a word, awful. He’s still wearing what he had on last night, minus the jacket he had sacrificed to deal with Stan’s wound; his hair is mussed and his overall appearance is ragged. His movements as he scrubs the pot betray the anger Stan was expecting, telegraphing every emotion buzzing through his twin’s frame. Stanford doesn’t turn to face him as Stan leaves the relative safety of the bunk room, but Stan is absolutely certain that Ford knows perfectly well that he’s there. So Stan just stands in the doorway, awkwardly. Waiting. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Ford finishes his task with a few extra violent scrubs and then slams the pot down into the sink with enough force that water jumps up and splashes the undersides of the cupboards. Still without turning, Ford growls out a commend that leaves no room for argument.

“Sit.”

And Stan knows better than to test Ford when he uses that tone. Without a word, he obeys, limping his way over to the table and sliding into the booth seat, feeling uncommonly like a scolded child. He hunches his shoulders and clasps his hands tightly in his lap, eyes fixed ashamedly on the tabletop. Only once he’s seated does Ford finally turn around to face him. And yeah. Yeah, Ford is definitely pissed.

Stan’s twin leans back against the lip of the sink, arms crossed over his chest and expression otherwise unreadable. Stan stares even harder at the tabletop, and the silence stretches between them for an awkward few minutes before Ford decides to take the initiative.

“Well?” he demands, flatly. “Are you going to tell me what’s been going on? Or do we have to play a round of twenty questions?”

And because Stan is an idiot who can never take anything seriously, he tries, “Is that an option?”

“Stanley.” If looks could kill.

Stan winces. “I guess not.”

“Stanley.”

“Hoo boy…Look, I only just woke up. Can’t I have some breakfast or something before we start this whole conversation? Is that too much to ask?”

Ford’s eyes are sharp. “You tell me. Seeing as I have had to haul your sorry hide over a town line, gone into hiding aboard our own vessel, and treated your injuries—not only a gunshot wound, but what appears to be no less than three cracked ribs, a stab wound, and a mild concussion. All of which you kept from me. Went out of your way to keep from me. So, you tell me if that’s something I can wait on breakfast in lui of some answers.”

Oh, Stan could definitely do without the sarcasm. But he tries to keep his temper in check, trying a more direct approach. “…You’re mad at me.”

“Your powers of perception are truly miraculous,” Ford replies with a growl.

That’s it. “Oh, knock it off,” Stan sneers back.

“No, I don’t think I will. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through the last few days? I have been worried sick, thinking something was wrong and not having a clue as to what it could be or how to fix it. Can you really blame me for being upset with you when every word out of your mouth over the last week have been lies?!”

“This again,” Stan huffs. “If I could have come clean about things from the beginning, I would have.”

“Would you?!” Ford questions, his voice rough. “Because I’m starting to see a very distressing pattern with you, Stanley. A very worrisome, frightening, sacrificial pattern.”

Stan is suddenly so, so tired. He sighs. “What do you want from me, Ford?”

“For you to tell me the truth!” Ford catches himself; reels his anger back in. He’s doing a valiant job of trying to stay relatively calm, but Stan knows it won’t last. “By the Oracle, Stanley, that’s all I want. I want to know why I had to leave the comfort of our family’s home to come and find you. I want to know why you felt you couldn’t come to me with what was bothering you. I want to know why you lied. I want to know why you’re hurt. I want to know why those men are after you so that I can do my best to protect you!”

Stan feels his own hackles raise higher. “I can take care of myself,” he snaps.

Ford rolls his eyes. “Oh, clearly. That’s why I had to attach an IV to you for most of the night to help balance out the blood loss.” He swallows, his irritation suddenly swapped out for something more vulnerable. His voice, when he continues, is little more than a murmur. “I thought you were dead.”

Stan feels a deep seated shame crawl up his throat. He grits his teeth and wrings his hands hard enough to make them red and sweaty. “I know. I kinda thought so, too.”

Ford shakes his head, eyes closing in frustration. “Then why didn’t you let me in? Before this all got so out of hand?”

Stan turns a bit in the booth, trembling fist bracing on the table as he implores his brother to understand. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“This is hurting me!” Ford explodes, hands slamming hard against the sink behind him. He’s suddenly looking right at Stan, eyes full of pain and anger and worry and doubt, and it’s almost enough to break Stan right there. “I had no idea how to find you! How to help you! I’d known there was something wrong, but all you did was push me away when I tried to reach out! And then I thought it was too late, and all I could think of was that you were probably lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out, and we’d lose everything that we’ve had these last few years! Just because you’re too proud and stubborn to—”

“You don’t get it!” Stan spits in disgust. There’s more, he’s sure there’s more, that he could say in his defense, but suddenly he can’t bear to continue.

Instead, he stiffly gets up from the table and makes for the deck, ignoring his limp. He just wants to get away from his brother’s judgmental stare, before one of them says something they can’t take back. Stan’s own anger and hurt is boiling in his chest, trying to burn him alive. He climbs the steps and throws open the door leading topside, slamming it behind him even as he can hear Ford’s heavy boots climbing up after him. That should make him angrier, but the moment he’s up on deck all the fight has already bled out of Stan, leaving him feeling empty and drained. He staggers over to the rail of the port side, suddenly aimless, blinking out at the marina through moisture bleary eyes.

The docks are more or less abandoned, and Stan vaguely realizes maybe its earlier than he’d thought. There’s only a few sea-weathered men nearby, working on their boats or untangling their nets. The water is calm and gentle, the slight fall and swell of the water tame compared to what Stan is used to. It fills him with a homesick sort of feeling, a need to be back at sea, away from the mainland and all its troubles. He’s so tired of dealing with hardship. He’d rather sail away and never look back, but he can’t. He’s stuck. Run aground.

To his left stretches the open waters of San Francisco Bay, leading out to open ocean, and to his right stretches the sprawling cityscape of San Francisco itself. From here the bustle and noise of the city is lost to the distance, only warehouses and storage buildings pegging in the marina on three sides. It’s peaceful and beautiful in its own way, and steadies Stan as he takes a deep breath of sea salty air, the soft, cooler wind ruffling his fine, gray hair.

After several moments pass, Stan can hear the cabin door creak open, the soft shuffle of shoes on wood soon to follow. Ford doesn’t speak, but Stan knows he’s there, standing behind him, trying to figure out what to say. Stan saves him the trouble.

“I wanted to tell you,” Stan says bitterly, without turning around. He curls his fingers around the top rung of the rail. “But…I was scared to, I guess. I thought…maybe I should handle my own stupid life for once. You and the kids…I’ve put you all through so much. It hardly seems fair to…” He trails off with a helpless shrug, tucking his hands gingerly into his pockets, mindful of his side. “I just wanted to keep you all safe. It’s not any of your fault that my life’s been such a mess.”

He’d been nothing but a burden his whole life. Pa never said it, but Stan knew. He was just the extra mouth to feed that his parents hadn’t anticipated. He was the son who couldn’t pay attention in school, who got into fights, who inevitably dragged his brother down when he’d been just about to reach heights Stan could never dream of grasping. He’d been unwanted, unvalued, unappreciated—from the moment he left home to every state that banned him. His life was a bruised gallery of mistakes and missteps, of bad decisions and reckless actions. And now, just as things were finally starting to look up, his past had to come and remind him of just how horrible a person he was, and that he didn’t deserve to have a happy ending.

Stan trembles, overwhelmed. “But no matter how hard I try, I keep messing up. Even when I try to push you all away and handle things myself. I can’t even do that right.”

“Stanley…”

“A-And, I mean, what was I supposed to do, Ford? What do you do when your past comes back to haunt you, and you’re afraid that it’s gonna get the people you love killed? I didn’t just want to protect you all from my past…I…I wanted to protect you from myself.”

Stan chokes on a pained, sorrowful noise. Not quite a sob, but something similar. He hopes Ford didn’t hear it. Even then, after it passes, his voice comes out shakier than before.

“I f-felt so trapped and alone. I wanted help but I-I didn’t know how to ask for it without putting someone else’s life on the line, and it wouldn’t be fair, it just wouldn’t be and if something happened to our family I’d never forgive myself, never, and-”

“Stanley.”

Stan flinches and clenches his hands into fists inside his pocket, head bowed as the tears he’d been fighting all along finally break free to slide down and drip off his nose to the deck beneath his feet. The gentle hand that lays hesitantly on his shoulder is no surprise, but it makes Stan shake even harder.

“I didn’t know what to do. All this time I’ve wanted to know, to have the missing pieces back. And then I remembered, and it was all so much worse than I’d been afraid of it being, Ford…”

“I know,” Ford finally says, his voice raw and quiet. He doesn’t know, not yet, but he’s ready to listen. “I’m sorry, I…Stanley…I am angry.”

Stan holds back a whimper, but Ford continues.

“But being angry doesn’t make me care about you any less. You’re my brother. And I’m sorry if I’ve done something to make you think I can’t handle whatever you’ve remembered.”

Stan sniffs. “It’s not that. It isn’t. I just…” He chuckles humorlessly. “I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why I’m such a screw up. Why everything I’ve ever tried to do for good always ends exploding in my face. I don’t get…this.” He gestures to himself in a vague motion.

“You’re not a screw up, Stanley.”

“Sure. That’s why everything’s all kittens and rainbows all the time, and why I ruin every life I touch.”

Ford frowns, the hand on Stan’s shoulder tightening just a little. “That isn’t true. But I can understand…to a degree. I’ve thought the same of myself. Many times.”

That prompts Stan to turn and face his brother, expression tight with disagreement.

Ford chuckles wetly. “Some might say the same of me, that I ruin every life I touch. I ruined yours, for thirty years. Longer if you count getting you kicked out of the house by Pa—which I do.”

“What? Ford, no—”

“If I’m not allowed to point out my own screw ups, then you aren’t either,” Ford sums up, a fire in his gaze. “You helped me clean up my messes. You defeated…Bill. When I couldn’t.” He smiles, a wobbly little thing. “Surely whatever you’ve done can’t top nearly dooming the entire world.”

Stan grimaces. “You don’t know…”

“So tell me,” Ford begs. “Let’s go back inside, I’ll make something warm to drink and we can talk. The way we should have from the moment you woke up. I let my worry and frustration fester, and I’m sorry. May I try again?”

Ford holds up his hand, in the way they always had done as children. That sacred symbol of brothership between them, marking their most sincere and honest of moments. Stan stares a moment, uncertain, but Ford’s expression is open and encouraging, and Stan is really so very tired of keeping secrets.

Stan sniffs again, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. But he raises his own hand, gently threading his fingers between the six that pegged them in so familiarly. Ford’s smile widens, relieved and grateful. And then he’s leading Stan back below deck, leaving the marina to its morning routine.

“Alright,” Ford says, carefully easing a mug of coffee in front of Stan. He then sits across from him, a mug of his own settled on the table between his hands. “I’m ready.”

Stan gives a tired huff. “I’m not.” But they both know he’s as ready as he’s going to get. “Where you want me to start?”

“Wherever you feel most comfortable. I know this is going to be hard for you, but…” Ford nods, encouraging. “It’s the next necessary step. And I’m here.”

Stan nods back and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s warm and sweet, a welcome sensation when he feels so cold and bitter inside. Finally, he lowers the mug, staring listlessly down into its murky depths. Stalling will only drag the pain on longer, and Stan doesn’t have the energy to keep dodging.

So he begins. In a soft, monotone voice.

“After Pa…kicked me out, I did a lot of wandering from state to state. I never stayed anywhere too long. Wasn’t welcome. Probably didn’t help much with that myself, but, yeah. So I drifted, from one thing to the next. Sometimes it wasn’t too bad. Other times…” He swallows, recall fresh memories streaking across his mind like electricity. “Other times it was…really rough.”

“I’m sorry,” Ford murmurs, and he sounds like he really means it.

Stan shrugs, quick to move on. “There was this one winter I spent down in South America. Or, well, between South America and Mexico. Things…weren’t going great. I was down on cash, I’d gotten sick for a while, and was getting desperate for work. Eventually, someone told me about this guy—Ricardo Hernandez. Word on the street was that he could help those who were down on their luck, in exchange for some labor. And so, figuring I qualified, I got in touch with his people.”

Stan took another swig of his coffee. “Rico set me up with his…company. I knew it wasn’t on the up-and-up. And I won’t sugarcoat things, Ford, I was dealing in some pretty shady stuff. Even for me. At first, I was just a tag-along. Just another brawn to add to Rico’s brain. I gained some brownie points with the boss, ‘cause I was a hard worker and didn’t ask too many questions, and, as he put it, ‘had a silver tongue’. Eventually I got promoted to being more of a face man. It was my job to do the talking so that the others could do their tasks without getting caught. Nothing too dangerous. Nothing too bad.”

A chuckle, and Stan adds bitterly, “Pa always said I wasn’t good for much, and I guess when I had Rico stroking my ego I thought I’d finally found my calling. Even if it wasn’t exactly above board.” Stan sighs, shaking his head. “Time went by…I stayed with the gang for almost a year and a half. Got caught a few times, spent some time in prison, but Rico always had a way with the police. None of us were ever held for very long. I found a family among them, in a way. I had friends, buddies I could rely on. We’d play cards, tell stories, confide in one another, at least in the parts we wanted others to believe. And, for a while, I was doing okay. It was the first time since getting kicked out that I felt I belonged somewhere. And I liked it. It was…nice.”

Ford nods. Understanding.

“But, uh…” Stan’s fingers begin to tremble around the handle of his mug. He notices, and grips the ceramic tighter, trying to steady them, with minimal success. “B-But then Rico…he…h-he…”

“Stanley?” Ford reaches out to lay a hand on his brother’s arm, but Stan shakes his head and pulls away, forcing himself to continue.

“H-He started dealing in things that…Ford, I know I’m not innocent. I know I don’t make the best choices, that I don’t always take the most church-approved path, but…I didn’t even realize I had a line until Rico crossed it. Suddenly what was just smuggling drugs or alcohol became robbing, and stealing, and beating people within an inch of their life. I don’t know…Maybe he was always like that, and they just didn’t let me see it until they thought they were sure they could trust me. I stepped back the most I could, looked for a way out, but things were hard, and Rico’s men were all fiercely loyal. The gang’s reach was growing, spreading as far as southern Texas. Rico was always an ambitious man.”

Stan falls silent, then takes in a shaky breath. “And then…one night…they brought in this truck. I’d been dragging my feet a lot, and I think the guys were getting suspicious. Rico decided I should be the one to make the night’s delivery, probably as some sort of test. I was supposed to drive it to a client further down from the border, out of the states. I figured it was just another run, but…it wasn’t. There were…people in that truck, Ford. Real, scared, hurt people. And I…I couldn’t…I just couldn’t.”

Ford’s eyes are large, expression both stunned and concerned. “…What did you do?” he whispers.

Stan shrugs. “Let ‘em go. I realized the kind of operation Rico was willing to stoop down to becoming, and decided I didn’t want to be any part of it. And I didn’t want it to continue. I left an anonymous tip with the American police. Later learned they broke in to one of Rico’s safe houses and busted up the main gang. Caught most everyone, but Rico…got away. I was scared he’d come looking for me. He was the sort of guy you didn’t want to cross. So I went into hiding.”

He can remember the fear of discovery. The tightening noose of anxiety as he sensed his time running out, of Rico’s inevitable arrival and Stanley Pines’ horrific fate. He’d been in a really bad place, during that time. He’d contemplated…things. Things he’d never admit out loud. Especially to Ford. At least…not yet.

Despite the dark memory, Stan gives a little chuckle, this one genuine. “That’s when I received your postcard, asking me to come to Gravity Falls. That’s what got me out of there. It gave me a reason to leave and the courage to do it.” Stan gives Ford a questioning glance. “How did you know where I was? I’ve wondered…”

“Ma gave the address to me,” Ford supplies, still reeling a little.

“Ah. Yeah, that makes sense. She was the only one I ever kept updated on where I was staying. Must have told her.” Stan shakes his head. “Anyway, I didn’t remember any of this stuff the day before the conference. If I had, I might have been more prepared when I noticed I was being tailed.”

Ford frowns, focus sharpening. “Tailed? As in, followed?”

“That’s typically what ‘tailed’ means, Ford.”

“When? Where?”

“At the conference. This weird guy was sort of following me around. Thought he was just a creep at first. Kept catching him watching me, then looking away whenever I noticed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like I said, thought he was just a creep.” Stan gives a frustrated huff. “Geez, Ford, I’m a grown man. I’ve punched sea monsters in the face. I thought I could handle a nosy man at a nerd convention. And, I guess, I thought ‘what’s he gonna do?’ We were at a conference. There were, like, a thousand people there. I didn’t think he’d try anything.”

Ford taps a finger in a slow pattern against his mug. Agitated. Stressed. “But…he did.”

Stan runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. He did. And he wasn’t alone. They got me when I went to use the restroom during the lectures. By then I’d sort of…forgot, I guess, about the guy. They ganged up on me, and I did okay for a bit, but one of them must have snuck up behind me. Got in a lucky swing. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged along to a van parked out back. They took me to a warehouse, and I…I found out it was Rico…Ford, he found me.”

“But…how?” Ford murmurs, alarmed.

“I dunno…He said something about a commission. Someone who hired them. He didn’t say who.”

Ford looks down into his own coffee, biting his lip. “That is…problematic.”

“You’re telling me.”

“But you escaped?”

“Um. Not…exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

Stan winces, but pushes through. “Rico…let me go, but only because I…agreed to do what he wanted.”

Ford’s expression darkens, something both angry and protective sparking behind his eyes. “And what was that?”

Stan tries not to giggle out of nervousness. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“I find nothing about this even remotely humorous,” Ford deadpans. And Stan believes him.

“In exchange for my life, I had to agree to find and hand over your secret research.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, Ford’s expression growing more and more confused by the moment. “…Stanley, I don’t have—”

“I know! That’s what’s so funny! There I was, with that lunatic, threatening to murder not only me, but my whole family! For research I was already pretty sure didn’t exist!”

“Stan—”

“But what else was I supposed to do?! No matter what I told him, whether it was the truth—that there was no research to begin with—or a lie—that there was—either way I was in deep trouble! So I…I bought for time. I agreed to find the research, and hand it over. Hoping I could come up with some way out of the mess before the three days were up. And one of the conditions of the deal was that I couldn’t go to anyone for help. Not you, not the police. No one. And believe me, Rico has ways of knowing—of finding out. I couldn’t risk it.”

“But you went up to Piedmont with me. You could have lead them to—”

A sudden, horrible thought strikes Stan so hard he almost chokes on air. He stands to his feet, nearly knocking over his and Ford’s coffee in the process. “Roy and Carol! The kids! Oh, Moses, Ford, we gotta call and tell them to head somewhere safe before Rico—!”

Ford is already standing, moving to lay a hand on Stan’s arm. This time Stan doesn’t pull away, looking to his brother in fear. Ford merely pats him, a gesture meant to soothe.

“Calm down, Stanley. They’re safe.”

“No, they’re not! You have no idea what Rico would do to them! They—”

“Are with the police as we speak. They have been since shortly after I found you. I don’t expect you to remember, you were pretty out of it. I suspected that whatever trouble you were in might be a danger to them as well, and I called to tell them to go to the authorities and stay there until they heard from you or I.”

Stan is full of shaking by this point, strung tight like a guitar string. “Th-They’re okay?”

“They are fine,” Ford assures, guiltily. “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.”

Stan thinks he might faint in relief. “N-No, no it’s…it’s okay. Just…give me a minute.” He sinks back onto his seat at the table. His heart is pounding and his skin feels cold and clammy. Sheesh, he’s a mess.

Ford waits for Stan to catch his breath, before he slowly moves to crouch at Stan’s side. “Stanley, what happened? Specifically, last night. And the night you met with Alistair.”

The hard part was over. Stan wonders why his throat still feels so tight, but he answers. “I came up with a plan. If I couldn’t go to you or the police, I figured maybe I could go to someone you knew, and make it look like I was trying to find your research. With Alistair helping, I was hoping to meet up with Rico and tip off the police as to where to find him. Then all I’d have to do is duck out and let the cops take care of the rest.” He gestures weakly to his injured side. “But…as you can see, things didn’t really work out the way I hoped they would.”

“Stanley, that was incredibly dangerous,” Ford chides, softly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A little bit of the edge from before returns to Ford’s tone, but the anger is lukewarm at best. “You’re sorry. Stan, when Alistair called me and told me what you were doing, I almost had a heart attack. Honestly, you’re going to drive me to an early gr—”

“Wait.” Stan blinks, spine straightening as he snaps alert. “Say that again.”

“You almost gave me cardiac arrest—”

“No.” Something uneasy is rising in Stan’s gut. “No, the part about Alistair.”

Ford looks confused, but obliges. “He called me. Said you were in trouble, and gave me—admittedly very vague—directions on how to find you.”

“When was that?”

“Around three-thirty, I believe. Or, perhaps three forty-five? Honestly, I was fairly flustered at the time, so I’m merely estimating…” At Stan’s increasing agitation Ford frowns deeper, concerned. “…Stanley?”

Stan feels like his head is full of helium. “That…That doesn’t make any sense. What did he say?”

“That you were in danger, and that you needed me. I left immediately, and while the drive was very short, it took me considerable time to find you…Is something wrong?”

“I…” Stan isn’t sure. “The plan was for Alistair to call the cops at a very specific time. In fact, everything about my plan was totally hinged on him making that call. But the police never came. Why would he call you instead of the police? And why wouldn’t he tell you the building I’d be in? He knew the location.”

“He did?”

“More or less. He easily could have given you enough to narrow down the search.”

“That is…concerning.”

Stan worries his lip, feeling a little sick to his stomach. “Do you think Rico’s men got him?”

Ford’s expression is grim. “Possibly.” He stands, straightening his shirt with a smart tug. “And that will need looking into. However, right now, our main responsibility is to put this issue in the appropriate hands.”

“If you say aliens, Sixer, I swear—”

“The police, Stanley.” It’s said with annoyance, but Stan can spot the slight smile masked beneath. “Now that the villain is aware of your betrayal, your agreement is already void. Royland and his family are currently safe, and that leaves us to join them and explain the situation to the authorities. Preferably with some edited backstory in regard to your affiliations.”

God bless him.

Ford shifts a little on his feet. “Stanley, look, I…I know you’re afraid of what might come of this. But to let fear stop you from doing what is right is exactly what that man wants. It’s how he controls you.” His gray-blue eyes grow a bit distant. “Believe me…I know what that’s like.”

Stan remains seated, scratching at the table with a dull fingernail. “I’m just so tired of….all of this.”

“I know. But you’re not in this alone anymore. And we’re going to fix things so that you never have to worry about Rico and his ilk again.” Ford smirks playfully. “And if you ever try to hide something like this from me again, I will tell Mabel and let her set you straight. I may do that anyway, just to pay you back for all the stress you’ve caused me this week.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chapter Text

“How are you feeling, Stanley?”

Stan watches the landscape flash by the passenger window of Roy’s car. It’s late morning now, around ten-thirty. The sun has risen fully, the bright light casting down to warm the chilly winter air as they speed along, heading along the roads leading from San Francisco to Piedmont. For all his years of not driving earth vehicles, Ford’s doing a fair job, and the ride is smooth and a welcome break from the chaos.

“Better now that I’m up and moving around,” Stan assures. And it’s true. Other than some soreness, he’s really not that bad off. “Still a little dizzy and tender, but I’ll be alright.”

Ford tightens his hands around the steering wheel and grits his teeth, silently seething that Stan had been injured at all. He falls back on something familiar, information and knowledge that he can spout as a means of staying steady.

“Yes, that is to be expected. Blood volume typically takes twenty-four hours to replenish, but you lost more than the general recommended donation. Therefore, taking into account that recovery from blood loss, and the replenishing of red blood cells, takes around four to six weeks—”

Stan smirks fondly, eyes still fixed out the window. “Sixer, I get it. I’m gonna be feeling a little off for a while.”

Ford nods. “Precisely. You should be able to function adequately, but I wouldn’t recommend high-stress situations or prolonged exertion.”

“Great. So, how long until we meet up with the rest of the family?”

“We should, barring any unforeseen issues, reach Piedmont in another fifteen minutes,” Ford surmises. He glances over at Stan, taking note of his slumped posture and pale complexion. Ford frowns, turning his attention back to the road. “If you’re tired, you could close your eyes and rest a little more.”

“Nah, I’m too wound up. I keep wondering what happened to Alistair. Sure hope the guy’s okay.”

“Mm,” Ford agrees. “I must admit I am worried as well.”

Stan sits back and turns his gaze from the passing cityscape. The action pulls on his bandaged side, making him wince, then sigh. “Well, you two are all buddy-buddy. You think he’s the sort who could handle himself in a fight?”

Ford doesn’t answer immediately, his silence uncomfortable before he finally responds. “In all honesty, Stanley…I don’t know Alistair Brewster all that well.”

“…Uh. You wanna run that by me again?”

“Alistair and I were in a lot of the same classes at Backupsmore,” Ford explains, “but to say that we were close would be an overstatement.”

They come to a crossroads and Ford puts on the blinker, pausing until the way is clear before making the turn. Morning traffic has already diminished, leaving the majority of the streets empty, but for the occasional car or truck.

Stan tilts his head in confusion. “…But the guy was, like, super happy to see you. Acted like you used to be best friends.”

“It has been several decades since then, so of course I may be misremembering,” Ford admits. “But Alistair was generally involved with the more…wild crowd within the college program. Prone to joining large and rather immoral parties and such. He and I spent very little time together, outside of a few projects. I helped him with some homework, and that’s about it.”

Stan nods slowly. “So you were just reading the room.”

“Hm?”

“You were reading the room. He was friendly and familiar, so you acted that way back.” Stan shrugs. “Makes sense. I mean, maybe he thought more of you than you realized. Why wouldn’t you want to return that kind of friendship?”

Ford chuckles uncomfortably. “I don’t need validation, Stanley.”

“No, but sometimes it’s nice to get it anyway.” Stan pauses, considering. “If Rico did get his hands on Alistair, I doubt he’s the kick-butt kind of guy who could get out of the situation on his own. Too much tea and crumpets.” Stan let his head fall into his hands. “Gahhh, I never should have brought him into this!”

“You were desperate. I can understand. We’ll do what we can to find him once we report to the police.” Ford’s eyes flit up to the rear view mirror, his expression suddenly tight and guarded. “In the meantime, we have another problem at hand.”

“What’s that?”

“We’re being followed.” Stan goes to look behind them and Ford shoots out a hand to grip his wrist, freezing him. “No, no! Don’t turn around, just—Trust me. They’ve been tailing us at a distance.”

Stan swallows and forces himself to relax against the passenger seat. “Okay. Okay, so, what do we do?”

He knows what he would do; gun it and pray the other guy ran out of fuel first. But his instincts are based in panic and emotion, the gut reaction to do what is necessary to survive. Ford, on the other hand, is calculating and precise. His gray-blue eyes bounce from the road ahead to the reflection in his mirror, muscles tight but breathing even and calm.

“We’ll try winding our way off course,” Ford says, and he signals for another turn. “Perhaps we can loose them before reaching our destination.”

Stan grits his teeth against another twinge of pain, hanging on to the arm of the seat as they make the turn.“Our destination is a police station. Wouldn’t it be better to just…lead them into the hands of the cops?”

“Maybe. But Royland, Caroline, and the children are also there. And I’m sure we both can agree that is far from ideal.”

That’s an easy answer.

“Damn straight.” Stan settles in for the long haul, mouth quirking up a little as determination flares in his chest. “Okay, so let’s do this windy-route-thing and lose these bozos.”

Losing the ‘bozos’ turns out to be a more difficult task than either of them would have expected. Then again, Ford isn’t exactly pushing his foot to the floor, claiming that the longer they can appear as if they are unaware of their pursuers, the better. At first, Stan’s okay with it, but the longer the easy paced chase continues, the twitchier Stan finds himself becoming.

He’s managed to catch sight of their followers once or twice, usually around turns when he could glimpse them in the side view mirror. True to his expectations, it’s a black van with tinted windows, very much like the one that had nearly run him down the night before, and was probably the one he’d been grabbed and shoved into the night of the conference. He can’t make out who’s driving, but he can see more than one silhouette through the windshield. This isn’t good.

“Are they still tailing us?” Stan groans. They’ve been on a straight away, so he hasn’t gotten a clear look in a while. But going by how tense Ford is, his hands holding the steering wheel in a death grip, they’re far from off the hook.

“Unfortunately, yes,” is his tight reply.

“Ugh. We’ve been weaving our way around these streets for the better part of an hour!” Stan growls in annoyance. “This is really getting old.”

“Mm. I’m beginning to reconsider my thoughts on steering clear of the authorities.”

“Nah-ah,” Stan asserts. “They’re not getting anywhere near our family, like you said. Use that big brain of yours to figure this out a different way.”

“Easier said than done—Huh.” Ford cuts off, the tension in his arms and back that had just started to loosen tightening back up with a jolt.

Stan is instantly on the alert. “What?”

“Our pursuers are closing the distance. They’re speeding up.”

That can’t be a good sign. “You think they’re on to us?”

Ford’s eyes keep flitting to the mirror, his hold on the wheel shifting to something more defensive. “That would be my first guess, yes.” He worries his lip, before seeming to come to a decision. He snaps on the directional signal again. “Hold on to something. I’m going to try a little harder to shake them.”

“Go for it.” Ford does, the back of Stan’s skull pressing into the headrest as their speed intensifies. “Whoa—okay!” Stan gives a startled chuckle, hands lurching to grab anything in reach to hang onto. “Now we’re moving!”

They’re pushing the speed limit now, and steadily climbing above the law enforcement’s posted number. This is where Ford’s true skill comes out, Stan’s twin swerving around corners and navigating obstacles with a skill Stan can honestly say he admires. He might be a little rusty with driving a car, but Ford more than makes up for it with his focused eye and calculating mind. Even then, the van stays behind them, doggedly following and slowly gaining ground.

“I commend them on their driving,” Ford quips, sounding impressed, and Stan wants to slap him.

“Yeah, well—Watch out!” They narrowly miss a school bus crowded with children, and Stan thinks it might have scared a few years off his life. He swears, hanging on tighter.

Ford winces, refocusing his efforts. “I think they know that we’re aware of them.”

“No kidding!” It’s such a stupidly obvious thing to say, Stan can’t help but bark a sharp, unsteady laugh. “Drive! Drive!”

It’s an all-out chase now, the two vehicles speeding along at a dangerous pace. Stan has no idea where they are, Ford’s serpentine path having taken them far off course, into a suburban town Stan doesn’t recognize. Luckily, or unluckily, there doesn’t seem to be any patrolling policemen in the area, and Stan thinks that’s a bit unfair. Cops were never around when you needed them, it seemed — a thought Stan never thought he’d ever have.

The small neighborhood gives way to an even sparser offshoot from the city. Trees and underbrush fly by, the occasional house or trailer peeking out from hidden driveways.

Stan looks back through the rear window again, just in time to see the pursuing van take out some empty trash cans, plowing through without even slowing down. A few random pedestrians —women out jogging—wail and jump to safety, but their chase is tearing a path through the alleys of this place, and Stan knows from experience that luck can only be on their side for so long.

“They’re gaining on us, Sixer! Can’t this thing go any faster?!”

“Stanley, this is a primitive twenty-first century automobile,” Ford says with strained patience. “If it had a post-adaptive nylon coil generation system, that would be an entirely different matter.”

“What the heck does that even mean?!”

“It means no, I cannot go any faster!”

They crest a hill at full speed, tires leaving the road for a moment before connecting on the downhill slope. It jostles Stan’s side and he holds back a hiss of pain, eyes frantically scanning the road ahead for any means of giving them a better chance of escape. He spots a smaller road off to the side, slightly obscured by a tree.

“There! Take that turn!”

Ford doesn’t hesitate, his reflexes showing their sharp edge as he takes the corner sideways, their car’s tires squealing in protest. Stan can’t honestly say he doesn’t do the same, pressing back against his seat with a yowl, almost standing as he clutches at the armrest and the side of his door to keep from sliding. There’s a tractor puttering along the side of the road, and only Ford’s quick reflexes save them from rear ending the poor confused farmer, swerving to the side. Stan barely gives the guy a second glance beyond knowing he’s okay.

The van doesn’t take the turn quite as gracefully as Ford did, taking out a misplaced hydrant with a clang of metal and a geyser of water, but they’re still coming. The turn only bought them a fraction of a moment, but it’s something.

“We have to shake ‘em!” Stan yells over the sound of Roy’s car engine straining to keep up with Ford’s demands. “If they catch us, we’re dead!”

“I assure you, I’m doing my best!” Ford snaps back, and there’s that glimpse of flesh and bone, that distinctly human panic. Ford is just as scared and stressed as Stanley.

Rounding another corner, a turnoff looms into view on their right. Ford’s gaze locks on it, a gleam of something dangerous and clever sparking behind his eyes. His six fingers tighten on the wheel, knuckles white, and he shifts forward a bit in his seat, shoulders tense, muscles ready.

“Hold on,” he grunts, and that’s all the warning Stan gets before his brother is sliding them into a maneuver Stan had only ever seen in a James Bond movie.

Ford puts on a burst of speed then slams on the breaks, cranking the wheel hard to the left. Their momentum leaves them in a sort of sideways slide, the front wheels of Roy’s car gripping the asphalt while the back tires skid in a perfect arc, leaving dust in their wake from the upturned turnoff. Stan’s teeth rattle with the unnatural force of it, but before he can yelp out a curse they’re suddenly back on the road, now headed in the opposite direction. The van passes them in a black blur, unable to compensate for their unexpected u-turn.

“Ha!” Ford cries, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, neck craned up and to the side to watch the van spin out in the rear view mirror as their pursuers attempt and fail to recreate their feat.

The van is lost to the cloud of yellow-brown dust, left to turn around the old fashion way, effectively giving Stan and Ford the time they need to gain a little distance.

Ford looks downright giddy, and Stan would have joined him in celebration, if it weren’t for the huge pickup truck that was suddenly in their path.

“Ford, watch out!”

His twin jolts, looking forward and veering the car to the right with record speed, but it’s not quite enough. They manage to avoid the truck by inches, the driver’s horn blaring in their ears as they pass. The turn is too sharp, and the brothers feel something give. The car goes lopsided, Stan yelping in pain as he slams up against the passenger door, and somewhere behind them a tire rolls off until it hits the curb. Worse yet, the car itself swerves to the left, clipping a telephone pole in the process. The front fender gives with a resounding crack, the hood latch giving way and smoke coming out from underneath. Ford tries to correct their now careening path, but it’s no use. They go into a spin on a patch of sprinkler-wet asphalt, only able to ride it out until they slam into the nearest guardrail.

They hit it hard.

Stan gasps as his side of the car gets ripped open by jagged metal, and the next thing he knows he’s tumbling and rolling over himself on the pavement, followed by itchy, prickly grass. It burns and stings and batters him terribly, adding to the already excruciating throb in his side, but it’s over too fast to truly register, and then Stan’s lying on his side in the underbrush, gasping in pain and dazed.

He’s not quite sure how long he lies there. Time feels like it’s inching forward and speeding by all at once, and there’s a high pitched ringing in his ears. He’s not really thinking much of anything beyond the pain and shock, so it feels like someone else is moving his body when he finally struggles to sit up. Stan’s vaguely aware of the nasty road rash scrawled up and down his arms, and the thin cut that’s leaking red just over his left eyebrow, but he doesn’t give it much thought.

For a moment, all Stan can do is stay shakily on his hands and knees, staring down with wide eyes at the gathering drops of blood and sweat staining the ground beneath him. It’s not a lot, but he can feel the warmth ooze down from his forehead and slip into his eye. It blurs his vision a little, adding to the swell and tilt of the fuzzy landscape around him.

His first coherent thought is how lucky he is to be alive. Hurt, disoriented, and feeling distinctly nauseous—but alive. It’s a miracle he’s not going to look too far into, just grateful that he’s conscious and breathing.

Guiltily, Stan’s second coherent though is his brother, and the very blaring fact that he doesn’t seem to be anywhere within Stan’s radius of sight. Which, seeing as he’s more or less lying in a ditch, is pretty limited.

“F-Ford-” His voice is weak and croaking. He can taste blood, his lip split and leaking against his teeth.

Trembling fingers curl into dirt and dry grass, Stan bracing himself before working his way to his feet. It’s a challenge, the whole world feels like it’s weighing down on him, trying to convince him to just lay back down and give up, but concern for Ford drives him, and after a few false starts and shaking knees Stan finally makes it into a hunched and swaying stand. His knees sting, scraped raw from the asphalt right through his pants, and it feels like a monumental effort just to stay up. His shoulders ache and his side, now that he’s standing, feels like it’s being consumed by a slow spreading fire.

He teeters his way up the grassy incline, using his hands where it’s too steep, and that leads him back up to the roadside. He leans shakily against the broken guardrail, panting, eyes wide and watering from pain. He cradles his side with a shaking arm, the other now hanging limp as he surveys in numb horror the aftermath of their crash.

The countryside street is littered with chunks of car machinery, bits and pieces of Roy’s car strewn out like breadcrumbs. The biggest chunk being the passenger side door, which stands jutting out from the rail, all bent and disfigured. Another testament to the miracle of Stan’s survival. Following the trail of debris with bleary eyes, Stan finally locates where the rest of his nephew’s vehicle ended up.

It’s on fire.

The realization hits him slowly, like all Stan’s brain cells are lined up for a casual game of telephone. He sees the flames, feels the heat from the blaze, and still all he can do for a few agonizing moments is stare in distant surprise. The ringing in his ears crescendos, and he’s vaguely aware of other cars stopping, of nearby neighbors running across their lawns to help. It all feels so very, very far away. Like it’s a scene in a movie, something he’s watching rather than a part of.

And then he’s slammed back to reality, emotions roaring to the surface, taking his breath away. He lurches into a stumbling run, eyes fixed, desperate to reach the burning car and praying, praying Ford isn’t still inside. Someone grabs his arm, a firm but gentle hold, but Stan fights to wrench himself away. His efforts are weak at best, and he ends up tipping dizzily to the side, that same someone helping him ease back to the ground. Everything hurts, and his breathing is harsh and frightened, catching in his chest painfully. His vision is tunneling, black at the edges, and he distantly realizes he’s about to pass out. Before unconsciousness can claim him fully, Stan’s hand shoots out and grasps the sleeve of one of the people now kneeling beside him. His throat aches, his face is wet, and Stan vaguely understands that he’s crying. But this is important. He calls out, begs for someone, anyone, to check on his brother. Tries to get across that he’s not the only victim here, and that Ford could very well be in terrible danger of burning to death.

He doesn’t know if he gets the message across. He’s exhausted and hanging on to reality by a thread. All he can do is hope that someone understood, and that someone acted where he couldn’t.

By the time the ambulance arrives, Stan is already unresponsive, passed out and gingerly watched over by the small crowd of good Samaritans that came to his rescue.

And no one noticed a black van with tinted windows as it pulled away from the scene, a new passenger on board, unconscious, but very much alive.

Chapter Text

As he slowly comes to and awakens from the heavy blanketed weight of unconscious, Stan is bombarded by a cascade of detached sensation. His hearing feels muffled and distant, like his ears are deep underwater, but he can still pinpoint the ambient sounds of the blurry world around him. There’s an insistent beeping noise, high pitched and grating, steady and oddly familiar. He can detect what might be the low muttering of far-off chatter. A telephone ringing. The irritating squeaky wheel of a passing cart. And, somewhere, a vent is blowing warm air with a low, persistent hum.

Stanley takes this all in with little more than a deep, calm breath, allowing a moment to try and settle into his own body. He feels…weird. Floaty. Not bad—in fact, he feels pretty good—but something is niggling at the edge of his mind, something crouching in the shadows left behind by the void of his unnatural sleep. It’s something urgent. Something important. But he just can’t seem to put his finger on it…

Stan shifts, and while there may not be any pain—why does he feel there should be?— there is a stiffness, a pressure. He’s lying on something mildly soft, a little crinkly, and just slightly raised. His vision is crap right now, and even as he blinks hazily at his surroundings he finds he can’t discern anything more than white space and the occasional blurry shape. Another shift makes Stan aware of something snug wrapped around his chest, and now that he knows it’s there it’s hard to ignore. He doesn’t like it.

What the heck…?

Raising a distressingly shaky and uncoordinated hand, Stan moves to feel along the restricting pressure around his middle, but before his questing fingers can make full contact, something else tugs uncomfortably against the skin of his inner elbow. Stan pauses, blinking groggily and trying to get his eyes to focus on the offending limb. There seems to be something attached to him, something long and snaking, but he can’t make out much more than that. He frowns, using his other hand to begin reaching to inspect the object sprouting from his flesh.

“Whoa, easy there,” a soft voice interrupts, and warm, slender fingers wrap around his wrist, stopping him. “You need to leave that in for now, okay? It’s making you feel better.”

Stan turns his head, hating how the room spins, and traces the slim digits with his eyes, trailing up the arm, the shoulder, and finally to a face. A kind and caring face, thin and beautiful, framed by lush and slightly frizzy reddish-brown hair. He knows that face, he thinks. He loves that face.

“…C…Car’l…” Oh, his voice sounds terrible. He licks dry lips and tries again. “C-Car-ol?”

Caroline’s face lights up in fond relief, a dull shadow of grief disappearing from her vibrant green eyes to be released with something more hopeful.

“There he is,” she sighs in a low, even tone. She shifts her hold from his wrist to his hand, giving a careful little squeeze. “I was wondering when you’d finally wake up. You gave us quite a scare, Uncle Stan.”

Stan wobbles, even laying down as he is. What little strength he’d had leaves in a rush, and his head flops back against the pillow. He feels like he’s on the world’s worst merry-go-round.

“…Where ’m I…?” he rasps, words slurring strangely. His eyes, now a little clearer, wander around the small, sterile room. He takes in the white ceiling and walls, the monitors and wires, slowly putting the pieces together. “M’inna…hospital…?”

Carol dips her head, a nod. “You were brought in this morning. It’s around dinner time now. Do you…remember what happened?”

And that’s the funny thing—funny like a hole in the head. Stan can’t for the life of him remember what he’d been doing before he woke up, outside of a deep, dark void of nothingness. That sense of urgency is still there, haunting him, but he can’t place it. Can’t drag it out of the shadows of his spinning mind. The peace he’d had when he first woke up is dissolving, his heart picking up a little, broadcasted by some monitor in the room. Traitor.

“I-It’s okay if you don’t yet,” Carol is quick to assure, now holding his hand a little tighter. “Don’t push yourself, it’s okay. We’ll tell you all we can, but give yourself a few minutes. I sent Roy to go fetch the doctor. He’ll be able to help clear things up for you.”

“R…oy? H’s ‘ere too?”

“Yes. And the kids. But they’re down in the cafeteria looking for something to eat. Took me a lot to convince them to leave your side. They’re very worried, as we all have been. But they’ll be back soon. For the moment, it’s just you and me.”

God bless her. Stan loves his niece-in-law, always has and always will. Her calm, soothing voice is helping him push past the worst of his confusion, and easing him away from the virtual cliff of anxiety he’s about two wrong steps away from plunging over into. He tries to squeeze her hand, to let her know he understands and appreciates her being there, and he’s relieved when he succeeds, even if it’s a little shaky.

Carol smiles softly. “Think you can drink a little water?”

Stan nods and Caroline moves back a little, free hand reaching to a small table to the side. She’s sitting in a plain cushioned chair, pulled up close to his hospital bed. He wonders how long she’s been sitting there, waiting for him to wake up.

Now that he feels a little more awake, Stan takes stock of his own condition. He is indeed lying on a typical hospital mattress, thin sheets spread over his feet, legs, and chest. Beneath the fabric, and by pressing his head back into the cushioning at his back, Stan can make out a number of white bandages expertly wrapped around his middle, all the way up to his collarbone. That explains the pressure he’d noticed before. His arms are also wrapped, particularly from the elbows down. He can’t tell if his legs are bandaged at all. He’s still too busy trying to get used to being awake again to really care.

Since he’s not feeling any pain, it probably means they must have him on something. The good stuff, seeing as he feels like his body is floating about a foot above where it actually is. The snaking tube in his inner elbow is an IV, which is probably how they’re administering the medication.

Carol gently guides Stan’s fingers around a paper cup filled with lukewarm water. She doesn’t let go until she’s sure he can handle its meager weight.

The water is a blessing straight from heaven, wet and refreshing to Stan’s dry and scratchy throat, even if it isn’t cold and tastes like paper. It slides down and into him like a liquid angel, and after finishing it off he can’t help but give a hum of satisfaction. It grounds him a bit more, helps center his mind in the real world.

Stan hands the empty cup back to Carol, and is just about to start asking the really important questions on the tip of his tongue when Roy strides into the room, a doctor close at his heels.

Roy looks worn and worried. Actually, so does Caroline now that Stan is paying attention. Her hair is unkempt and mussed, and there are dark shadows under slightly red-rimmed eyes. Royland is little better, his expression grim and serious. Though some of that cloud lifts from his face when he sees Stan conscious and moderately functioning. Before he can say anything, though, the professional in the room steps forward, eager to get to business.

“Ah, it’s wonderful to see you awake, Mr. Pines,” the doctor beams. “I was hoping you’d be joining us about now.”

He’s a tall guy, thin, but fit. His sky-blue scrubs are the first pop of color Stan has seen since waking. Stan’s never been much one for doctors. He understands their importance, and appreciates what they do, but he’d rather not have one anywhere near him. Too many bad experiences. Too many bad memories. But this man seems decent enough, all bright eyed and white smile. And it’s not like Stan could make a run for it even if he wanted to, what with Carol’s kind but firm grip on his hand and the fact Stan doubts he could stand right now without falling flat on his face.

So, instead, Stan sends the man a shaky smile and a weak thumbs up.

The doctor makes his way to the foot of the bed, plucking up a clipboard from the base and giving it a quick but knowledgeable glance. He nods to himself, then looks back up, friendly grin still in place.

“My name is Dr. Kevin Jeffreys, and I am currently your primary physician. I will be helping you get up to speed on what’s happened, and will answer any and all questions you might have. Alright?”

Stan doesn’t have much of a choice, but okay. And he does want answers. “Sure.”

“Wonderful. Now.” Dr. Jeffreys sets down the clipboard and fixes his attention fully on Stanley, arms folding casually over his chest. “Do you remember any details on how you ended up here?”

Stan shakes his head, and the heart monitor betrays him again. The doctor is quick to reassure him.

“That’s perfectly alright. In fact, I was expecting that to be more than likely the case.” He nods, and then proceeds. “You were brought in to Piedmont General Hospital around eleven-thirty this morning. You were not in critical condition, but you weren’t fairing the best. You were in a car accident, Mr. Pines. And while you were certainly hurt, I must admit it could have been a lot worse.”

Stan blinks, voice uncertain. “A…car accident?” That urgent little something in the shadows of his mind stirs, scratching with sharp, unkind claws.

Dr. Jeffreys nods again. “The vehicle couldn’t have been going too terribly fast. Your injuries, while relatively minor, will doubtless leave you quite sore for the next few weeks. You received considerable road rash to both your arms and legs, and you have a few broken and highly agitated ribs. You’re probably not feeling any pain yet, seeing as we had you on a decent dose of morphine.”

No wonder he felt high as a kite.

“Not to worry,” the doctor added. “We already stopped administering. The effects should fade the longer you are awake. Now, we did have some trouble locating your medical records. It seems you haven’t been admitted to any medical facilities since your childhood. A case of the measles, I believe? If this is accurate—”

“It’s accurate,” Stan croaks.

And it is. Or, at least, it’s technically true. Stanley Pines hasn’t visited a doctor since he was in middle school—Pa didn’t like to waste money on medical bills unless he absolutely had to. But Stan’s various aliases…

Yeah. There was a reason he didn’t like hospitals.

“Ah. Well, we worked with what we had. I’m glad to see that you haven’t had any adverse affects to any of our treatments. We went with the safest medications, as a precaution. And we avoided giving you codeine, as your records show you are allergic.” Dr. Jeffreys pauses, a frown worrying his brow. “Though, I must say, we were more concerned by your other injuries.”

“Other…injuries?” Roy asks, and Stan startles slightly, having nearly forgotten his quiet nephew was there. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” The doctor raises the clipboard again, eyeing it. “You seem to have a mild concussion, one that appears to be a little older than the incident this morning, as any sign of head trauma is already mostly healed. Though I’m sure the crash didn’t help it any. We also found what looks to be a gunshot wound in your side.”

“What?!” Roy and Carol yelp in unison, eyes snapping to Stan for answers. They look so horrified, so utterly speechless, that it makes Stan want to disappear.

“This is a concerning observation, as I am sure you can agree,” Dr. Jeffreys intones. He fixes stern but compassionate eyes on Stanley. “And an observation we were rather hoping you might be able to enlighten us to, Mr. Pines.”

That urgent beast in the shadows of Stan’s mind is starting to break free. He can feel the pressure, feel the way the memories are struggling to snap into place. A part of him doesn’t want them to, but since when has this ever been about what he wants. It’s just like after Weirdmageddon all over again. Sure, he still has all his main memories in place, but there’s that hole, that blank spot just waiting to be filled. And with it comes the anticipation and dread that never fails to turn his stomach.

Even as the doctor continues talking, Stan finds himself being dragged back toward the dark pit of his poor head’s own making. Moses, he hates this.

“I hope this doesn’t upset you too much, but I have contacted the authorities. All doctors and healthcare providers are required by law to report any gunshot wounds that are incurred due to violence or foul play, or any other life-threatening or potentially criminal conditions we discover in our patients. This is to ensure that appropriate steps are taken to investigate the cause of injury, ensure the safety and security of the patient and the public, and to provide the patient with any needed support or resources.”

“What are you implying?” Carol asks in a shaky voice. She’s gone back to squeezing Stan’s hand like she’s the only thing keeping him on God’s green earth.

“I’m not implying anything,” Dr. Jeffreys replies carefully. “I am simply following protocol. There is really only one individual here who can clear this up for us, and I think he’s had sufficient time to—Mr. Pines? Are you alright?”

“Stanley?” Roy echoes the concern in the doctor’s tone.

And they probably have good reason to be worried, what with the way Stan has clenched his eyes shut and snapped his jaw closed so hard his teeth creak. His expression is doubtless one of extreme discomfort, worrying and unnatural, but Stan more than recognizes the crest of the mental wave he’s plunging from. It’s as if he’d build a dam around the memories his brain didn’t want to deal with, tall and thick, but not enough to sway the inevitable. Cracks thunder all across the mental concrete, crumbling like a sandcastle built too close to the tide. With one final press the memories are free, and with them comes a nauseating headache, one that not even the morphine can truly abate.

Images cascade to the forefront of Stanley’s mind. A flash of an abandoned apartment building. A scarred and sneering face. A burning sensation in his side and fear in his heart. The feeling of being trapped. The static charge and blue glow of an alien blaster. Ford standing at his back, fierce and protective—

His brother.

“F-Ford!” Stan gasps, eyes flying open, terror-induced adrenaline swatting away any remaining sedative effects. That stupid monitor is blaring, but Stan could care less now. He’s struggling to sit up and get out of bed before he can even begin to think the action through, and suddenly there are three pairs of hands trying to keep him still.

“Uncle Stan!” Carol begs, now clinging to his arm. “Please, you have to stay lying down, you’re still injured!”

Dr. Jeffreys seems to agree. “I must ask you to remain calm, Mr. Pines.” He sounds so cool and collected, even as he’s practically pinning Stan back to the mattress. “I understand that this must all be very stressful and confusing for you, but we are here to help. I’d rather work with you to figure this out than have to sedate you to keep you from injuring yourself more.”

That makes Stan falter. His entire body is bristling with anxiety and fear, not for himself, but for his twin. His twin that his dumb-dumb brain decided to forget while he spent who-knew-how-long playing hospital while Ford was—was—

He doesn’t know where Ford is. Stan vaguely remembers staggering by the roadside, calling out in a winded rasp for his brother, and receiving no answer. He can remember the pain, the fear, can smell the smoke and feel the heat of the wrecked car’s flames on his skin. But no Ford.

The fact that he isn’t there at the hospital…

Well. It isn’t exactly a good sign.

He’s not dead. Leastwise not from the crash. Stan would know if he was. And he has a feeling the others would have told him as much before now, even if they were worried about upsetting him. But if Ford isn’t in the hospital, and he isn’t dead, then…

Where is he?

Stan allows Jeffreys and Roy to press him back into the hospital bed, Carol cooing beside him, trying to ease him as Stan pants for breath and shudders at the first few real twinges of pain. That and his stomach isn’t happy, but hell if he’s gonna hurl in front of anyone, family or stranger. He can vaguely hear the others talking over him, quick, hurried, hushed voices ping-ponging back and forth until it quiets. It takes Stan a long moment to realize he’s been asked a question.

“Wha…W-What?”

Carol brushes a strand of gray hair from his forehead, looking heartbroken. “I know you’re scared, I’m so sorry. We asked if Ford was with you in the car? If he was there when you…?”

Stan closes his eyes again and nods. His fingers fist the thin blanket draped over his legs, the fabric foreign and terrible. “He—H-He was driving. He c-called—”

“Yes,” Roy answers, understanding the question before Stan even knows he’s asking for it. “Yes, Uncle Ford called us last night. Told us to leave the house and head down to the police station. We didn’t want to make a fuss, so we went and just sort of hung out in the lobby, without informing the police of anything too detailed other than that we were waiting for someone. All Ford said was that we were to stay there until you two arrived.”

“Then we got the call that you were in the hospital,” Carol whispers, “and we had to come.” Her small smile turns sad but fond. “The kids wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

That’s right, the kids. Stan needs to pull himself together, if not for his sake then for theirs. They’d be back from the cafeteria soon; they’d have to be. He needed to figure this out before they tried to fix things themselves. Not to mention that having the two walk in on him having a full-blown panic attack would probably end with Dipper demanding answers from every adult present and Mabel bursting into sympathetic tears. Stan’s not sure he can handle that right now.

“Do you think you could fill us in on what’s happened to you, Mr. Pines?” Dr. Jeffreys asks, almost gently. “Perhaps then we can help you find this…Ford?”

“His twin brother,” Roy supplies, distracted, more focused on Stan directly.

Carol gives Stan’s hand another squeeze, green eyes matching pools of imploring love and understanding. “Please, Uncle…Let us help. Tell us what you know.”

And how is he supposed to argue to something like that?

Stan takes a deep, shuddering breath, fixes his gaze somewhere neutral, and starts to explain what he feels he can.

Stanford Filbrick Pines is no stranger to waking up in a cold, dark room, alone and aching, bound to a chair and feeling drugged out of his mind.

That doesn’t mean that it ever gets any easier to deal with.

Whatever they’ve pumped into him is strong. A heavy-duty sedative or tranquilizer, maybe. Either way, it has Ford feeling sick to his stomach. The room feels like its planted on a runaway carousel, spinning round and round with Ford an unwilling passenger. Fatigue tugs at him from all sides, but now that he’s awake he’s too uncomfortable to drift back into unconsciousness. He feels restless, uneasy in his restraints, and there’s a headache throbbing behind his eyes that makes him wonder if his brains might be melting out through his ears. Which is, of course, a ridiculous and disgusting notion to have, but he’s not exactly running at his best mental capacity at the moment. For him, that’s probably the worst part of this whole thing, the fact that his cognitive functions are so drowsily impaired.

He has always relied on his mind to get him out of tough situations. To have that strength stripped from him is, quite honesty, terrifying. But that’s a fact he’ll take to his grave.

Ford isn’t certain how long he has been in this dank, claustrophobic place, but from the stiffness in his limbs and back he surmises several hours at least. Most of which he’d spent asleep or too sedated to take proper notice of his surroundings. The discomfort from remaining immobile so long pales in comparison, however, to the aches and pains radiating throughout his body. Through careful self-examination—to the best of his, admittedly limited, ability—Ford had determined that he had sustained several injuries from the crash. Most notably a sprained wrist, second degree burns along his right arm, side, and shoulder, and possible concussion symptoms—though the latter might have been a result of the drug raging through his veins.

His recollections of the wreck are hazy. He can remember the adrenaline of the chase, the fear accompanying lost control of the vehicle, and then the sharp plunge into dazed semi-consciousness. He’d been aware of the heat of flames licking at his skin, the throb of pain and shock, and the urgency to move but finding he couldn’t. He’d floundered in his own mind, locked in and unable to act.

And then, the driver’s side of Royland’s car had been pried open, and he could vaguely recall the feeling of rough, careless hands dragging him from the wreckage. He was manhandled, taken away, but from there on everything faded to black.

Until Ford awoke here, in what appears to be some sort of cellar or basement, if the damp air and smell of soil and mold is any indication. It’s too dark to see, no light but for a small sliver of yellow-white glow ahead and above him—the crack beneath a door perhaps? At the top of some cellar stairs if Ford had to hazard a guess. Then again, he doesn’t feel very in tune with his faculties. His brain feels muddled, like everything around him is moving in slow motion. His other senses are dulled, and yet incredibly aware of every internal function—his lungs breathing, his heart thumping, his side stinging terribly. It’s the burns, probably, skin seared raw right through the fabric of his shirt and slacks. He aches to rub at it, to scratch that uncomfortable itch of dried blood and flesh just starting to heal, but trying to move only reminds him of his bindings. The chair is hard, rough, and smells of mildew. Ford’s arms are prickled by the harsh rope against his wrists, and his ankles are lashed to the chair legs, numb from the tightness.

Ford’s been in some pretty tricky situations in his lifetime. You don’t become a wanted outlaw in the multiverse—hunted by all the bounty hunters of a hundred worlds, and with a price on your head to boot—and not get into a few tough scrapes. And Ford has the scars to prove it. Most of his adventures had turned out alright, though there were some he’d rather not recall; ones that had left him torn and bleeding in ways that weren’t necessarily physical.

Now, in the multiverse, he’d expect that. It was a harsh, cruel, and dangerous place, full of both wonderment and peril. But he’s not used to being treated like this on his own native soil, his own planet, his own universe. Time back home has made him soft; too at ease. He should have known something was up with Stanley before things had gotten this bad. He should have discerned that some shadow from his brother’s past was involved, and he should have sensed that something was amiss.

But he hadn’t.

And now he is paying the price.

Ford winces, woozy and sore. He’d long ago mastered the skill of tucking his fear deep within himself, of slowing his heart and calming each breath. But his current predicament is putting that mastery to the test. Another unfortunate side effect of the drug, no doubt. Ford has no more control over the anxiety tingling through his every nerve than he might have as a child, backed against a wall at school with Crampelter’s shadow cast over him.

He’s at his captor’s mercy.

Whoever they might be.

Suddenly, the door—he was right, it was a door at the top of a cellar stair— opens, harsh light flooding in. Ford flinches with a hiss, averting his head and squeezing his eyes shut as the brightness causes his head to throb all the harder, the pain sharp and disabling. Migraines are evil, but the one he has right now crawls straight from the gates of hell.

There’s a pause, and without looking up Ford can tell he’s being watched. He can feel eyes on him, calm, collected, but seeking. The same way a scientist might look at a germ under a microscope. The sensation makes him shudder despite himself. Then there are footsteps, measured, paced, descending the wooden steps into the dank prison Ford has found himself in.

Ford quickly turns his head back despite the pain, blinking, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He’d rather face an enemy half-blind rather than completely. The figure, mostly cast in silhouette with the light of the open door behind him, reaches the bottom of the stairs, arms posed behind his back. He takes a few steps closer before stopping, coming to a stand a good four feet from Stanford. Too far away to be reached, and too far away for Ford’s swimming vision to discern any features. The new arrival, however, doubtless has a clear view of Ford’s every twitch and micro-expression.

“I hope you’ll forgive the accommodations. I wasn’t quite expecting your arrival so soon. But no matter. We shall have to make do.”

The voice sounds oddly familiar. Low and measured, with just a hint of an accent. It’s hard to be sure beneath the pompous smugness and leering drawl. The tone of a predictor who had his prey cornered and immobile. Sure. Suave. Detestable.

“Who’re you?” Ford slurs, squinting, both from the light and his various pains. “Why’m I h’re?” It’s hard to come across as demanding when you are essentially a sitting duck.

The mysterious man chuckles. “Why you are here will be made quite clear before too long. As for who I am—really, Stanford, I’m rather offended. Surely, a mind as greatly acclaimed as yours can put two and two together.” He hums. “Then again, it is quite dark down here, and your mind is doubtless still under the effects of the drug. I think I can shed a little light on the situation. For an old friend.”

The silhouette raises an arm, dark fist closing around something Ford can’t quite make out, and then the room is flooded with weak, orange light. A solitary bulb hangs from a wire connected to the ceiling, swinging now that its cord has been pulled and making the few remaining shadows sway. The basement is illuminated, portraying a damp, wet soil floor and four moss covered stone walls. Aged wooden steps rise up to a small platform by the door, held together in places by wound rope and extra boarding. There’s nothing more in the cellar than a few kegs and barrels. And, of course, Ford himself.

But Stanford isn’t focused on his surroundings.

Before him stands a man not much older than Ford himself. He is tall, and sporting a thick head of sandy gray-blond hair. His face is long and thin, but not bony, framed by a soft, thinning beard the same color as his hair, trimmed close to his skin like peach fuzz. His ears are elongated and close to his skull, eyes dark, sharp, and filled with cruel amusement. His neck is long, like a pencil that slopes down into broad, drooping shoulders. He wears a muted, gray-brown suit with a cream white button down, all winced up tight at the collar with a black bow tie, and a handkerchief tucked neatly into the breast pocket of his suit.

Ford feels his stomach drop down to his feet.

“Al-Alistair…?”

The Brit grins, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes as they rove over Ford’s bound form. “Hello, Stanford. Surprised?”

Surprised is an understatement. Ford stares, mouth agape, trying to kick his lagging brain into gear. The soggy air of the basement is suddenly very hard to breathe.

“I take by your silence that you’ve been taken off guard,” Alistair preens. “One of many delicious emotions I’ve yet to draw from your soul.”

Ford blinks, gives his head a small shake to try and clear it, and strains against his bonds. “Alistair, what’re you doing?” he hisses. “I demand you release me at once!”

“Oh, you demand, do you? Imagine that.” This time Alistair outright laughs, a nasty, grating sound. When he finishes he gives Ford a roll of his eyes. “Oh, stop squirming. It won’t do you any good. You don’t think I would take precautions? You have about as much chance of getting out of that as a baby. I’m sure you’ve noticed your weakened state.”

Ford pants, already so exhausted and having done almost nothing to become so. “Wh-What…What did you…do to me? What drug—”

Alistair waves a hand dismissively. “Come now, don’t worry. It’s nothing particularly nasty. A simple concoction. A sedative, really. Just something to make you a little more…cooperative.”

“Alistair, by the Oracle, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” the scientist challenges, taking a few quick steps closer, towering over his prisoner. “Oh, do speak up. It’s just you and I here, Doctor Pines, I’ve shown my hand. Now it’s time for a little chat. If you wish to go first, I certainly won’t stop you.”

The pieces are slowly falling into place. “…You’re the one who sent those thugs after Stanley. Your the one who hired—”

Alistair shrugs. “Of course. Though, I believe in giving credit where credit is due. Your brother made those enemies all on his own. All I did was make some calls, and worked out a little reunion.”

“How did you…how did you know about Stanley’s past? Even I wasn’t truly aware until…” Ford trails off, too ashamed to admit.

“Oh, you know, a bit of digging. A bit of researching. Even those who don’t wish to be traced aren’t truly invissible, no matter how hard they try to be. Your brother traveled all over in his younger days, and met quite a few unsavory characters. You, however, were out of his life by then. Weren’t you.”

Stanford turns his gaze to the side, unwilling to give in to the patronizing lilt. Inside, long-gnawing guilt resurfaced, an old poison that still bubbled beneath the surface.

“Poor Stanley. I could regale you with the gossip I turned up. Just what he went through as a result of your neglect. The horrors and injustices he endured. He’s been hospitalized for an unending list of illnesses and injuries. I’m surprised a man so afflicted can even stand nowadays. He’s been shot, stabbed, starved, imprisoned, and beaten to within an inch of his life. Why, I even found out he was once bound and thrown into the trunk of a car, the vehicle left to sink into a marsh and—”

“Stop! Stop it!” Ford shouts, angry and hurt, and so, so guilty. He feels like he’s reeling. He might have toppled were he not so firmly tied to his seat. “For God’s sake, just—! Just stop…”

To his surprise, Alistair does. The man goes silent as Ford tries to wrestle his emotions back under control. It’s like trying to paste a shattered vase back together with glue. Alistair waits, and Ford can’t look at him, afraid he’ll see the smug grin that he can feel radiating at him, so vindictive and cruel.

“Why?” he murmurs finally, at a loss. “Why would you do that?”

“Do what, Stanford?”

“You know perfectly well what!” An aborted gasp-sob. Ford is so tired. “Why would you go through all of that trouble, all of that digging, simply to connect by brother’s past and drag him back into it? I don’t understand…”

“It got your attention, did it not?”

Ford didn’t think his heart could sink any lower. He was wrong. His head whips around, eyes latching on to Alistair’s own, feeling cold and hollow. He’d been right, his old colleague was grinning. Sharp, and frighteningly sinister.

“Wh…What?”

“You heard me,” Alistair asserts.

“My…My attention?” Something worse than guilt is settling in. Ford doesn’t have a name for it. “All of this…was about me?”

“Pssh,” Alistair scoffs. He moves to make his way around Ford, walking in a slow circle, around and behind. “Don’t flatter yourself. Mr. Rodriguez and his associates were very adamant that your brother play a big part in our…little deal. Seems they have some unfinished business with him. But yes. You were my main target. Your sibling was merely a means to an end.”

“A means to an—”

“Naturally. Allow me to explain in terms you can fully comprehend.” Alistair makes his way back to the front, regaining his previous position and stance. “I used your brother against you. Both as an informant, as well as a lure. And now, if I deem it necessary, leverage. He has plenty of experience in being used, thanks to you.”

Ford spits out an alien curse and strains harder against his restraints. Alistair raises a brow but doesn’t comment. He waits until Ford grows weakened once more, the adventurer slumping back, out of breath, but still fuming in righteous anger. Only then does Alistair continue.

“Of course, plans don’t always go according to design. Originally, I’d intended to use your brother as collateral in bribing Mr. Hernandez and his ilk to assist in your capture. Their plans mostly revolved around the idea of killing him. I didn’t much care, that would have been more than efficient in grabbing your attention and drawing you into our clutches. But where’s the fun in that? Mm? Besides, your clever little brother Stanley turned out to be quite the sweet talker. He made a deal of his own. Promised—”

“I am very much aware of what he promised,” Ford hisses. Most of the slur has left his voice, but his tongue still feels heavy and odd. “Stanley told me everything.”

“Ah. Seems the two of you have laid all your cards on the table, I see. Good. That saves me having to waste breathe on the details. Needless to say, I allowed your brother to complicate matters. It would all come out in the washing. No matter what, I got what I asked for.”

“But what of Rico—”

“Mr. Hernandez is still under the assumption that dear Stanley was supposed to deliver certain sensitive government information in your possession. Seeing as your brother has failed to do so, I can only imagine his wrath will be forthcoming.”

In other words, Rico was going to kill Stanley. One too many betrayals; one too many setbacks by Stan’s direct cause. Ford feels his skin prickle with anxiety. He has no idea where his twin is, whether he is still out there, now looking for him — and therefore in danger of being found and murdered—or whether he had been captured as Ford had been. Neither option is particularly reassuring.

“Ah, but that’s of little interest to me,” Alistair dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I think we have chit-chatted enough by now. It’s time to cut right to the chase.”

“If you intend to pry about my so-called ‘secret research’,” Ford growls. “I’m afraid you’re about to be disappointed. It doesn’t exist. I only ever did one project for the government, and it was later exposed and documented. If you have done as much research as you claim, then you would know that. I have always preferred to work for myself. There is nothing left for you to obtain.”

Alistair Brewster laughs heartily. “Ah ha hah! Stanford! As amusingly dense as always, I see!” He clears his throat, still chuckling. “You see, I already know that. For it was I who came up with the deception.”

“You…what?”

“It was a ruse. A ploy. A tactic. A contrivance by which I was able to maneuver all of the pieces in this little chess game of ours. I knew that your brother would not be enticing enough of a reward to Mr. Hernandez all on his own. After all, the man has an organization to run. But throw in some governmental research, perhaps implied to be in regard to some form of weaponry or money transference, and I had the fellow eating out of the palm of my hand.”

Ford blinks. “I—"

“Mr. Hernandez is a man of cunning and ambition,” Alistair preens. “I knew that simply asking for his loyalty in this whole matter would not work. A fellow like that needs motivation, a prize to be won. So I gave him one. I told him and his associates that you were a fine and well-known scientist, that you had been put in charge of a project that, should we procure it, would bring us thousands. To Mr. Hernandez, throwing in your brother, Stanley, was merely the icing on the proverbial cake.”

That seals it; Stanford hates this man with every fiber of his being. The familiar hurt of betrayal and manipulation stings at his soul like an old wound. Bill had been like that. His weedling voice and raucous laughter still haunted Ford’s dreams. He was the shadow that preyed upon the few, gray moments between slumber and waking, sending a jolt of panic and terror through Ford more often than he would care to admit, even to Stan.

Why was it that Ford always fell victim to people like this? The conniving. The cruel. The merciless. He staggers through life, chased by his mistakes and doomed to make more. He seems to be destined to forever play a role in his own, and others’, suffering.

Face paler, and throat tight, Ford pushes as much loathing as he can into glaring at his captor. “If you don’t want me for my research…what is it that you do want?”

“Aaaaah, and now we find ourselves at the true core of our little discussion.” Alistair smirks. “What is it that I want? The answer is simple. Revenge.”

At Ford’s blank stare, Alistair chuckles again, shaking his head. His tone is like that of someone speaking to a very young and dense child.

“Oh, and I know that phrase is founded firmly in banality, but it’s the truth. I’ve waited years for this moment. Perhaps without realizing it at first, but when I saw that article of yours, such emotions of regret and anger stirred in my soul—and an idea was coaxed into a flame of hatred. Everything after that was easy.”

“I don’t—” Ford chokes on his own confusion. None of this is making the least bit of sense. It feels so disjointed and far-fetched. Stanford finds himself unable to properly grasp what he’s being told. “Alistair, I don’t understand what I’ve done to—”

“That, old friend,” the other interrupts coldly, “is specifically why it angers me so. You were always so set in your studies, your books. Always the professors’ pet student, the freak with all the right answers. And yet, for all your cleverness and knowledge, you couldn’t see the harm you were causing. Or perhaps you simply decided to look the other way. No matter the reason, it was all your fault.”

Alistair sighs at Ford’s continued incertitude. He runs a hand through his hair, then through his beard, stroking it with an air of strained annoyance. Then, finally, he fixed his gaze on the middle distance, and began to relate his tale.

“I was sent to Backupsmore because my family was not well off. My father worked as an electrician, but he suffered from an injury and was laid off indefinitely. My mother was a frail woman, but despite that she worked hard to help me scrape up enough funds to send me to college. As their only child, I was more or less their only hope of a brighter legacy. The unspoken plan was that I should become successful, and help support my dwindling family’s finances.”

To some degree, Ford could relate. His father, Filbrick, had not seen himself as a particularly successful businessman, despite the way he ran both his pawn shop and his home. He was strict, money focused, and more apt to spend time hoarding every penny he earned than ensuring that his wife and sons were emotionally cared for. Not that he was cruel or abusive, he was just…not great.

While their family wasn’t rich, they’d had food on the table and clothes on their backs, and of course they’d had one another. But that had never really been enough for Pa. The man had been obsessed with the idea of Ford earning a degree and, by extension, helping to support the family. His ‘ticket to the good life’. After Stan was kicked out…that drive had doubled down to an almost crushing force. Pa became even more aggressively insistent that Stanford not be a failure ‘like that degenerate twin of his’. And Ford, because he hadn’t had even an ounce of spine back then, had nearly run himself trying to reach the heights his father set. And even that, it turned out, had not been enough.

So Ford gets it. He does. That feeling of needing to be something more, to want to prove your worth. But what does Alistair having come from a similar background have to do with his apparent hatred for him?

Unaware of Ford’s swirling thoughts, Alistair continues on.

“When I arrived at the university, I found myself caught up in the excitement and novelty of college life. I had never felt so free, and while I was still serious about my studies, I dabbled in the more recreational pastimes the campus had to offer. I was doing fairly well, though I will be the first to admit I was no model student, but that rarely mattered, as I was still outperforming most of the people in my classes. I was on the road to becoming a scientist, and my family’s stability was secured.”

Alistair’s voice darkens. “Or so I thought. The following semester, you arrived. You with your questions and your answers, and your frustrating ability to always be right. The professors were astounded by you, and you quickly became their main focus. Suddenly my answers weren’t good enough. Suddenly my projects were not top grade. Suddenly, I was no longer a shining pupil. I was second rate.”

“Surely, you can’t find fault with me for just doing what I was supposed to!” Ford exclaims in frustration, then bites down on a yelp when Alistair’s scowling face is all at once mere inches from his own.

Alistair’s expression is screwed up into something terrifying, a toxic cocktail of rage, hatred, and some wild flare of what Ford can only describe as insanity.

“Do not. Tell me. What or who I can and can’t find fault in,” Alistair threatens in a tight whisper, hand shaking with wrath as it makes as if to wrap around Ford’s neck. Stanford leans as far back as he can, eyes locked with the enemy and chest tight. Alistair’s breath is sweet like honey in tea, his cologne nauseatingly strong and thick.

The hand hovers there, trembling centimeters above the skin of Ford’s throat, while Alistair grinds his teeth. It takes a moment, but the other man finally gets himself back under control. His hand drops to Ford’s shoulder, giving a squeeze as though in camaraderie, Alistair’s demeanor completely changed. The scientist shakes his head with a huff and steps back, and Ford finds he can breathe a little easier. But he’s shaken, unbalanced by Alistair’s unpredictability.

“Forgive me. I find my emotions very difficult to keep in check. Especially around you,” Alistair finishes, his smile a condescending mask. That rage still simmers below the surface, waiting to be released once more. “It is simply that your every paper, your every presentation, haunted my every step. My grades began dropping. All at once, my family’s future was no longer certain. I ‘buckled down’, as the term goes, and began studying until I was close to collapse. I ate, slept, and lived those textbooks. But did it help get me back on top? No. I put my all into outdoing what you seemed to do so effortlessly. And still I was no match for the prodigy, Stanford Pines.”

Alistair shrugs. “My only hope, as I saw it, was to win the scholarship during our senior year. A prize that was sure to bring my parents peace and comfort. I gave up everything to make good on my project. I skipped weekends and holidays—holidays I could have spent with my mother and father…But as you know. It was not enough.”

At Alistair’s pointed look, Ford’s eyes widen. “My scholarship…”

“Yes. Your scholarship,” the scientist sneers. “The one that was handed to you rather than me. On a technicality.”

“A technicality? Alistair, I worked hard for that grant. I worked every bit as hard as y—”

“Don’t try to act like we suffered equally!” Alistair explodes, spit flying as he rounds on Ford yet again. “I was desperate! I was being cheated out of what I truly deserved! What would have made my parents happy! Proud! And I had to stand there and watch them hand it over to you! Their precious pet student! My hopes were dashed! My funds exhausted! Gah!”

Alistair kicks out, a dry empty keg scuttling off to a corner of the basement. It hits the wall and bursts to splinters, the wood having been old and brittle. For a moment, there is only the sound of breathing—Alistair’s ragged and heated, and Ford’s stinted and tight.

“I returned home, a failure,” Alistair wraps up in a wet voice filled with regret and sorrow. “My father refused to talk to me. He wouldn’t even look at me. And my mother…she passed away, an ailing and disheartened woman.” Hot, fevered eyes slowly shift to lock with gray-blue. The hatred is ice now, dripping with danger. “All because of you.”

Ford doesn’t know what he can say to change the course that is being laid before him. Alistair is obviously unstable, suffering from delusions and deep, seething obsession. But that will make this situation all the more perilous. To reason with a madman, is not to reason at all. But Ford can only try.

Ford licks fear-dry lips, voice scratchy and raw. “Alistair…I’m sorry for the hardships I may have unknowingly caused you, but you mustn’t blame me for simply doing my best. I was there to learn, to try and gain my degree. My own father, like yours, craved success through my path. I understand your frustration, and I regret that I never knew that you came from a broken home. And if I had, maybe I could have helped, but you mustn’t blame me for what I couldn’t possibly understand without being told. Please—”

“Oh, but I must blame you, dear Stanford. I can, and I do.” Alistair starts making his way back toward the cellar steps. “And now I have the ability to give you a sordid taste of what I had to endure. I don’t want your research, whatever nonsense it may be. Putting all that grant money to absolute waste when it could have gone to saving my mother. I don’t want your knowledge or your success. No.” He turns and smiles, shark-like, one hand on the stair railing. “I want to take from you what you took from me. Your future. Your career. And your family.”

“No—” Ford growls, fighting harder against his restraints, despite how the rope digs into his burns. “Don’t you dare touch them, Alistair! Alistair! Don’t you dare!”

“Aaaah, yes. Scream all you want. It’s music to my ears. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing you beg for your family’s lives. As for yours, fear not. I’ll put you out of your misery, eventually. But first, I feel it’s only fair that I give you but a fraction of a taste of the pain you caused me.”

“Alistair—”

The scientist ignores his prisoner’s thrashing and demands to be heard, only raising his own voice above the din to call up to the floor above. “¡López, ven aquí!”

Pain and nausea rocket through Ford’s body, his anger dying down to pure desperation. “Alistair, please. Please, listen to me—”

Another silhouette appears in the doorway of the basement, this one far bigger and far more intimidating. Even half blinded by the dull cellar light, Ford can see the rippling muscles and brute strength the descending man contains. There is something grasped in his hand, something thin and moderately long. It’s too thin to be a club, but its shape is similar.

“This is Mr. Lopez,” Alistair introduces casually as the monster of a man reaches the compact dirt floor. “He is one of Hernandez’s men, and a strapping lad as you can plainly see. He has a rather interesting position in his organization, but one that I find particularly interesting. I think you will be inclined to agree, Stanford.”

Ford’s eyes flit up to the man’s face, now visible in the bulb’s glow. He finds a tanned face with dark black eyes and a crooked grin, one that promises only pain and an enjoyment for causing it. The brute’s shirt is white but filthy, speckled with the blood of past victims. Ford can take a fair guess as to the man’s occupation: torturer. Sleeves rolled up and ready to make a spectacle of Ford, for Alistair’s sick amusement.

The object grasped in the new man’s hand is now clearly visible.

A cattle prod, or something akin to it.

“You’ll never get away with this,” Ford breathes shakily.

Alistair rolls his eyes. “How cliché. But you see, my old friend…I already have. No one knows you’re here. Your brother is lying in a hospital somewhere, your precious family worrying over his doubtless dreadful injuries, Stanley’s old boss on the prowl as I’ve directed him. And, best of all, no one suspects me. All connections lay hidden and my alibi is sound. Face it, Stanford. You’re on your own.”

He turns to Lopez. “No lo mates, pero hazlo sufrir.”

Stanley is the one who knows Spanish, not Ford, but whatever Alistair says sends Lopez grinning nastily. With a flick of his thumb the device in his hold sparks to life. It’s not a normal cattle prod, of that Ford is certain, the tool likely modified to carry a more punishing current. The implications of that are far from Ford’s favor.

“I’ll leave Lopez here to his work,” Alistair drawls. He makes his way slowly up the steps, as though he were leaving the two men to a friendly game of checkers. He pauses at the top, just inside the open door, a hand on the black iron handle. “I find I don’t have the stomach for these sorts of things, but I can hardly argue with the results. I will return in an hour or so. Oh, and Stanford?”

Ford snaps wide but defiant eyes to Alistair’s own.

Alistair smiles almost softly. “Think of this as retribution. If not for what you did to me, then for all you did to your poor brother, Stanley. Your a man of many sins. It does my heart good to see you getting some payment for your injustices.”

Ford is left speechless.

Alistair turns and leaves, pulling the door to the basement shut behind him. The wood is aged and thin, so it does little to block the sudden, telling zap of electricity—Mr. Lopez not wasting any time before getting to his task. It is followed by a sharp cry of pain and surprise from down below, and a cascade of strange other-worldly curses. Alistair doesn’t so much as bat an eye, making his way toward the study of his richly estate.

The cries below slowly morph into screams, as Alistair sips his tea and watches the clock. Waiting, but savoring every moment of his colleague’s suffering, a smile on his lips behind the beautiful imported porcelain of his cup.

Chapter Text

Mabel had once been a firm believer that hospitals were a warm, comforting, and even pretty place when given the best love and attention. She pictured them like one of those flashy medical dramas on television, shaded in blue mood lighting and overflowing with handsome doctors and nurses. She had thought she’d like it. She’d thought it’d be exciting, brimming with high-stake emergencies where the patients always survived and the hot surgeons were practically gods of their craft.

And then Grandpa Shermie had gotten sick.

Cancer, they said. Terminal. Which Mabel learned all too quickly meant he wouldn’t be getting better. It was then that the reality of what a hospital was truly like set in.

It was an institution, teeming with hardworking, skilled individuals desperate to fix that which was broken. It was overly bright florescent lights and stark white walls. It was air conditioned cold that made your skin rise up goosebumps, and uncomfortable chairs that made your back ache no matter what position you tried. It was television set to mindless channels, muted and plagued by black boxed text. It was the sound of heart monitors and low whispering voices, of shoe soles against tile, walking up and down the endless halls. It was the hum of the fridges in the cafeteria late at night. It was the soft, calm tone of the receptionist several corners down answering phone call after phone call. It was falling asleep on a creaky cot and waking up to nurses coming and going, and it was being afraid you’d been too late to say goodbye.

It was hope uncertain. Temporary for some, but for others…

Mabel didn’t watch medical dramas anymore after that.

She had only been little when Grandpa Shermie passed away, but it was seared into her memory like a brand. She remembers her parents’ pained faces, her father burdened by grief as mom tried to comfort him. She remembers a man— ‘Stanford’ she’d been told, only now she supposes it had actually been Grunkle Stan in disguise—sitting at Grandpa’s bedside, silent and shaking, tears in his eyes. And she remembers her confusion and fear, struggling to understand that her grandfather was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

That same, roiling fear plagues Mabel now, even as she tries to smile at the nice lady cashier in the cafeteria. It’s a darkness in her soul that she’s desperately trying to ignore. Because, she insists to herself, this is different. Yes, Grunkle Stan is hurt, but he’s not dying. He’s not. He’s just resting. And she knows that. But sometimes brains and emotions are dumb, and the worst case scenarios linger in the shadows, and it’s all Mabel can do not to let her smile drop and her shoulders tremble. Because, at the end of the day, being afraid for someone is just one of many ways to love them.

And Mabel loves Grunkle Stan very, very much.

Sandwiches in hand—egg salad and tuna by default—she and Dipper begin the seemingly endless trek from the hospital basement back to the second floor. It’s only dinner time, or close enough, and the hospital is still bustling with patients, staff, and a handful of visitors. It adds a spark of life to the place that Mabel knows will disappear once normal visiting hours end, and she dreads it. But for now, it helps, even if it adds another small layer of chaos to their journey. They even get turned around a few times, since almost all the halls look alike, but Dipper finds the proper direction eventually and they’re well on their way.

At some point Mabel’s brother stuffs his share of the sandwiches into the large pockets of his vest, and she finds his hand holding hers, a comfort which she clings to gratefully.

Walking down the hospital hallway is an eerily familiar and somber experience. The long rows and numerous doors give it a distinctly claustrophobic air, while the echoey plodding of feet and incessant beeping of machines only serves as a reminder of human need for healing. The white walls and floors are sterile to an unnatural degree, and that, paired with minimal decorations, creates an artificial feeling. As if one is just a cog in a machine rather than a living person. The smell of antiseptic hangs in the air, and the sound of other patients and hospital staff creates an atmosphere of stoic professionalism and brittle peace. In this part of the hospital, things are more subdued. Strict and quiet.

Dipper grips Mabel’s hand tighter as they pick their way along. Mabel realizes she’s being abnormally quiet, but she can’t seem to make herself talk, so instead she stays silent, squeezing Dipper’s hand in answer.

“You okay?”

Mabel nods. It’s not true, but it’s all she can manage right now.

Dipper frowns in worry, his soft brown eyes searching, before he turns back to watch where they’re going, giving a small nod of his own.

“Alright. But if you need anything, to talk about anything, I’m here,” he assures.

A lump forms in Mabel’s throat, her heart flooded with fond gratitude. She gives her brother’s hand a quick double squeeze , and they continue along their path.

It’s been an emotional day and a half. Filled with uncertainty and unanswered questions. The joy and eagerness of Stan and Ford’s visit had dissolved into something messy and scary. Mabel could feel it in the very air, the tension and anxiety that had been building all week, and now seemed to have burst when no one was looking. And now Ford was missing, and Stan was…

Stan is hurt.

And no one knows why. How, yes, but not why.

And that, Mabel thinks, is what scares her the most. Not the accident itself. Not the idea of Ford still out there alone—he can take care of himself, she’s sure. No, what scares her is the fact that there’s more going on and no one is telling her anything. She’s not little anymore. She’s a teenager, practically an adult by her standards, and still she finds their parents whispering to the nurses, eyes flitting to her and Dipper from time to time, as though they’re too delicate to withstand the weight of whatever truth they’re guarding. It’s maddening…and endearing. Because, as upset about it as Mabel absolutely is, she appreciates that her parents love her and Dipper enough to want to protect them. Even if said protection is unnecessary.

Ugh. She’s so tired. None of them slept last night, unless nodding off on a hallway bench in a police station counts, and now they all just feel so exhausted. But even now it’s hard to rest, especially with Stan still unresponsive.

A car crash, the doctors tell them, is the culprit for his condition. Stan had apparently fallen out of the vehicle during the crash, and while that sounded bad it actually may have been the one thing that worked in Stan’s favor. He’s pretty banged up, sure, wrapped in bandages and on some heavy pain medication, but considering the severity of the accident, Stan was miraculously fortunate. He wasn’t in critical condition when he was brought in, and he isn’t now, but that doesn’t make things any easier on his family. Doctor Jeffreys blames Stan’s lack of consciousness on exhaustion, and Mabel can believe it. It had been pretty obvious to all of them that Stan hadn’t been sleeping well the last few nights, even before everything went so horribly wrong…

After what feels like an eternity, they finally find their way back to the stretch leading to Grunkle Stan’s room. Mabel perks up immediately, noticing that the door to the recovery quarters is now open, a nurse exiting with a bounce in her step that translates that maybe some good is finally coming their way. She lets go of Dipper’s hand and jogs down the remainder of the hallway, Dipper following at a fast walk in her wake.

Mabel’s heart gives a little leap of relief when she catches the faint, gravelly voice of Stanley Pines wafting out from the doorway even before she reaches the turn. And then she’s in the, by now, achingly familiar room and there’s Grunkle Stan and he’s awake! He’s weakly propped up in bed with pillows, but very much conscious and fairly lucid for all the sedatives and pain killers probably coursing through him. Mabel gives a happy squeal that bubbles up from deep inside her, alerting the entire room to her and Dipper’s return.

“Grunkle Stan!”

And the way his tired, pale face lights up when he sees her nearly drags a sob from her chest as Mabel runs forward, flinging herself into his arms the best she can, mindful of the wires and tubing still hooked to him.

“Mabel, honey, careful!”

Mom’s warning isn’t needed. For all of Mabel’s boisterousness and energy, caring and thoughtfulness are her superpower. Stan doesn’t even flinch, returning her embrace with a shuddering sigh, as though a simple hug could do more for his pain than all the medication in the world. He’s warm, and doesn’t hesitate to hug her back, shaky but still-strong arms pegging her in on all sides. He smells like ocean spray and old hickory wood, like sunscreen and pine needles.

Mabel finds herself giggle-crying into the chest of his hospital gown. Just so, so glad that he’s okay and that he’s with them that nothing else matters.

Stan gives her a gentle squeeze, his breath tickling her hair. “Hey there, Pum’kin…”

The older man’s words are slightly slurred, Mabel notices. Though that shouldn’t be much of a surprise. She and Dipper had overheard the nurses tell their parents that Stan was being put on morphine, so the small difficulty with speech is probably normal. Nothing to worry about, or so Mabel decides to believe.

She’s vaguely aware that Doctor Jeffreys is currently in the room. Mabel likes him. He’s been nothing but kind and supportive toward her and her family during Stan’s stay, and right now that means the world to them. He is professional, but personable, soft spoken but firm when it comes to his medical advice and suggestions. Mabel considers him a trustworthy and favored confidant. Even Dipper, the original Mr. Sus, appreciates the man. And that’s as close to a stamp of approval as you can get in Mabel’s mind.

“I’ll leave you all for a few minutes,” Jeffreys announces kindly, taking up his clipboard. Mabel can’t help but feel they’ve interrupted something. Part of her feels bad, the other doesn’t regret it a bit. “I’ll let you catch up a little. I shall be back in a while.”

Mom smiles gratefully from her seat at Stan’s side. “Thank you, Doctor. For everything.”

“You are very much welcome. Call if you need me sooner, I should be fairly easy to track down. Just ask whoever is at the desk to page me.”

Dipper smiles wearily as Dr. Jeffreys passes him on his way out the door, the man returning it and giving Dipper’s shoulder an encouraging pat. Mabel likes that. He really is a good doctor. They’re in good hands. His kindness and gentle nature is a blessing she’s not sure they could have survived the long, uncertain day without.

But now, it’s time for Doctor Mabel to work her magic.

“Dipper!” Mabel’s shrill call brings Dipper’s attention back to the room. Her arms are still very much locked around Stan’s neck, her cheek smooshed against his own. “Get over here and hug this—this silly, silly man!”

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” Stan complains weakly, feigning annoyance but looking very, very happy. “It’s not like I ended up here on purpose…”

Dipper steps forward carefully, coming up to stand beside their mom’s chair. There’s no room for him to actually do as Mabel requests, his twin taking up the majority of the mattress, so Dipper settles for setting his hand on Stan’s ankle, one of the few places they know the man isn’t bandaged or hurting.

“How you feeling?” he asks, careful.

Stan does his best to shrug with his arms full of grand-niece. “Sore. Tired. Groggy.” He gives a nervous, humorless chuckle. “Maybe a little freaked out?” At Mabel’s soft whine of concern he hugs her tighter, but still gentle. “But I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay.”

“Does it hurt?” Mabel warbles sadly.

Stan’s expression softens. “Not really. The meds help.”

Dipper breathes a sigh of relief, just as glad to hear that as Mabel is. His eyes flit to their father. “And…any news on Great-Uncle Ford?”

The room instantly becomes tense and silent, and Mabel almost wishes Dipper hadn’t asked. But ignoring a problem won’t make it go away, and she can tell just by the way he stiffens that Stan is equally worried. The subject has already been breached, probably while she and Dipper were down in the cafeteria, but they want to be kept in the loop, too. They’re not kids anymore—she and Dipper are sixteen—and they deserve to know what happened.

Stan takes a shaky breath and leans back a little. Mabel lets him, reluctantly, her arms still loosely around his neck. “Look…we’re not sure of anything yet. All I know is Ford was with me during the crash…and now he ain’t. He’s not dead—if he was, you’d all probably know before I did. And he’s obviously not in this hospital, or any nearby according to the doc.”

“I had the nurse at the desk check earlier,” Mom says in addition. “He wasn’t admitted, not here or anywhere else in California.”

Dipper hums worriedly. “So…where does that leave us?”

“Your Grunkle Stan thinks that Ford may have been…taken,” Dad pipes up uneasily.

“Taken?” Mabel finally sits back fully, giving Stan his space. Her eyes feel warm and itchy as she turns to look into Stan’s own, that tired, wary feeling settling back over her soul. “By who?”

“An…old acquaintance…But ‘who’ doesn’t matter right now,” Stan asserts. “The short of it is that I got Ford into trouble and now I wanna get him out of it.”

Mabel can visibly see Dipper’s stress climbing. “How? You’re in a hospital bed, man!”

And Mabel has to agree. Her great uncle looks anything but capable of doing more than sitting up, and even that looks to be a strain for him. Stan seems to be of the same impression, looking down at his battered and bruised body like it has personally offended him.

“I’ll make it work,” he huffs stubbornly. “I’m not leaving Ford to handle this on his own. Another hour or two and I should be able to get up. All I gotta do is—”

Three light knocks against the wall just inside of the room breaks into the conversation, and they all turn with a startled jolt to see two police officers standing by the door frame. Mabel’s heart catches in her throat, her hand shooting out to grab Stan’s sleeve without her conscious permission, afraid he’ll be taken away again. But a quick scan of the newcomers shows nothing but friendly, calm personalities. The younger is also incredibly handsome, all dark short hair and thin-lined jaw. Mabel finds herself blushing.

“Hello,” says the older man. His uniform is spotless and his hair is graying. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we really need to speak with Mr. Pines.”

They both appear friendly enough, and they hold a pleasant air of authority. It isn’t the cops from before, the ones who had come to take Stan at the house, but Mabel notices Stan instantly tense up beneath her touch. It contrasts so drastically with the smile he pastes on his face, giving the officers an almost playful tone, and a cheeky wink.

“Gah, will you people stop calling me Mr. Pines! I’m not my father, for Moses’ sake.” Stan rolls his eyes for effect.

The older policeman chuckles, sharing a grin with his partner. “Of course. What would you prefer we call you, sir?”

“Just Stan is fine.”

“Very well, Stan. May we come in? We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. I’m sure you need your rest.”

Stan’s shaking, it’s slight but it’s there. He’s gone a few shades paler, too. Mabel’s chest aches for him, uncertain of why he’s so frightened. Is it because he’s worried of being taken back to the police station? Or is it because he’s afraid they might have bad news about Grunkle Ford? All things considered, of the two, Mabel hopes it’s the former.

Stan huffs good naturedly, lifting his free hand to wave and welcome the officers in. “Yeah, sure. Not that I have much of a choice. I’m guessing the doc contacted you because of the whole gunshot wound thing.”

Mabel whips her head around to stare at Grunkle Stan with abject horror. Dipper, at the foot of the bed, mirrors her expression exactly.

“Excuse me, the what?!”

Stan winces. He tries and succeeds in not making visual contact with either of his grand niblings, his stark grin not quite reaching his eyes as he politely waits for one of the policemen to answer.

“Yes. I’m Sergeant Willis, of the Piedmont Police Department, and this is my partner, Lieutenant Carlo. Doctor Jeffreys informed us of your situation, and shared his concerns. We’d very much like to hear whatever you can tell us about what happened.”

“Yeah, I bet you would,” Stan mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Mabel to hear. Out loud he cheers, “Come in and make yourself comfortable, then. This’ll take a few minutes.”

And so they do. And Stan proceeds to give the officers a very watered down version of the last several days. Mabel and Dipper, who are hearing the story in full for the first time, listen with rapt attention, frowning whenever Stan purposefully omits glaring details. He’s obviously treading very carefully. In the end, though, they have a general idea of the truth. Ford and Stan had been trying to get back to their family when some mobster-like character from Stan’s past had tried to run them off the road. Ford had lost control, and the accident had been inevitable. Stan had been lucky. Grunkle Ford had not.

The officers listen in silence until Stan is done, their mouths pursed and brows furrowed in concentration. By the end, after a heavy quiet had once again fallen over the room, Sergeant Willis clears his throat.

“Do you have any idea as to who was pursuing you and why?”

Stan hesitates, thinking something through with a grimace before he gives a small, uneasy cough. “Uh…hypothetical question first?”

Sergeant Willis blinks. “Uh…Yes?”

“Say a guy used to work for, like, a crime boss back in the day,” Stan babbles. “But he tried to leave and betrayed the guy, and hasn’t been in touch with them for, oh, say thirty-something years. Would you be likely to…uh, arrest him? Because of his affiliations in the past?”

Officer Carlo huffs, sending his superior a quick glance. “That is weirdly specific.”

“Eeeh heh heh…” Stan slumps, miserable. “Yeah…”

The old sergeant, however, remains quiet, observing Stan for several long moments before speaking in a calm, encouraging voice.

“If this…hypothetical man you speak of, who worked for a ‘crime boss’, had long since left the organization and become a law abiding citizen, the likelihood of him being arrested is smaller. Especially if it is determined that he had committed no crimes during his time of…employment. And that his past is no longer relevant to his current actions as a law-abiding citizen.” Willis gives Stan a small smile. “I believe it is highly unlikely that he would be arrested or charged with any criminal offenses. So long as evidence was not gathered against him.”

They all wait while Stan takes this into considerable. He bites his lip, thinking, before he takes another shaky breath and lets it out through his nose. Stan gives a firm nod in acknowledgment. He doesn’t say it, but everyone in the room knows he’s just admitted to being part of a crime ring at one time. This sudden honesty scares Mabel a little. It speaks of just how serious this all is. How desperate Stan is to find Grunkle Ford.

Sergeant Willis hums, then repeats his earlier question. “So, you do know who was chasing you?”

Stan sinks back against the pillows propping him up. “Yeah. Yeah, his name is Ric—Er. Well, I’m pretty sure his full name is Ricardo Hernandez, but most people call him Rico. He’s…uh. Not a nice fella.” Stan notices how the officers’ eyes widen, perking up a little in interest. “You’ve heard of him?”

“He’s evaded capture for many years,” Lieutenant Carlo supplies. “Though, I thought he typically worked further south, on the other side of the border.”

“Heh. Yeah, well. Rico was always one for expanding his business.”

The sergeant frowns. “Why would this Rico character be after you? If I may ask.”

Stan squirms uncomfortably. “Last week, while my brother and I were at a conference, he tried to make contact with me. And by ‘try’ I mean he cornered me and dragged me off to his evil lair or whatever. Wanted me to…do a job for him.”

“What sort of job?” Carlo presses.

“Information. Research. Of my brother’s, of all things. Wasn’t gonna do it. Refused. Rico didn’t like that.” Stan absently picks at the medical tape keeping his IV in. “Over the last week, I tried to make him think I was cooperatin’. Thought maybe I could lead him into a trap. But…it didn’t go so well.”

“Is that when you were shot?”

“Yeah. But my brother showed up and helped me. We escaped, and he fixed me up a bit. We were on our way to you guys when some of Rico’s men showed up. We tried to shake ‘em, but…Ugh. Ford’s driving was always lousy.”

“Ford?” Willis asks, and Mabel realizes that Stan had purposefully omitted mentioning his brother’s name until then.

“My brother,” Stan replies. “My twin. His name is Stanford Pines.”

“I see. Mr. Pi—Er, Stan. Can you tell us what made you leave Rico’s organization all those years ago?”

Stan shrugs. “Didn’t like his ideals. Didn’t like his methods. Didn’t like him. Soon as I realized what he was really up to, decided I didn’t want any part in it. I was desperate, but not that desperate.”

“Did you know your actions would make you a target of Rico’s?”

“Of course I did. The guy was always one for making examples of folks who turn their backs on him. So I laid low, and worked hard to stay off his radar. Seeing as I lasted until now, I think I did an okay job.”

Sergeant Willis nods. “And have you had any contact with him since your desertion and his contacting you a week ago?”

“No.” Stan scratches the back of his neck, still a little too pale. “You sure a guy wouldn’t get arrested for…all this?”

Willis huffs a chuckle and shakes his head. “I can’t speak for a court and judge, but we didn’t come here to arrest you. We’re here to inquire about your injuries. And help locate your brother.”

“And—” Lieutenant Carlo adds, “—hopefully, put an end to Ricardo Hernandez’ four-decade reign of terror, if we can.”

“We can’t promise anything,” the sergeant explains. “And we will have to report all your statements. But, if later you do find yourself on the stand, I am sure your situation, as well as your current cooperation, will be taken into consideration.”

Mabel still finds that unsettling, but Stan seems to feel a little more at ease.

“Is there anything else you would like to share with us?” Carlos asks. “Any other important information regarding Rico and his motives?”

“Not…really?” Stan pauses, blinking. “Wait. I remember Rico mentioning that he wasn’t the one who initially wanted this job done. He said there was an employer, someone who hired him and his men.”

“Do you know who?”

“No. No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Sergeant Willis sighs. “It’s alright. Thank you, for your help. If you should ever find yourself in a dangerous situation like this again, however, please come straight to the authorities. You took needless risks in trying to trap Mr. Hernandez on your own.”

“Mm,” Stan grunts, making no promises.

Mom pats Stan’s hand, speaking up with her own questions. “Excuse me, but how do you plan to locate my Uncle Ford?”

“Now that’s the tricky part,” Willis replies. To Stan he asks, “You said that you were taken to Mr. Hernandez’ ‘evil lair’. Do you think that might be where they’d take your brother?”

“Not likely. Rico’s too smart for that. He wouldn’t risk taking a hostage anywhere that might already be compromised. And even if I’m not completely sure where they took me, I’m sure Rico thinks I know enough to scratch that location of his list of safe houses.”

“And your certain that Mr. Hernandez has your brother?”

Stan grimaces. “Pretty much positive.”

“Alright. As soon as we’re done here I’ll call in a missing person report. We’ll do all we can to find his whereabouts.”

It feels like not nearly enough. It’s so little to go on, and Ford could be literally anywhere within miles of Piedmont. Hours had passed since the accident. That was a lot of time to spend in the clutches of someone who, according to Stan, was a really, really bad dude.

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs weakly, just as discouraged as the rest of them. “Thanks, by the way. For…ya know.”

The sergeant’s smile is apologetic. “You’re welcome. I only wish we could do more. I’ll leave an officer to guard you until morning, just in case. We’ll keep you updated on our search.”

The policemen start to turn, preparing to leave the room, when suddenly Stan sits up straight again. Mabel startles, afraid maybe he’s in pain or something, but when she snaps her eyes to search his face, all she sees is an intense look of looming epiphany. It’s an expression Stan and Ford both share, that brilliant spark of inspiration, the birth of an idea leaping into existence.

“Wait.” Stan’s eyes flit back and forth, thinking something through at break neck speed. “Wait, wait, wait.”

Sergeant Willis turns back, a brow raised. “What is it?”

“Just…Just wait a minute.” Stan runs a shaky hand through his hair, his dark eyes gaining a twinkle. He releases a breathless little laugh, then looks toward the rest of them. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Uh—” Dipper starts, uncertain, but Stan cuts him off.

“What if we lure one of Rico’s men into a trap, capture him, and get him to tell us where Ford is? It works in the movies.”

“Movies aren’t necessarily the best example of real life crime busting,” Dipper weighs in, but then shrugs. “But…that could work. What would we use to lure him?”

Stan grins. “That’s the easy part. Me.”

The room explodes into an array of reactions, strangled noises of protest and half-voiced disapproval. Mabel covers her ears, annoyed by the chaos. She’s too tired for this. Instead, she fixes her eyes on Stan, and waits for him to explain himself through the barrage of protests.

“Wha—”

“Uncle Stan—”

“That’s crazy!”

“No, no, no, it makes perfect sense!” Stan insists. He sighs, frustrated. “Listen. I know Rico better than anyone, and he’s gonna be sending someone to bump me off, guards or no guards. So why not take advantage? Use me as bait, lure the bozo in here, and then—Wham!” He nods to the policemen. “Then you guys handle the good cop bad cop routine and we get a ticket to finding Rico and my brother. It’s a win-win!”

“But what if something goes wrong, Grunkle Stan?” Mabel finds herself asking softly. Deep down she already knows this is the answer to their problem, but she’s still scared for him.

“It wouldn’t,” Stan says, firm. “I can do this.”

“Mmh.” Sergeant Willis strokes his chin.

Dad looks back and forth between Stan and the officers, growing panic on his face. “You can’t seriously be considering this!”

Willis winces. “Actually, it’s not a bad idea. I’d have to run it by the chief, but it has the potential to work.” To Stan he says, “But it is my duty to caution you, using yourself as bait could be risky. While it could give us useful information about Ricardo Hernandez and his criminal activities, it also increases the risk of harm to you. We need to consider the possibility that the person who is sent to dispose of you may be a very dangerous individual, who may be prepared to act quickly without taking the time to talk.”

“Right. Which is why talking comes after you catch him,” Stan pipes impatiently. “Just get him far enough into the room that he can’t double back. Nab him, and then get your answers.” Stan glances to his family, searching each of their worried gazes. “I know you all aren’t feeling great about this, but I need to do what I can to find Ford. I’m willing to take the risks.”

And that’s just it. No matter how they all feel about this, it’s up to Stan to make the final call. It’s terrible; it makes Mabel want to cry and shake him to his senses…but she also understands that this might be the only way of finding out where Grunkle Ford is being kept. If it were Dipper who’d been taken, wouldn’t she be willing to take those same risks in order to get him home safe?

No one argues. The room sits in silence for several long moments, no one meeting Stan’s eye but no one trying to stop him. Sergeant Willis reads the quiet, accepts the pause for what it is—a surrender. After a time, he clears his throat, returning to business.

“Well, in that case I suppose that’s settled. I’ll contact the chief at once and get this plan underway with his permission.”

Stan breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“This maneuver is likely to be beneficial to us both,” Willis continues. “But I am going to put in as many safety measures as I can. And I’ll ask for a large deployment of police officers to station at various points in the hospital, including this room. I would also ensure that any officers that would be interacting with you as part of the set up would be properly briefed and prepared. No unnecessary risks.” He’s already reaching for his radio. “Any guesses on when our target may arrive?”

Stan doesn’t even have to think about it. “Probably later tonight. Whenever the hospital’s at its quietest. He’ll be trying to avoid being seen, and he’d have more luck at a time with fewer staff. Me being asleep would also be to his advantage.”

“Good. That gives us a few hours to get set up. I’ll get right on it, and keep you informed.”

Again the policemen try to leave, but Stan calls out to them. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. What about my family?”

“What about us?” Dipper says sharply. He’s upset, but he’s not the only one.

If Stan hears the anger and fear in Dipper’s voice, he doesn’t cater to it. “Pretty sure your mom isn’t gonna want you here for this, kiddo. In fact, I’d feel a heck of a lot better if none of you were.” Stan looks back to the officer. “You got somewhere safe they can stay?”

Dad sputters. “N-Now wait a minute—”

Stan slamming his hand down on the bed makes them all flinch. It doesn’t make much noise, and he’s still weak and uncoordinated, but it’s the action itself that silences any and all arguments. That, and Stan’s strangled, wet yell that shatters their hearts to pieces.

“I am not letting my mistakes take you all away from me!”

It’s almost a sob. It leaves Stan panting, eyes moist and skin pale. He breathes in shakily for a few moments, and they let him, feeling a little ashamed. When Stan starts up again, his voice is rough and faint.

“Please…Please. I just want you all to be safe.”

Mabel’s crying now. They probably all are. “But we want the same for you…” she whispers sadly, squeezing his arm. Stan lays his hand over hers, gentle and loving.

“I know, Pumpkin. And I’m sorry I can’t promise anything, but I will do everything I can to bring Ford back home.”

Dipper makes a soft choked sound. “…And you.”

“Yeah,” their grunkle says, fond. “And me.” Stan looks to the officers. “So what do ya say?”

Sergeant Willis nods. “They can all be taken into protective custody down at the station. We can send someone to take them now if you want.”

“Yeah. That…That sounds good.” Stan stares down at the hospital bed sheets. “But, uh…maybe give us a few minutes?”

“Of course.” Willis gestures for Lieutenant Carlos to follow him out. As they finally pass through the threshold and into the hall, he leans back in. “Come out when you’re ready and we’ll send someone to escort you. Did you bring a car?”

Dad shakes his head. “No, we took a taxi.”

“We’ll have someone to drive you. Don’t take too long, our time is limited, I’m afraid.”

And, with that, the policemen leave the room.

The silence that follows is anything but peaceful. Mabel finds she can’t look anyone else in the eye, too focused on the ‘what if’s and worst case scenarios running through her brain. She doesn’t want to see that same fear and worry reflected back at her. She doesn’t want this at all, but also understands there’s no better option.

Mabel sniffs, fighting tears. “I…I-I don’t want to leave you alone, Grunkle Stan.”

Stan’s hand finds it’s way to the back of her head, giving Mabel’s hair an absent-minded stroke. “I won’t be alone, sweetie,” he insists. “Sounds like I’ll practically have the whole PPD behind me. Heh.”

Mabel closes her eyes, cheeks becoming wet.

“Aw, c’mon now, don’t cry—”

“I can’t help it!” she snaps, eyes rising to meet his before turning soft. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Pumpkin.” He opens his arms in invitation, and Mabel doesn’t hesitate in falling into his embrace. He clutches her to him, warm and real and genuine.

“You’ll be careful?” Dipper demands weakly. He hasn’t moved from the end of Stan’s bed all this time, hand still on their grunkle’s ankle, gripping the sheets in a vice—like hold.

Stan raises two fingers. “Scouts honor.”

“You’ve never been a scout in your life,” Dipper grumbles, fond.

Stan laughs and reaches out. He pulls Dipper into the hug too. “I’m sorry I gotta do this.”

“No, it’s…I understand,” Dipper admits. “There really is no other way to find Great-Uncle Ford. And if he’s with who you believe he’s with…”

“We don’t have much time.” Stan nods. “Yeah.”

Dad moves closer, arms crossed over his chest. Not in anger, not in disapproval; it’s more like a self hug, like he’s trying to soothe himself. “You’re sure about going through with this?”

“Yeah.” Stanley Pines shrugs. “Heh. People always said I was stubborn.”

“Stubborn is an understatement,” Mom huffs, wiping at moist eyes before giving Stan an even look. “Bring him home, Uncle Stan. I want to see you both on our doorstep next time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mom nods. “Come on, kids.”

She stands, and after a moment Mabel and Dipper follow, gently extricating themselves from Stan’s arms to join their parents. It feels wrong, to leave Stan here, alone.

Dad extends a hand, laying it on his uncle’s shoulder. “Contact us as soon as you’re able to.”

“Will do,” Stan promises. His smile is strained and regretful. “See ya later.”

Like a sad, little procession, Mabel and her family turn to leave. That feeling of wrongness intensifies tenfold, and Mabel finds herself scrambling for a way to make it better. Her hand brushes against the pocket of her jeans, feeling the slightest bulge, and her eyes light up with an idea.

“Wait!” Her family halts as she turns, quickly racing back to Stan’s bedside. She digs into her pocket, pulling out a cheap beaded bracelet and holding it out reverently. “Here, Grunkle Stan. I made this for Waddles, but…I want you to have it. To remind you that you aren’t by yourself, and that you need to come back.”

Stan blinks down at the item, then smirks. “Nice to know I score the same as the pig,” he huffs, amused. At Mabel’s teasing glare he holds up his hands, placating. “Kidding! Kidding.” He gently takes the bracelet from her palm, studying it a moment before sliding it onto his wrist. “Thanks, kiddo.”

“Stay safe.”

“You too.”

.

.

.

Leaving the hospital is maybe one of the hardest things Mabel has ever had to do. The police escort is nice, and the station proves to be far comfier when they’re actively trying to keep you safe, but…

Stan is on all their minds.

Stan and Ford.

And all they can do is hope that the plan works, and that both brothers come back safely.

Chapter Text

Well, this was an experience Stan was eager to never find himself in again.

The evening had passed in a blur, a whirlwind of plans and preparations. Thankfully, he had Sergeant Willis to hold his hand throughout the process, getting him up to speed on what needed to be done before their little trap could be sprung. Stan was eager to help in any way he could, listening intently to all directions and asking questions where he didn’t understand. It was kind of surreal, working with the authorities instead of trying to avoid them.

The sergeant’s superior had sanctioned Stan’s plan without hesitation, the allure of finally putting an end to Rico’s syndicate too good to pass up. And Stan didn’t know whether to be happy that it was so easy to convince people to gamble on his life, or be mildly offended.

Either way, this was what Stan wanted.

Playing bait had been an easy choice when his brother’s rescue was at stake, but that didn’t ease the tension and fear Stan had struggled with all night. Right up to the moment his hospital room door slowly creaked open and an unknown figure slipped inside, keeping his breathing steady and body still had been a monumental task. But he’d done it. He’d succeeded. And now Stan finds himself blinking painfully as the light to his room snaps on and all of the officers hidden within the hospital come pouring into view—three of which, including Sergeant Willis, having been lying in wait inside the room itself. With more out in the hall as back up.

The would-be assassin flinches back hard, face shocked and frightened, and Stan can’t help but notice its a young face, too young. And then the lackey is being strong armed away from Stan’s bedside, officers wrestling the knife from his weak grasp, one reciting the guy his rights while another pulls out handcuffs. It’s a blur of sudden activity, and then the chaos is over. Sergeant Willis barks a few orders and the kid is escorted out into the hall, while an officer remains with Stan. A moment later and Doctor Jeffreys rushes in, eyes wide and face determined. He reaches out and catches Stan’s arm, and Stan realizes he’d sat up at some point, one leg thrown over the edge of the bed, a half attempt of rising to his feet.

“Are you alright?” Jeffreys drills in a firm, professional voice. He’s scanning Stan with his eyes, checking his IV and pulse. “Did he hurt you at all?”

Nerves and disbelief draw a weak laugh from Stan’s chest. Gently, he extricates himself from the physician’s hands, giving a tired smile. “Nah, Doc…didn’t get a chance to. He’s-”

“Fully in custody,” the doctor says briskly, relief in his tone. He gives Stan a proud smile of his own. “You did it.”

Stan breathes a shaky sigh. That’s one step down in this crazy plan. Now all they need is some information. Stan braces his arms against the mattress, intending to make his way to his feet.

“I should go—”

“You should do no such thing,” Jeffreys asserts, a firm hand to Stan’s chest halting all progress. “Even if you were expecting it, this counts as a shock. You’re still recovering, and I will not have you undoing all my nurses’ hard work, so stay right where you are.” His gaze softens a little. “We’ll wait for the sergeant to tell us what’s happening.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing you or I can do to hurry things along. We’d only get in the way. Let the officers do their job.” He adds with a stern look, “And let me do mine.”

Stan reluctantly gives in, slumping slightly, then shifting back into bed properly with Doctor Jeffreys’ help. The room is empty right now except the three of them, while out in the hall they can hear the voices of the police and the kid. Even tones, strong and no-nonsense, but they can’t make out the words.

After a few moments of silence, Jeffreys sighs. “He looked so young.”

Stan winces. There’s nothing he can say to refute it, because it’s the truth. Instead, he gives a small, sad nod. “He is.”

“I’m rather surprised. I hadn’t realized that they started so early in life. The whole…criminal route.”

Stan huffs humorlessly. “They can. All it takes is some kid in financial trouble knocking at Rico’s door and asking for help. Rico doesn’t care about things like age. All he sees is opportunity. Once he’s got his claws in someone, getting out is pretty much impossible.”

“…That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. It is.”

Doctor Jeffreys pauses, watching Stan in silence, as though seeing him for the first time. Stan doesn’t look up or meet the man’s gaze, uncomfortable with the muted scrutiny.

“…I’m sorry.”

Stan blinks, confused. “For what?”

“Mm. For what, indeed.” Jeffreys reaches out and gives Stan’s shoulder a pat. “Rest here. I’ll send the sergeant in as soon as he’s able. And I’ll see about getting you your next dose of pain medication.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“You are very welcome.”

With swift, focused steps Jeffreys heads out, leaving Stan and that one odd remaining officer still stationed in his room to glance awkwardly at each. Eye contact is quickly avoided, and Stan knows that asking the guy to go is useless. The sergeant had insisted Stan be guarded at all time, and they all seemed to be taking the order pretty seriously.

Stanley sighs, settling back against the pillows, trying to relax and do his best to wait for news on his brother’s whereabouts. It isn’t easy. He can still hear the muffled conversation going on out in the hallway, the firm, quick tones of the officers and the quieter, nervous whine of the kid. It’s late, and Stan is tired and worried. His shaking has gotten bad again, the adrenaline rush of almost being murdered in his hospital bed kicking in.

Maybe the doc is right, it was kind of a shock.

.

.

.

By the time Sergeant Willis finally returns, Lieutenant Carlo on his heels, Stan has gone from mildly antsy to downright stir-crazy. Another hour has gone by since the boy’s capture, time is ticking, and with every second that passes Ford’s chances of getting out of this mess alive grow slimmer and slimmer. Pain meds and a sedative have been brought for Stan, but he’s refused to take them, afraid it will dull his thinking. He needs to be at the top of his game, in case he’s needed.

Sergeant Willis exchanges an exasperated look with Carlo before looking at Stan. “He’s not talking.”

Stanley huffs. “‘Course he’s not. He’s about to go to prison, he’s scared out of his mind.” The ex-conman sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not making excuses for the kid. He got in with the wrong people, and he’ll pay for it. But that doesn’t mean he’s all bad. Let me talk to him—”

The sergeant frowns. “Absolutely not.”

“Just give me a few minutes,” Stan presses. “Please. Let me at least try. I know it’s not protocol or whatever but…this guy’s the only chance I have of finding my brother before it’s too late.”

“What makes you think you’ll have any luck getting through to him?” the nameless officer in the corner asks, arms crossed over his chest and expression bored.

Stan frowns. “Let’s just say I kinda know what’s going through his head right now.” To Sergeant Willis, Stan continues. “His whole world is collapsing. As he sees it, he hasn’t got a friend in the world.”

“And you think you can just…be his friend,” Carlos huffs, unconvinced.

“I think I have a better chance of making a connection and coaxing him into giving something away. Rico’s never done anything for that kid, other than make his life a living hell. Why should he protect the guy when Rico won’t be coming to save him? Just gotta make the kid realize that.”

“Use his situation against him,” Sergeant Willis murmurs, understanding. He lifts a brow. “But why you? We could just as easily pull off the same thing with the same results.”

Stan grunts, nodding to the officer’s uniform. “That badge makes all the difference. No offense, but that guy out there sees you as anything but a friend. Me, though, I’ve got a slightly better chance.”

Slightly. Even Stan winces at the low odds, but he knows he’s right. The PPD really doesn’t have much reason to trust Stan much either, but he’s been cooperative and given information—for all their laws and rules, the simple exchange of ‘I scratch your back you scratch mine’ still applies. He just has to keep trying to logic it all out until someone gives a little.

Sergeant Willis gnaws lightly on his lip, eyes distant as he thinks deeply. The other officer and the lieutenant watch him patiently, waiting on his decision. Finally, Willis sighs.

“There are risks, of course,” he starts. “To you in particular. Typically we leave this sort of thing to the professionals, but as you say time is limited. I think you really are our best bet of getting through to him.”

Stan feels his heart pounding hopefully in his chest. “So you’ll let me?”

Sergeant Willis nods slowly. “With supervision, of course. Out in the hall, if you think you can manage. That way you won’t be alone with him, and he’ll feel less trapped than if he were to come in here.”

Stan nods, agreeing. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.”

He goes to move and winces, throbbing hurt shooting through him. Jeffreys and his staff must have gotten distracted, they still hadn’t brought him those pain meds…

“N-Ngh…I…might need a hand getting up.”

Walking is a little difficult. Stan feels like a great big hobbling bruise. He certainly doesn’t have to worry about intimidating the kid, what with him leaning heavily on the IV stand and bag he’s still hooked up to and sporting a drafty hospital gown. He feels like a frail, old man, Officer Carlo helping him out into the hospital hallway, Doctor Jeffreys and Sergeant Willis tagging along close behind.

The captured assassin-to-be sits in one of the hallway chairs, in one of those little alcoves by a water fountain. His blondish brown hair is mussed, and his clothes just as ruffled. His posture is small, hunched, and Stan can see one of the boy’s legs bouncing anxiously. His blue gaze is fixed on the tiled floor, a million miles away, and his shoulders are pulled back, hands cuffed firmly behind him.

It’s sad, seeing someone so young already throwing their life away. Stan feels his heart clench, wondering if he had once looked like that—little more than a child with his fate sealed for the worst, with no one but himself to blame.

The kid looks up as they approach, expression defiant, though it becomes more confused when he spots Stan, putting him off balance. Good. That will work in Stan’s favor.

Once they’re about ten feet from the boy, Stan motions for Carlos to let go and for him and the other two to stay back. The less threatened the kid feels, the better.

Wincing to himself, Stan makes the rest of the distance on his own, aware of the young man’s eyes on him the whole way. Without hesitation, Stan moves to his side, and then sinks into the empty space on the bench with a groan.

“Ugh, getting old’s no fun,” he opens with. He settles back in the seat, meeting the boy’s confused gaze. “Hey. Tough break, huh? M’sorry things turned out this way. It sucks, believe me, I know.”

Distrust flickers hot behind the kid’s eyes. “What do you want?” he huffs, bristling, defensive.

Stan shrugs. “To talk. Get to know you.”

“Why?”

“No reason. I mean, other than the fact you tried to kill me and are probably the only person within miles who knows what happened to my brother. Other than that, like I said, no reason.”

Stan keeps his tone light, despite the sarcasm. His whole goal at the moment is to throw the guy off his game. And by the kid’s flinch and expression, it’s working.

Stan absently itches around the tape of his IV. “What’s your name?”

The kid presses his lips together, tight. His eyes flit to the sergeant and Carlos, wary.

“Look, withholding won’t do you much good. Cops’ll have it on record somewhere. Telling me won’t make a difference. So, c’mon…what’s your name?”

A long, long pause, and then a reluctant murmur. “…William.”

“William…?”

“Becket. William Becket.”

And there it is.

“William Becket,” Stan repeats with an approving nod. “S’a good name. Heck of a lot better than Steve Pinington.” At William’s confusion Stan explains. “Pinington was the fake name I gave Rico back in the day. Seeing as my real name is Pines, you can guess I wasn’t the most creative.”

“You…You really did work for Rico?” William whispers, eyes widening.

“Yup. Didn’t he tell you? I mean, before he ordered you to sneak in here and kill me?”

Another flinch, and William can no longer hold Stan’s gaze. He shifts uneasily in his seat. “He didn’t give me any details. Just…instructions.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like him.”

Stan can remember Rico’s vague directions when it came to jobs, the way he skimmed over the nitty-gritty stuff that his lackeys were more likely to grimace at, especially those like Stan, who was young and inexperienced. He can’t count the number of times he’d wished he’d known what he was getting into beforehand.

“But I have heard of you,” William adds in softly. “Few of us haven’t.”

With a sigh, Stan leans back against the bench seat, folding his arms loosely over his achy chest. He stares down at the floor, keeping his voice quiet.

“How long you been runnin’ with the gang?”

William shrugs weakly. “A year. A little over, maybe.”

“How’d you meet him? Rico, I mean.”

The boy scuffs a heel against the tiled floor. “Came into some bad luck. Needed some money. Word on the street was he could help, at a price. Didn’t know that meant doing his dirty work, but…”

“By the time you did, you were in too deep,” Stan finishes dully.

William nods. “…And you?”

Stan huffs. “Similar story. Life on the streets was hard, and I got kicked out of the house at an early age. Tried some get rich quick schemes, most of which fell through. Got desperate. Like you said, word on the street was Rico could fix that. I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.”

“How…How long?” William asks after a long pause.

“Did I work for Rico? Five years.”

“How did you get out?”

Stan finds himself smirking. “Well, it wasn’t easy, I can tell you that. Took some clever planning, and a staged death with a thirty-year-long fake identity.” He grunts, sobering. “Even then…he managed to find me again, digging his claws in deeper than ever.”

William’s shoulders slump. “So…you’re saying there’s no way out,” he surmises.

“No. I’m saying it isn’t easy. Honestly, you’ve probably got a better chance of still having a good life free of him than I ever did.”

“Sure,” the kid says, sarcastic and glum. “In prison.”

“I was in prison more than once. When you get back out, Rico’s still there, waiting.”

“So what’s the point!” William snaps. “If there’s no getting out of this than why even try?! Rico owns me!”

Stan raises his voice, just as passionate. “Rico doesn’t own shit. He takes. He takes, and takes, and makes you give the rest up like a loyal mutt! Without us, Rico is nothing!”

William won’t meet Stan’s gaze again, but that’s okay. Stan needs a minute, his chest heaving and whole body shaking. He hadn’t realized how worked up this would make him, and he feels a little like he’s drowning in the sudden emotions. Silence reigns in the hallway, the kid quiet as Stan wrangles himself back under control. Doctor Jeffreys, Sergeant Willis, and Officer Carlo are still visible in Stan’s peripheral, antsy but staying their distance as Stan had requested.

“You said you’ve got your mom,” Stan says slowly, voice rougher than before. “You got any other family?”

The kid shrugs, noncommittal.

Stan decides to be completely honest here. “I do. A nephew and a niece-in-law. They’ve got two kids, twins. Best people in my life. And then there’s my brother—”

“I can’t tell you,” William sniffs, sounding both sad and angry. “I can’t. I-I just—He’ll know.”

“Not if we can take Rico out. Not if we can put an end to him and his business before he can strike back.”

“…What do you mean?”

“You give us info on where to find Rico and my brother, and we’ll end Rico’s reign of terror for good. But we gotta act fast, before he gets wind that something ain’t right.”

William hesitates.

“C’mon, kid,” Stan presses gently. “This is your chance to change the script, to wipe your slate clean.”

“M’still going to jail though,” William says bitterly. “Aren’t I?”

“That,” Stanley admits, “I can’t say. But I can tell you that a jury’ll go easier on a young man like you, more so than they might on an old timer like me. You might still have to do some time, but get a good lawyer and behave yourself, and maybe things will turn out better than you think they will. You ever do anything real bad, outside of tonight?”

“No…Robbed a few gas stations, but didn’t get much. This was my first real…assignment.”

“Yeah.” Stan feels his hatred of Rico burn brighter. “That’s how the boss used to break in new talent. Kind of a…right of passage, in a way. Proved your were willing to do the dirty work he handed out. Technically, you’re still more or less clean.”

The kid blinks, a fragile hope in his eyes for the first time that night. “You mean…you’re not gonna press charges?”

“No. Like I said, I get where you are. Been there myself, and it’s a scary place. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, and in the long run I have next to no sway in what happens once they bring you in. But I think you’ll be okay. If you’re honest and keep your nose clean. If we can get Rico pinned down, blast him out of commission and get him behind bars, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“But you need my cooperation to do it,” William finishes, thoughtful. “You need me to help end Rico and his gang.”

Stan nods. “Yeah. And I know you’re afraid, I am too, to be honest. But if this means sleeping at night and knowing Rico can’t hurt me or anyone else ever again…that seems pretty worth it to me. So…What’s it gonna be, kid? Can you tell me where Rico’s taken my brother?”

For a long, tense minute William falls quiet. Stan can feel his heart clattering in his chest, pounding through his head along with the persistent headache he’d had since waking up. He’s laid all his cards on the table, it’s up to William to either accept or decline. Stan would like to hope he knows which the kid will pick, but…

Well. People are hard to reach in their line of business.

“You’re his twin,” William finally says, and it’s a statement, not a question. “Sixties, graying hair, and six fingers on each hand.”

“Yes,” Stan breathes.

William pauses. “You’ll get him? You’ll get Rico for good?”

Stan swallows, knowing the weight his words will carry. “I will do everything I can to stop Rico and end his power over you, me, and all others like us. Even if it kills me. I promise.”

The kid nods, like that was all he needed to hear. The tension bleeds out of him, and he manages to look even younger.

“Fresno,” William answers. “He’s in Fresno.”

Stan blinks, caught off guard. “Fresno…California?”

A nod. “Brewster Manor. It’s where our employer and Rico set up base. It’s where they’re keeping your brother.”

Stan feels like the world is spinning on without him. “Brewster Manor,” he murmurs in disbelief. “As in—your employer is—”

“His name is Alistair,” William supplies. He grimaces in distaste. “Some pompous Brit with a wealthy lot in life. Gives me the creeps. He’s the one calling the shots.”

“G-Got it. Right.” Outwardly Stan is calm, but inside he feels like he could scream. He gives the kid a grateful smile. “Thanks for telling me. Leave the rest to us. We’ll get ‘im. I hope the court takes your cooperation into consideration.”

William nods, looking away as Stan pulls himself shakily to his feet. Sergeant Willis seems to take that as a sign that they’re finished, and instructs two nearby officers to approach and urge William to his feet. The kid goes silently, eyes downcast but burden lighter. Stan wishes he could say the same.

His mind is lurching, pieces of the puzzle slamming together, when Stan hadn’t even realized there was a puzzle to begin with. Alistair—Alistair Brewster. It was him. He was the secret employer Rico spoke of, who had arranged for Rico to track Stan down in the first place. He’d been the one to invite Ford to the conference. He’d been the one to show them around town, make sure they were settled in. Stan had gone to Alistair for help. And all this time, it had been Alistair pulling the strings of this twisted, nightmarish situation.

Stan feels like he might throw up.

He must look it, too, because the next thing Stan knows Doctor Jeffreys is at his side, grabbing his wrist to check his pulse and muttering fiercely. It takes Stan a moment or two to tune in to what the guy is saying.

“—really wasn’t the best idea, and now we’re going to pay for it. His heart’s racing, help me get him sitting again.”

“Wha—” Stan blinks, vaguely aware he’s being eased back to sitting on the hallway bench. “What?”

“Oh, thank god,” Jeffreys sighs. “I thought we’d lost you. Are you alright? Did you ever get those pain meds?”

Stan shakes his head, numbly.

“No to the ‘are you alright’, or is that a no to the meds?”

“…Meds,” Stan croaks.

The physician nods, then looks up at Sergeant Willis and Lieutenant Carlo—who Stan had completely forgot were even there. “Watch him for me a moment. I’ll be right back.”

As the doctor hurries off, Stan feels himself grab for the sergeant’s arm. Everything feels distant and hazy, but the urgency he feels is quickly bringing everything back to focus.

“M-My brother…”

Carlos exchanges a quick look with his sergeant, before both give Stan their undivided attention. “Do you know where he is? Did the boy tell you?”

Stan nods, licking dry lips. “The kid’s—kid’s name is William Becket. He says…He says Stanford’s being held in Fresno. Rico’s there. And…and…”

“And?” Willis presses carefully.

Stan grimaces. “Brewster Manor. Ford’s at Brewster Manor.”

The sergeant nods, going from coaxingly gentle to all business in a split second. He straightens, motioning to the nearest officers he can find. They rush up, and Willis starts barking orders.

“Send for as many men as we can spare, we’re heading to Fresno to apprehend Ricardo Hernandez. I’ll inform the chief. I want a full detail, brute force if necessary. Hostage situation, rescue objective. We leave immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the officers say in near-unison, turning on their heels to get to work. Willis turns to Officer Carlos.

“Gather everyone up. I want at least one officer to stay here and watch Mr. Pines here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stan,” Stan pipes up, more centered and already trying to rise back to his feet. “And I don’t need a babysitter. I’m coming with you.”

“I’m afraid that’s where I have to draw the line,” Sergeant Willis intoned sternly, a strong hand landing on Stan’s shoulder to keep him down. “I’ve bent the rules enough as is, endangering you at a possible face-off is simply out of the question.”

“But my brother—”

“We will do everything in our power to ensure his safety, you have my word. I’m sorry.”

It’s so inexplicably final that Stan really doesn’t know how to argue. Even as he’s led back to his hospital room and situated back in bed, he finds he hasn’t got the words to change the sergeant’s mind. Because his need to go to Ford’s rescue defies all logic. It’s pure, undiluted emotion, plain and simple.

Jeffreys sends a pretty little nurse in with two paper cups, one filled with fountain water and the other rattling with a few pills. ibuprofen and tylenol, apparently. They’re taking him off the morphine now that he’s awake and on the mend. There’s also a sedative, something to help him sleep the nurse says.

Sleep is the last thing Stan wants right now.

He takes the pain medication, swallowing it eagerly, but uses a quick hand trick to stow the sedative, making it look like he took it when he didn’t. Thinking Stan is being cooperative, Sergeant Willis and his men take their leave, issuing promises to save Ford and be back before Stan knows it. As arranged, a single officer is left behind. Stan can hear him talking lowly with the receptionist in the hall. He’s been left on his own in his hospital room, the door left open but the lights in the room itself turned off to encourage sleep. Only then does Stan put his half-formed plan into action.

First order of business is removing his IV. All it takes is a quick, practiced tug and he’s free. The spot bleeds sluggishly, but nothing that won’t scab over on its own. His meds haven’t taken effect yet, so climbing back out of bed unassisted is a slow and painful process. Stan grits his teeth, not making so much as a sound as he eases himself off the mattress, making it to a shaky stand. First monumental task complete, he begins on the second—getting dressed. He finds his clothes folded neatly and lying in a chair by the window. It’s slow going, and he has to stop more than once to catch his breathe, but finally he finds himself standing, fully clothed, and the pills just now starting to take the edge off his pain. Just in time too.

It’s been maybe twenty minutes since the cops left the hospital, or at least started out to do so—Stan imagines it takes a bit to organize that many people into leaving and telling them all where they need to go. It’s very late, the hospital empty but for those on the night shift. There’s one police officer, who obviously doesn’t think Stan is going anywhere since he’s more interested in chatting up the desk nurse, which is far enough from Stan’s room that he’s able to sneak out and to the nearest staircase without being seen.

It’s almost too easy. Stan grins to himself, even as each step of the staircase makes numb fire trickle through his every joint. He’s grateful he was only on the second floor.

The stairwell opens up directly into a parking garage, which, like the hospital itself, is mostly abandoned but for those working late. Stan’s eyes scan the available cars, weighing his options, and trying to dredge up old memories and skills from a life he’d left behind a long time ago.

He settles on an Oldsmobile, a dingy looking thing, probably belonging to some intern who wasn’t making enough yet to buy something better. Stan hobbles up to it, peering it over before he reaches out and carefully takes hold of the door handle. He gives a light tug. To his absolute shock, it’s unlocked—either by dumb luck or because it’s old and has brand issues. Stan tries not to feel guilty about what he’s about to do. There’s no keys, which is expected, so hot wiring the car it is.

It’s dark inside the underside of the steering, the low orange light of the parking garage not nearly enough to see by, but Stan is experienced and starts to carefully find his way by touch. A few tense moments later, and he locates what he’s looking for: the wiring below the wheel, thin and cold beneath his questing hands. Bending over, he manages a quick glance enough to make sure he’s more or less got the right ones. He does, and while typically it was safer to do this with pliers, Stan has no choice but to make do. With deft, practiced fingers, he threads the red and white wires together, clamping with a small piece of wayward metal like he’s done it all his life. Technically, he pretty much has.

The car sputters to life and Stan grins, satisfied. He secures the wires and sits back up, closing the driver-side door in a swift, fluid motion. The vehicle purrs, running without a hitch. There’s plenty of gas, and the way is clear.

Stan grits his teeth and throws the car into reverse gear. Another few minutes and he’s out of the parking garage and on the main road, heading for the highway and noting the green sign directing him to Fresno.

It is a good tea—chamomile, mild and sweet, smokey nut and slight; floral with a light hint of honey. It’s relaxing, calming, a fine beverage of which Alistair is very fond. It’s complex and interesting, much as he sees himself, an array of taste and astringency. He sips it often, taking a cup whenever he can. Some would probably deem it stereotypical, but Alistair prefers to see it as an aspect of his good breeding. A nod to his family’s mother culture.

Alistair smiles to himself, content as he takes another sip. It warms his lips and soothes away how the dusty air of the manor affects his throat.

He’s nearly worked his way through the entire pot, cup after cup; a way to leisurely pass the time while his hired muscle makes work of his prisoner in the basement. He’d said he would return in an hour or so. It has been nearly twice that. Alistair rather fancies the idea of leaving Stanford floundering, of having the hope of reprieve shrouded in uncertainty. Besides, talking with his old rival had upset Alistair. He deserves a bit of a treat.

The screams of pain from below hand long since faded out, transitioning from shouts and strange swears to muffled groans and curses, and finally fevered unintelligible rambling. Alistair nods to himself in satisfaction, pleased with Mr. Lopez’s work and trusting the man not to kill his adversary, merely wear Stanford down. He’d descend to the pit in a moment or two, once he’d finished the last of his tea.

There’s the rough closing of a door, but Alistair doesn’t flinch, even as Ricardo Hernandez plows his way into the library, red faced and sour, clearly in a foul mood. Though he’s rarely anything else. The man strides in, big and hefty despite his apparent age, stopping several feet short of Alistair’s armchair and crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl. Alistair side eyes him, disinterested, then takes another slow sip of his tea.

“You appear to be out of sorts,” he says aimlessly. “Any particular reason?”

Ricardo scowls. “Several. You may find it surprising, but I am typically a man of very little patience.”

Alistair smirks from behind the edge of his cup. “Oh, I’ve noticed. You’re a man of power, used to giving deadlines rather than waiting for them. I assure you things are still going well to plan. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem, señor,” Ricardo hisses, “is the lack of information. The information you promised me.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Alistair flaps a hand dismissively. “Your sort is always so high strung.” He gestures to a clean set of china. “Tea?” At the other man’s glare, Alistair shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Alistair pours himself another cup, the last of the tea only filling his vessel halfway. From the small distance between them, Alistair can hear Ricardo’s teeth grinding in irritation.

“Our deal was that I would deliver this—this Stanford Pines to you—”

“And you have, Mr. Hernandez,” the professor soothes. “Despite the complications, I must say I’m rather impressed. And in return I pledged Stanford Pines’ knowledge pertaining to several government secrets, as well as the life of his brother, Stanley. I have delivered the second, yes? Stanley Pines lies injured in a hospital as we speak, one of your lovely little assassins en route to slit his throat. Surely, you trust me to keep my word on the rest.”

“Trust is an illusion,” Ricardo argues flatly.

“Perhaps. Mm.” Alistair sends the other man an exasperated look. “Really, I wish you would at least sit. You’re putting me on edge.”

“Good. You are right to fear me.”

“Oh, I don’t fear you,” Alistair huffs, amused. “If anything, I find you mildly wretched.”

“I’m armed. I could kill you where you sit.”

“And what makes you think that I am not? Hm? And, naturally, you may be able to kill me, but you won’t. Our business is not quite through. In essence, Mr. Hernandez, you need me.”

Ricardo boils, but remains silent. Alistair raises a brow, then gestures to the empty chair across from him with a flourish. The criminal hisses a string of Spanish curses under his breath, but slowly moves to comply, lowering himself into the seat with a hateful glare.

Alistair beams.

“There. Isn’t that more comfortable? Of course it is. Now. Regardless of whether you trust me or not, we are in a bit of a waiting game. See, Stanford is clever—amazingly so. And stubborn—oh, so stubborn. I needed to wear him down a bit first, before we start pulling secrets from him. And I’m sure your man, Lopez, is doing a fine job of that.” He takes a sip of his tea. “You will get what you’ve worked for, Mr. Hernandez. You will be rewarded for your deeds. Of this you have my word.”

Ricardo grunts, unconvinced and guarded, but he lets it go without further argument. “Your prisoner…”

Alistair tilts his head. “What of him?”

“I feel there is more to this than you are saying.”

The Brit shrugs. “I want the information he holds, same as you. Our goals are aligned, little else matters.”

The crime boss narrows his eyes, knowing. “This is personal, is it not? I saw the way you looked at him when my boys brought him in. There is a hunger there, a hunger for revenge.”

Alistair drains his cup, grimacing slightly at the slightly bitter dregs. “Mm, indeed. Perhaps you are more perceptive than I thought. Yes, Stanford and I have some unfinished business. But that has nothing to do with our deal. I have what I want, for the most part. You will get what you want. I see no reason to discuss it further.”

“I agree. But should it…interfere, at any point,” Ricardo murmurs as a warning, “—just understand, profesor, that I would be very, very unhappy.”

“Noted.” Alistair sets his cup and saucer down on the coffee table and stands, Mr. Hernandez following his example. Alistair checks the clock on the mantle, pursing his lips in thought. “Would you care to accompany me to the basement?”

Suspicion flickers in Ricardo’s gaze. “…Why?”

“Well, since you seem to mistrust my intentions so much, perhaps seeing the lengths I am going to get your precious information will help alleviate your uncertainties. I was about to head down anyway. Your Mr. Lopez has surely loosened Stanford’s tongue by now.”

Ricardo considers, before the tension slowly bleeds from his frame. Still alert—always—but more in his depth. “I like the sound of that,” he smiles, fierce and cruel.

Alistair smirks. “I thought you would. Come along, friend. Let us see what our patience has wrought.”

Pain.

Sharp, electrical pain, shocking up and down his spine, between each ligament and joint, smoking his skin and leaving scars. Trapped. Chained. Alone. No one is coming.

It’s too late for him, but he can still fight back. He doesn’t have to give the demon what he wants.

Pain. Sharp. Electrical. Over and over and over and—

The taste of blood in his mouth. Tongue thick and useless. Eyes bleary and filled with agonized tears.

He can’t hold out.

He can’t keep taking this kind of pain—the human body wasn’t made to endure this elicit torture and yet he is.

But he won’t give in.

He can’t.

Bill can sear his very soul out of his corpse, but Ford will not—cannot—will not—give in.

The air is dank and dark. It thrums with foul energy and shrill laughter. A cruel voice demanding compliance worsens his disorientation and discomfort. It’s all so horrible. So chilling. So familiar—

Why why why is it familiar—

Don’t give in. Can’t give in. Can’t give up. Stay strong. Clench your teeth. Bite your tongue.

Endure, endure, endure—

And pray for death.

Shocking fire is traded for blows and hits. Bill doesn’t usually resort to physical punishment, he prefers to play with the mind, to dream up hurts that go beyond humanity’s capabilities to survive. But the blows come, leaving bruises, leaving cuts. It’s almost a mercy, before the shocks and zaps and pain pain pain returns, and it goes on and on, dragging Ford to the very brink—

And then it stops.

It all stops, blessed nothingness where a moment ago there was so much everything. Ford longs to sink into it, to let consciousness slip before Bill changes his mind and continues. But his consciousness lingers, teetering right on the edge but not falling. It’s its own kind of torture.

Something takes hold of his chin, raising his head where he doesn’t have the strength to. Ford blinks—winces—pants. But he can’t see well. The room spins; the Fearamid turns dizzyingly.

There’s no yellow. There should be yellow. Ford is terrified of the yellow.

He tries to pull away from the hold, show even the smallest gesture of defiance, but he’s too weak, too exhausted and hurt. A voice speaks, glitchy in his ears, and it doesn’t matter if its Bill or one of his sickeningly monstrous comrades, Ford will not comply.

“M’nev’r gon—gonna…tell it t’ you…N’ver give th’…equation…”

Someone makes a sound of amusement, and Ford’s brow furrows. That’s not Bill, or any of his companions. But it does sound like someone he should recognize…Someone he knows…

Ford blinks repeatedly, trying to force away the blurriness. It takes a moment, and concentration, but the space around him begins to clear. And with each regained nuance, and sharpened line, the Fearamid fades away, replaced by a dingy basement and a dim bulb hanging from the ceiling…

Oh.

Oh…

“M’nev’r gon—gonna…tell it t’ you…N’ver give th’…equation…”

Alistair chuckles lowly, releasing his prisoner’s jaw and watching with amusement as Stanford slumps forward in his bonds, panting and shaking.

“See?” he smirks, glancing at Rico. “I told you he has information. It’s just a matter of getting him to talk.”

Rico huffs, gruff and sour. “He can’t talk if he’s like this. This isn’t an interrogation, this is torture for torture sake.”

Alistair smiles wryly. “And what’s wrong with that? Surely, you’re not squeamish, Mr. Hernandez.”

“Tch. Of course not!” Rico glares. “But look at him! He’s barely conscious, beaten and shocked into submission, yes, but you’ve only touched the surface when it comes to breaking his spirit.”

Alistair hums, considering. “Mmm. Maybe. Then again, maybe not. As you can see, he’s still being stubborn. My methods may be punishing, but they will fulfill their purpose with time.”

“We are out of time,” Rico growls. “Just as I am out of patience. Your methods will yield us results too late, and I, for one, cannot afford to stray any further off schedule, señor.”

“Very well. Then what is it you suggest?”

“There are ways to get what we want and still hurt him, profesor. Ways that make your efforts seem like a mercy.”

“Oh?” Alistair’s interest is piqued. “Mm. I suppose you’re right. Electric shock is painful, yes, but it’s hardly enough to make a man like Stanford Pines talk. Alas, my inexperience shows!” He holds a wrist to his forehead in a dramatic display, before letting it drop unceremoniously. “Would you perhaps like to give it a go, Mr. Hernandez? I believe you are the expert here. Teach me.”

Rico blinks, surprised, before his face splits in a terrible grin. He drags a long breath in through his nose, reveling in the scent of sweat and blood.

“Ahhhh, sí. For starters, you must know this. Overwhelm, and all the subject will feel is pain. Pain is persuasive to many, but not all. But anticipation? The knowing of pain to come? Fear of permanent harm? That is what can get you what you seek…Allow me to demonstrate.”

Rico reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a switchblade knife, the same one he’s had and used for decades now. It’s familiar in his grasp, like an old friend, the wood and metal perfectly molded to his grip. He opens it casually, letting the dim bulb light glisten against its blade, testing the edge expertly with his thumb. He performs the action deftly, a practiced and well oiled motion. All the while, Rico takes a moment to truly study their prisoner.

He’s in poor shape. Beaten, bruised, and bleeding. His graying hair is tousled, slick and matted with sweat and drying, crusting blood. His skin is littered with burns and cuts, clothing singed and torn, revealing flesh already a canvas for old, long-healed scars. One eye is nearly swollen shut and his lip is split, a rivulet of scarlet a stark contrast against pale skin as it lazily slips down his chin.

Stanford Pines is much like his brother. Rico can see the glaring resemblance—the fierce, passionate eyes, the steady defiance masking the fear and uncertainty that lurks beneath. In appearance, they are nearly identical, bookends to the scrolling betrayal Rico still feels toward the Pinington—or Pines—name. His eyes are different, an otherworldly gray-blue, and he holds the air of a man well traveled, who had seen things and survived things most could not have. Rico finds it fascinating, but not enough to sway him from his task.

Without a word he steps forward, waving Lopez away with a dismissive hand, silently giving his lackey permission to go upstairs and get cleaned up. He waits a moment, until he and Alistair Brewster are alone with Stanford in the basement, before Rico slowly leans forward. He lays his hands on the beaten man’s wrists, pushing down on them hard enough that he grinds the joints against the wood with a faint crunch. He grins shark-like as Stanford winces weakly in discomfort, hazy sight flitting up to stare into Rico’s own. There’s pain in those eyes; pain and desperation, confusion and a timeless ache. He’s pretty out of it, mind blurred and hazed by agony and something else Rico recognizes and mulls over for just a moment. But that won’t stop him from getting what he’s here to get.

“You have information we want, señor,” he says coldly. “And you are going to give it to us.”

Stanford doesn’t grace his threat with an answer, gaze still unfocused like he’s not all there. But the fierce flame of resistance behind his eyes still burns, his defiance further telegraphed by the way he grits his teeth and presses his back firmly into the chair he’s bound to. Despite their shaking, his shoulders square and his chest puffs out. He’s a man strapped down, but not yet defeated. Rico could almost be impressed.

Almost.

The criminal shrugs. “Suit yourself.” His gaze slowly falls to their captive’s strange hands, taking in the extra digits with a mix of disgust and curiosity. “Hm. Six fingers…That’s two more than an average man like yourself needs, wouldn’t you say?”

The bound man stiffens, but his glare—woozy and hazed as it is—remains rebellious and firm. His chest is heaving, and he looks pale, almost gray; sickly. Beneath that facade of brittle strength and fortitude, Rico senses a bitter and spiraling defeat, just within his grasp.

In a slow, smooth movement, telegraphing his every motion so even their prisoner’s bleary vision can follow, Rico places the tip of his blade against the American’s middle knuckle of his right hand pointer finger. Lightly, without any pressure.

Stanford’s reaction is instantaneous. He jerks in his bindings, ropes digging into his wrists as he tries to pull his hands away, attempts to slide them back and out of Rico’s reach. His fingers tremble as they try to curl into a fist, but he doesn’t have the coordination to quite pull it off.

Rico grins. “There it is.” He glances to Alistair, who still watches from the sidelines. “Fear is a tool, even more so than the actual persuading. It’s a ladder to be climbed, the rainbow to our pot of gold.”

Alistair hums, stroking his beard, eyes bright with interest. He gestures, giving Rico encouragement to continue.

Stanford Pines is breathing harshly now, each soft gasp shivery and tight. His eyes are fixed, wide and haunted, locked somewhere over Rico’s head, trying to distance himself from what is to come. It won’t matter. Rico will having him begging to spill his guts before he’s through.

Rico repositions his blade, this time lying the sharp edge across the knuckle, like a man preparing to chop a carrot in half. Stanford gives a soft whine and Rico grins, before he slowly starts to apply pressure.

“This first one’s just an example. Then we’ll see how many it takes to get you to tell us what we want to know.”

Pressure.

Slow. Incremental.

Stanford shakes.

A little more, breaking the skin enough that a thin crimson trickle stains the wooden arm of the chair…

Stanford squirms.

Pressure…

Rico grins, reveling in the building tension and anticipation for the horror he’s about to commit.

Just a little more—

“¡Jefe!”

Rico jolts back with a growl, knife leaving flesh and gaze shooting up to pierce the silhouette only just appearing at the top of the basement steps. It is Manuel, one of Rico’s younger and newer recruits. His eyes are wide and wild, filled with fear and panic. His decent is anything but graceful, likely a result of too many swigs of tequila and too few hours of sleep. Had he the time and resources at that moment, Rico would have had the boy flogged or beaten for his carelessness. As things are, he can only wait with baited breath as the imbécil staggers to reach him, screeching at the top of his lungs.

“¡Jefe, la policía! ¡Ellos están aquí!”

Ice forms in the pit of Rico’s stomach. “¿Está seguro? ¿No estás mintiendo?!”

The boy is sweating profusely. Raving, he reaches for Rico’s sleeve in an effort to be sincere, but Rico dodges the touch, snarling.

“¡Lo juro! ¡Lo juro! ¡Ellos están aquí!” the young man cries, not the least bit discouraged. “¡La policía está aquí, jefe!”

Alistair raises a brow, looking more put out than anything. “Sorry, didn’t catch all that. My Spanish is a little rusty when it comes to speech of that speed and…hysteria.”

Rico huffs, beginning to sweat himself. His eyes search the dark ceiling of the basement, as though he can see through it to the encroaching authorities about to trespass. At their side, Stanford Pines looks close to passing out, clinging to trembling consciousness by a thread.

“He says the police are here,” Rico snaps, before turning back sharply to his panicked man. “Well?! What are you waiting for?! ¡Ir! ¡Correr! ¡Llévate tantos como puedas y huye!”

The younger man needs no further prompting, jumping and fleeing the basement, stumbling his way up the staircase and then quickly out of sight. High above, shouting can be heard, a mix of muted English and Spanish, as the policía close in and Rico’s men scatter like ants before a flood.

“Well, I suppose that’s that,” Alistair sighs. “And I was just beginning to think I’d gotten away scot free.” He shrugs. “Oh well.”

“This is your fault,” Rico accuses with heat, rounding on his employer. He still holds his blade, angled in his fingers, ready to use out of habit. He expects returned anger from the aging professor, but Alistair merely chuckles, his overall attitude one of calm and near-amusement.

“My fault? Ah, yes, I suppose it could be seen like that. Mm. But let’s be honest, friend. If we have been found out it’s not by any fault of mine. My steps have been untraceable, calculated to the very decimal, and my only employees are those belonging to you. I do believe one of your little tin soldiers has slipped up and betrayed our position. The true fault in this, Mr. Hernandez, lies in your own hands.”

Rico releases a sound like a hungry beast, outraged. His hand trembles, knuckles white as bearing the knife he reels back, preparing to strike, stepping forward threateningly and with every intention of slitting the Brit’s throat, but Alistair tsks and holds up a hand, unbothered.

“Oh, really, sir,” he says as though bored. “If you think a blade will be enough to cow a man such as myself, I’m afraid you’ve gravely undermined my strength of will.” Alistair barely gives the weapon a second glance, instead moving his way around to stand behind Stanford’s flagging form. “Now. Put the gun down, man. You’re wasting time.”

Rico gnashes his teeth, sneering. “I have come too far in this deal, and I will not be cheated out of my gains!”

“Of course not. Don’t be dense. We’re nearly to our goal, and you have not been cheated.”

“You fool,” Rico growls. “You’ve doomed us all with your poor, ill-conceived planning! ¡Me equivoqué al confiar en un perro como tú! We have lost everything!”

“Hardly,” Alistair quips. “You assume that I have not taken discovery into consideration. This is just a different tune to which we must dance. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The British scientist has already managed to kneel behind Stanford’s chair, working to free the other man from his binds. He does so carelessly, roughly, with no regard for the red, chaffing blisters encircling his rival’s wrists. Stanford doesn’t seem to even realize he’s being released, too groggy and confused to understand quite what is happening, clinging to consciousness by a thread.

When Rico does nothing to assist, Alistair rolls his eyes. “Well? Help me! We haven’t got all night. If you value getting out of here with both our lives and our prize than I suggest you stop dragging your feet.”

Thrown off by Alistair’s odd behavior and aloof attitude, Rico slowly moves to do as directed. Only until he’s fairly certain no trap is forthcoming does the criminal move to assist. After a few tense moments of cutting ropes and freeing limp, bound limbs in silence, their prisoner slumps in his chair, only kept seated by the grasp Alistair has on the shoulder of his torn and bloodied sweater.

“And now?” Rico grits.

Alistair grins, shouldering his share of Stanford’s sagging weight and forcefully pulling the weak man to his feet.

“Do you really believe that I would initiate this grand scheme without a manner of escape? Really, Mr. Hernandez, you wound me. Now, come along, give me a hand will you.”

Rico glares but doesn’t comment, moving to help and tightening his grip on their captive from the opposite side, stringing Stanford between them. He watches in cold silence as Alistair smirks, shuffling a hand against the far wall of the basement, where the shadows obscure the stone despite the hanging bulb. His fingers catch against something small, and a faint click resounds in the muffled room. And then, with all the smooth wonder of any posh parlor trick, an opening makes itself known—a thin, narrow corridor, unlit and descending into further darkness.

“This will lead us to the back of the manor. I have a car waiting that we can use to make our getaway.” Alistair raises a brow. “Are you game, Mr. Hernandez? Or does, perhaps, your distrust lend you cowardice?”

Rico grunts, unimpressed and un-amused by the Brit’s theatrics. But he gives a tight nod and grips the prisoner between them all the harder. Alistair, in turn, starts dragging Stanford forward, Rico assisting in manhandling the downed scientist through the secret opening and into the stretching, oppressive dark.

Once inside, and giving the makeshift dungeon a final, sweeping glance, Alistair re-closes their escape route, leaving only a dimly lit basement behind in their wake. There’s nothing but silence, muffled and damp, while in the house above chaos dawns like a rising sun.

Chapter Text

By the time Stan reaches the Fresno city line, his knuckles are white from how hard he’s been gripping the steering wheel the whole way. He’s pushed the speed limit, keeping it just below what would probably get him pulled over—which isn’t an option. The last thing he needs is more policemen aware of his chaotic situation. As things are, he’s already in enough trouble. A speeding ticket would just be overkill.

As luck would have it, Stan doesn’t come across any cops the entire way, not that he is really in any position to enjoy that small victory. It’s nearly a three hour drive from Piedmont to Fresno, and Stan feels every tick of the clock like sandpaper on his last nerve. Miraculously, he manages to cross the distance in just over two hours, a record to be sure. And considering that Sergeant Willis and his men had left the hospital a good fifteen to twenty minutes before Stan, that meant that he was probably right behind them now, having made good time. He’d arrive at Brewster Manor maybe a few minutes after they would.

The anxiety Stan has to deal with along the way is relentless, his heart feels like a butterfly with wet wings, clattering around in his chest. His muscles and joints ache from moving around prematurely after his accident, and then cramming himself in a small vehicle for such a long time. The pain meds are still dulling most of the discomfort, but Stan knows its just a matter of time before their precious damper loses effect. His side is numb and tingly, a ghost effect of the fire that the sensation actually is.

He’s going to regret all this moving around later.

Not only that, but his family is probably going to kill him. They’d intended for him to help locate Ford, not actually go and get involved in rescuing him. He’d be getting an earful for that, likely from Caroline. She was a sweet, caring soul, but she could scold when she wanted to. All that love and worry rolled out like a red carpet to chide and instruct. To be fair, Stan would deserve every last bit of it. He just hopes there are some hugs and tears to even things out. Mabel would cry for sure, and Dipper would probably freak out in that shrill, high-pitched rant of his. Roy would probably just back up whatever his wife had to say, frowning and nodding in agreement.

Sergeant Willis and Doctor Jeffreys certainly would be pissed. Stan is fairly sure he broke any and all protocol, both for the hospital and the authorities—and he didn’t even want to consider what all this was doing to his already compromised body—but, despite all the possible consequences, Stan can’t help but believe it will be worth it. So long as he manages to reach Ford in time.

Over the road Stan passes under a sign announcing his arrival in Fresno, the ‘Best Little City in the U.S.A.’, if the finer print is meant to be believed. The streets are pretty much empty, seeing as it’s sometime around five in the morning. It’s still dark, the sun having not yet even lightened the eastern horizon. It feels like a ghost town, so barren and bleak, too late for the nighttime travelers and too early for the rise and shiners.

Stan knows the way, remembering from his last visit to Fresno. His eyes sting as he focuses on the white and yellow lines of the road, exhaustion tugging at his lids and blurring his vision. Stan shakes his head, dislodging the feeling, and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

Fresno stretches out before him, a city tucked away in the valley of central California. Even in the dark he can make out the shapes of the sprawling buildings, silhouettes of shops and restaurants, small and peaceful. Beyond that, away from the streetlights and stores, town turns to countryside, speckled with fruit trees and fields. Stan races by it all, pushing the old car to its limits. He zig-zags his way through downtown Fresno and beyond, heading into the suburbs, where pavement and buildings give way to grass and the occasional tree. The suburbs, in turn, trade out for a long and moderately remote road that Stan knows will lead him to the large estate known as Brewster Manor.,

Before long, he spots it. Those lush, well-kept lawns surrounded by a tall, brick perimeter wall with iron gratings, are hard to miss. Stan’s breath catches in his chest at the sight of it, leaning against the steering to take it all in with wide eyes and grit teeth. What had seemed so impressive and posh before now seems evil and caging. Stan strangles the steering wheel, hatred for the man who had dared betray his brother’s trust growing with every passing second. If Alistair had harmed so much as a hair on Ford’s head…

Well. He just better not have.

Even before Stan nears the open gate he can see the chaos overtaking the place. Blue and red flashing lights bathe every visible surface in a strange, alternating haze, disorienting and surreal. There’s quite a few patrol cars lined up, starting just inside the gate and trailing all the way up to the pillared entrance to the manor house, several with the doors still flung open wide. Policemen mill about, many of them escorting prisoners they’ve managed to catch—suspects in a crime, rats fleeing from a sinking ship. Further up the road, through the iron barred fencing, Stan can catch the white beams of flashlights, likely more officers searching the underbrush for Rico’s men.

Stan winces, and decides he doesn’t want to call attention to himself, not from the authorities or any roving desperate henchmen. In the dark, he could be mistaken for one of Rico’s lackeys only to be rounded up with the rest. Or worse, he might be recognized and get sent back to the hospital. Thinking on instinct, Stan turns off his headlights as he rolls the car carefully to the side of the street. A larger rock on the roadside clangs against the vehicle’s undercarriage, making Stan blanch, but nothing sticks and he’s able to slide the borrowed ride out of immediate sight, tucking it close to a line of bushes that efficiently block out the dim moonlight. Stan parks, but leaves the engine on, the motor purring softly. He’s still far enough away from anyone to not be noticed.

Carefully, Stan opens the driver’s side door, hating every creak and rusty twang. As soon as there’s enough room for him to squeeze out, he does so, and leaves the door open as he slowly starts picking his way along the roadside. For all Alistair’s apparent wealth, his fencing is old and crumbling in places. All Stan has to do is skirt the perimeter until he finds a loose bar or hole, and then he’s in—slipping into the estate undetected, just outside of the policemens’ current sweep.

From most peoples’ view of the situation, they’d think that the authorities had the roundup well in hand, but Stan knows better. Rico isn’t your standard criminal. He’s sly and cunning and cruel and merciless, but he’s also cautious and experienced. Sergeant Willis might be good at his job, and Stan might have helped the authorities get the upper hand, but where they’d be fast, Rico would be faster. Where they’d be smart, Rico would be smarter. It wouldn’t be that simple, he wouldn’t be that easy to catch; he never had been.

And Stan bets Alistair won’t be either.

In all the chaos going on inside those gates, Stan surmises that Rico and Alistair have formed an alliance of some sort. He’s seen it before, how Rico conveniently holds out his hand in truce when it benefits him. Together, two clever minds, they’d find a way to avoid being caught, and the chances that Ford would be with them was a high possibility. Rico wouldn’t just leave a hostage, not when he might be able to use them to barter his way to freedom.

So the question is, where are they? Certainly not out in the open, not where the cops could swoop in and surround them. They wouldn’t approach this situation like average folk. They’d approach this with precise, deadly actions. Criminal actions. In fact, knowing Rico, he’d probably already had an escape plan in mind long before now, to be implemented in case of being found out.

Stan grimaces, digging deep into the still raw memories of his time under Rico’s direction. Because if you want to catch a rat, you have to think like a rat, and Stan could do that better than anyone, having once been a ‘rat’ himself.

Crouching in the shadows of the wall at his back, Stan’s gaze drifts from the chaos going on down to his right, drawn to a quieter, darker part further beyond. Behind the manor house, on the far west side, it’ dark and motionless, no policemen or lackeys running around to be seen. In fact, to the carefully trained eye, Rico’s men seem very intent on not heading in that direction at all, leaving it wide open. Wide, wide open.

Stan drags in a harsh breath and lets it out in a soft swear, lurching into as much of a run as his abused body can handle.

It’s bitterly cold, the Californian winter night unusually brutal—or maybe that’s just the icy grip of fear frosting over Stan’s heart. Regardless, it feels cold, the air burning his lungs as he staggers his way across the dark lawn and toward the abandoned side of the mansion. The short grass is wet and dewy, dampening Stan’s shoes and socks and making him feel even more chilled, but he doesn’t slow. Even as his hurts start to protest more insistently. The distance isn’t as far as it probably feels, but his injuries make it feel a good bit further.

Finally, Stan finds himself sheltered under the awning of one of the mansion’s many windows. There’s light inside, barely visible through the drawn, heavy curtains, and Stan can just make out the murmuring of voices. He’s honestly not interested, knowing it’s likely the police searching the house more thoroughly. They might be neglecting this side of the manor for now, but they wouldn’t be for long. Stan needs to keep moving.

On shaky legs, Stan slinks his way along beside the house’s exterior, eyes sharp and more focused than they’ve been in a while. It takes a few minutes, but he rounds the west side of the manor, trying to be as quiet as he can—and then he stumbles to a halt. He’d expected a back entrance, or maybe a large window, something Rico and Alistair might have climbed out of to escape, but all he finds is vine covered stone and brick. A bare wall, with no door, window, or escape route in sight.

With a choked sound of frustration, Stan leans against a decorative pillar for support, panting heavily and shaking from effort. His eyes strain against the dark, desperate for answers, but all he can make out is grass and shadow fading off into the distance. No wonder none of Rico’s men had gone this way. There simply wasn’t any reason to. Even a glance up at the second—and even third—story windows doesn’t answer any of Stan’s frantic questions, too high or too small to have been used as an escape.

He miscalculated.

Oh, Moses, he miscalculated.

Negative thoughts instantly flood Stan’s mind, cruel and harsh. They drudge up every failure and mistake he’s ever made, heaping them over his head, trying to drown him. For a moment, he desperately grasps at the idea that maybe the police really have already caught Rico and his criminal partner, but that brittle hope is bashed to pieces against the rocks of reality. Stan knows how unlikely that all is. Stan knows that, had Rico truly been captured, he would have known the moment he was within sight of the police. Years of reading people, picking up on subtle motions and gestures, told him that much.

Which means that, however Rico might have escaped, he’s probably already long gone.

Stan is too late.

The realization almost breaks him. Stan’s heart feels like it’s stuttering in his chest as he leans even more heavily against the pillar, hot tears gathering in his eyes as he clenches his hands into fists. He raises one, the one braced against the pillar, preparing to slam it against the stone in anguished defeat—

When the moon shifts out from behind the clouds and glints off of something in the darkness.

Stan freezes, gaze transfixed.

The moon is hidden behind another strip of overcast, then returns—and there it is again. A flash of light, dim and weak, reflecting off of something. Metal maybe. Or glass. Which doesn’t make sense, because as far as Stan can tell, there’s nothing out there. Just the mansion property sprawling out into a field, sprinkled here and there by a large bush or tree. It’s this unlikelihood that lures Stan away from the manor’s wall and pillar, blinking moisture from his eyes and frowning deeply. But, sure enough, the glimmer remains.

“What is that?” Stan murmurs, and he starts to head toward it, a few stuttering steps at first, but soon he’s limping at a run. Because, at this point, he’s got literally nothing to lose and absolutely everything to gain by checking it out.

It isn’t far. Further than his last painful sprint, but hope fuels Stan’s tired, sore legs and lets him push himself the last twenty feet. Three years of traversing the weird and unusual with his brother has taught Stan to never shrug off something that looks out of place, because it was always when you were most desperate that the answers were sometimes right under your nose. A moment later and he finds himself beside a hedge of three trees, overgrown and wild, just standing out there in the middle of the open estate, an dark island among a grassy sea.

Stan stares up at it, intimidated by its looming pretense before he steadies himself and skirts around the nearest side, intending to see if there is anything hidden behind it.

And there is.

Oh boy, is there ever.

A car. Shiny, new, and probably very expensive. As far as Stan can tell, it’s black, making it almost invisible in the night, except when the moonlight dances weakly against its smooth, perfect surface. It’s parked at an angle, close to the trees on one side, almost engulfed. It’s clearly been hidden on purpose, but Stan can’t imagine why. Or, well, he can, but it hardly makes any sense.

“A getaway car?” Stan surmises, rounding the vehicle carefully.

On the one hand, that’s a good thing. It means Alistair hasn’t gone anywhere yet, and since he’s the most likely to drag Ford along, maybe there’s still a chance of finding them. Rico may or may not tag along, but at this point Stan really only wants his brother. Ford’s safety comes first.

On the other hand, how does Alistair expect to get all the way over to this tree oasis without being—

Something shifts within the mess of branches behind the car, and Stan’s instincts take over. He scrambles back several steps before dropping to the ground, ignoring the way his ribs burn from the action. He lies on his stomach, pressed as close to the wet grass as he can manage, his shaky breaths stirring the dew from the blades. He watches with wide eyes as a light appears—real light, dim but very much there—close down to the roots of the trees. His view is limited, seeing as he’s taking in the sight past the underside of the parked car. A flashlight maybe, or a lighter—a lighter, it’s too dim otherwise. There’s some sort of trap door beneath the pine needles and wood, with a large figure slowly but surely climbing out of it.

From within the hidden shaft, a muffled voice hisses something, clipped and instructive, though Stan can’t make out the words. In response the visible person, crouched down and still below the branches, turns to growl a response.

“Then leave him then.”

Stan’s heart goes cold, his fingers clutching at the grass as he tries not to panic. Because there’s no mistaking Rico’s harsh, smoke-haggard voice for anyone else.

Another muffled blurb from within the tunnel, and Stan hears Rico mutter angrily under his breath. Despite the man’s obvious reluctance, Rico reaches down into the tunnel, grabs hold of something, and grunts as he helps haul it up. All Stan can make out from his position is another form, a body, dragged out into the open air, quickly followed by yet another man’s silhouette.

Before he even speaks, Stan knows it’s Alistair.

“There. See? Wasn’t so hard, now was it. Besides, I thought you were the one most in favor of bringing him along. Something about not wanting to miss out on the rest of our little deal. Mm?”

Rico scoffs, likely uneasy and done with the whole situation. Stan knows that tone, the displeasure of a gig gone bad, Rico getting ready to cut and run.

“Fine. We’re here. Now what?”

“All in good time, Mr. Hernandez,” Alistair murmurs back, unperturbed. He shifts, trying to maneuver the third body between them. “First, let’s get him stowed away, yeah? Before we’re spotted. There’s an automobile just outside these branches. Be a good fellow and give me a hand.”

Stan watches with baited breath as the two men emerge from the trees, carting their third member between them and dragging them to the back end of the car. Even in the pre-dawn shroud Stan recognizes the wiry frame and broad-chested figure, still and lifeless as he is.

“Ford,” Stan chokes soundlessly, and he has to fight the urge to stand and advance.

He can’t see well enough in the dark to tell his brother’s condition, but going by the fact that Ford’s not putting up any kind of a fight says he’s not doing too great. Stan’s twin is limp in his captors’ arms, unresponsive as he’s manhandled toward the parked car’s rear. Stan can only continue to watch, gnawing his lip, body coiled in tension. He can’t take Rico and Alistair on alone, even he knows that. Not when his meds are starting to wear off and nearly every part of his body aches. He should run for help, find Sergeant Willis, or anyone really. Someone who can get Ford out safely.

Only problem is…

Stan’s only path to backup is currently blocked. There’s no way he can get up and around the two men without being seen.

“Good,” Alistair hums. “Hold him a moment.”

Ford is shoved into Rico’s arms, and Stan hates that his past has caught up to him like this. That the man who has haunted his dreams for years now has his hands on his brother. Rico is a monster, a merciless criminal and a thoughtless killer. Ford —normally a force to be reckoned with in his own right—is so helpless, so vulnerable—Stan feels like he could puke from the disgust and fear roiling within him at the sight.

There’s a soft jingle of keys, then a click and a creak. Alistair wrenches the trunk open and quickly pockets the keys, gesturing Rico forward with their prisoner. Rico, surprisingly, obliges.

Ford is dumped unceremoniously into the gaping maw of the trunk, no care given to his comfort or safety. His limbs are limp, catching on the rough metal as he’s disposed, knuckles clanging sharp against the ridges before Rico and Alistair toss them in too, folding Ford up like a sardine in a can. And then, with a deft slap of his hand, Alistair closes the lid, Stan’s brother now sealed inside.

The horrific irony of the situation is not lost on Stan, memories of the past making his heart race and his gums prickle with phantom pain, and he swears he’s going to make these two pay for what they’ve done.

Alistair dusts his hands off, animated in his movements. “There. That’s finished.”

Rico’s posture is tense and agitated. “And now what, profesor?” The title holds no respect, only scorn. If Alistair notices, he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Now? Now we split ways, sir. I go my way, and you go yours. We’ll rendezvous later on. We’ll be in contact, after things die down a bit and become less risky.”

There’s a long pause in the darkness, long enough that Stan thinks maybe he missed Rico’s reaction, but then the air fills with the sound of deep, soft, mocking laughter. It sends chills down Stan’s spine, reminding him of times he’d much rather forget altogether.

“You cannot be serious,” Rico huffs, chuckling roughly.

Alistair doesn’t budge. “I assure you, I am.”

“You expect me to allow you to disappear, with our prisoner, before our transaction has been completed? ¡De verdad que estás loco! Do you take me for a fool?!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Stan squirms in his low hiding spot just outside of the lighter’s weak glow, not liking the subtle shift in Alistair’s tone. It’s slight, Rico might not even hear it, but Stan detects a coldness there. A deep seated carelessness, the kind that comes from a heart as hard as stone.

“You would have me left behind to be captured by the policía, while you run into hiding to take the valuable information for yourself!” Rico spits, hateful. “¡Cerdo traicionero!”

“Careful,” Alistair warns, voice low and icy. “I might begin to think you untrustworthy.”

“You are the one who is breaking our agreement!” Rico hisses, enraged.

Alistair releases a sigh, like a man inconvenienced. “A moment ago you were wanting to leave him behind completely. You are a man of a very uncertain mind and I find it tiresome. Let us not forget, Mr. Hernandez. It was I who hired you.”

“Dame las llaves,” Rico demands in a low growl. He holds out his hand, eyes flashing with warning even in the dim light. His other hand is at his hip, and Stan knows he’s about one second away from pulling out a knife. “Give me the keys.”

Alistair pauses, partially turned away from Rico, motionless in the act of getting into the vehicle. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ya escuchaste lo que dije. I said, give me the keys. Or I will kill you.”

Alistair remains still and silent for a moment longer, the tension palpable. “Do I understand correctly that you wish to take this car and leave me behind? Escaping with both my prisoner and your freedom?”

Stan can hear the sneer in Rico’s voice, even if he cannot see it. “Sí. As I said, señor, this deal is compromised. I must take what I can and disappear.”

“And break our arrangement? Our word?”

“Your word is worthless!” Rico spits. “You would have me wait while you drag out the process, not handing over what you promised, stalling for time!” He draws his blade menacingly, and Stan can hear the gritted smile on his face creak into place. Confident. Evil. “Well, it is time I shall take what I am owed. Give me the keys. Now. Or die.”

“Aaaah well,” Alistair sighs, almost pouting. He shifts carefully, keeping one hand in the air while he reaches into his pocket with the other, the one he had stuffed the keys in before. “I suppose this should have been expected. Can’t trust a criminal, or so they say. Guess I should have listened.”

“Shut up and give me the damn keys,” Rico demands threateningly. He’s moved closer to Alistair now, the knife aimed for his heart. The moonlight glints off of it, the edge sharp and deadly.

The Brit shrugs, and begins to pull out the item in question. “Shame, really. All the same, you have outlasted your usefulness to me. Farewell, Mr. Hernandez.”

“What are you—”

Alistair barely moves. In the darkness Stan doesn’t see him much more than twitch. But then there is a strange sound, like a sudden displacement of air followed by a wet thump. Rico gives a startled grunt, clutching his free hand to his chest as the criminal boss staggers back a few unsteady steps. His body language is one of shock and confusion, and Stan shares the emotions, unsure of what’s just happened.

“How unprofessional,” Alistair chides. He’s looking down at a small item in his hands, something that is definitely not the car keys. “And to think, you came so highly recommended. All those years and experience under your belt, and still you didn’t have the sense not to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

Rico gurgles something unintelligible, slowly falling to his knees, his weapon slipping out of numbing fingers. That’s when Stan puts two and two together, and he has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from crying out, though for what reason he’s not entirely sure. He can only stare in disbelief.

Rico—Ricardo Hernandez—perhaps one of the greatest and most feared criminal heads in the U.S., the untouchable gang leader, the man who had haunted Stan’s dreams for literal decades—is dying. Not fifteen feet from where Stan lay pressed into the wet grass. He’s been shot, at near point blank range in the chest, by Alistair Brewster. It hadn’t even been that loud, likely a weapon with a silencer. And really, there’s no coming back from something like that. Not without immediate medical attention, and if you were very, very lucky.

Alistair stows his small handheld gun back into his pocket, watching with smirking fascination as Rico twitches once, twice, and then crumples to the ground before lying motionless.

“Honestly, good help is so hard to find,” he sniffs, before then proceeding to fish out his keys.

He tosses them playfully into the air, catches them, and then slips into the driver’s seat of the vehicle with all the ease and grace of a swan. The engine starts up a half second later, practically soundless—one of those fancy new electric cars— and then it’s pulling away from the cluster of branches. Headlights off, slow and steady, Alistair begins the trek across the immense lawn, headed for some exit from the estate that only he is likely aware of.

And Ford is still in the trunk.

Distantly, Stan knows he needs to move. That he needs to jump up and run back to his own borrowed car so that he can trail Alistair and get Ford back—but he’s frozen. He remains as he is, still reeling in stunned horror at what he’s just witnessed. Even as Alistair is nearly out of sight, Stan finds he can barely breathe. And then something settles in his chest, something heavy and oddly distant, and Stanley finds himself pulling himself to his feet, slowly. With caution and lingering disbelief, he takes a careful step forward. Then another. And another. Until he’s standing at Rico’s side, staring down at the man who had made his life a living hell.

It’s funny. Stan thinks he should feel some sort of satisfaction, some sense of victory as he looms over the downed criminal.

But he doesn’t.

If anything, Stan feels hollowed out and empty.

Rico’s eyes are clenched shut, his gasps for breath weak and wet. He’s not dead yet, but he’s close. His chest, even in the dark, is slowly being consumed by a massive, crimson stain, the wound draining his life force away with gusto. And the thing is, Rico deserves it. He does. In fact, he deserves a far worse death for the horrible things he’s done. He deserves to suffer, and wither, and to die. To be left there to parish, stewing in pain and misery, and whatever sins that remain to torture him in his last moments. And any other man under Rico’s command, any individual who had ever been tricked into working under his tyrannical hand, would have turned their back and left him. Because they knew Rico didn’t deserve to be saved. He deserved to be left to rot, like he had turned his back on so many of them when it suited him.

So why can’t Stan do the same?

A gray haze breaks the eastern horizon, the very first kiss of morning dawn. The lawn is still dark, but there’s enough of a haziness that Stan can make out when Rico’s eyes flutter closed and his breath becomes more and more shallow. Dying. Almost gone.

Stan trembles, undecided, his sluggish thoughts suddenly speeding. He needs to run. He needs to save Ford. He needs to stop Alistair before he hurts anyone else, but—

Stan needs to not be like Rico. And if that means saving the criminal’s life, than so be it.

Stumbling forward, Stan falls to his knees at Rico’s side. The crime boss mumbles a wordless question, confused and barely conscious, but Stan ignores him as he starts riffling through the other man’s blood soaked clothes.

“P-Pinesss?” And that word gets through, because of course it does, slurred as it is.

Stan grits his teeth, not halting in his search. “Shut up,” is all he can manage.

A moment later and Stan finds what he’s looking for. He’d known Rico would be armed with more than a knife. Idiot just hadn’t thought anything besides a blade would be needed, not with a tea-sipping fuddy duddy like Alistair—or what Alistair had appeared to be. His mistake.

With shaky hands, now stained red, Stan draws Rico’s gun from his underarm holster. He staggers back to his feet, plugging his ears with a finger and a shoulder, and holds the pistol high above his head. He hesitates only a split second longer, then pulls the trigger.

Bang!

As expected, Rico’s gun—unlike the Brit’s—did not have a silencer, and the sudden sound is deafening. Stan winces, arm protesting even that small recoil. As the echo fades, he can hear shouts coming from the other side of the mansion. Sergeant Willis and his men will be headed this way any minute. They can deal with Rico. Stan won’t leave his enemy to die, but he won’t spend any more time saving his life than he needs to.

With a final glance down at Rico, meeting the crime boss’s now open and questioning gaze, Stan takes off at a run, weapon still clutched in his hand. He makes a beeline back the way he came, though he skirts along the fencing rather than heading directly back toward the house. This slips him out of sight just as the policemen pour onto the back lawn, too focused on finding the source of the gunfire to notice the shadow slipping back out through a hole in the manor’s perimeter.

Stan, by this point, has decided he hates running. He’s never been particularly athletic, but even living the life of a monster hunter didn’t typically push him this hard physically. Of course, the fact that he is already injured certainly isn’t helping anything.

He makes it back to the car in record time, thanking his lucky stars that he’d had the foresight to leave the engine running. He falls into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut, and peels away from the roadside like a madman, praying he hadn’t wasted too much time on Rico that he can’t catch up to Alistair.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. Almost immediately after getting onto the main road, which stretches on for several miles, Stan spots a car in the distance. It’s dark and sleek, and he knows without a doubt that it’s Alistair’s.

Gritting his teeth, Stan leans into the steering and presses his foot down on the gas.

This time, speed limits be damned.

It doesn’t take Alistair long to notice he’s being followed. Of course, he’d rather hoped he’d gotten away unseen, but naturally it wouldn’t be that simple. The question now, however, is who it is that is tailing him. He doesn’t recognize the car steadily catching up to his admittedly more leisurely pace, even as he frowns into his rear view mirror, one brow raised in grim curiosity. Then again, perhaps it is best not to find out.

Alistair presses down on the pedal, nudging his vehicle to a greater speed. Something thumps heavily in the car’s trunk, but Alistair pays it no mind, convinced that Stanford is too doped and injured to be any true threat. On their way out he’d slipped his old colleague another sedative, relying on that to keep Stanford moderately quiet.

And so it goes for several long moments, the two cars speeding along the still mostly unoccupied route, until Alistair notices with displeasure that his pursuer is again starting to catch up.

“Well now,” the Brit murmurs, half annoyed and half impressed. “Aren’t you a persistent one.”

It isn’t a police car. That much is certain. In the pale morning light Alistair can make out a ratty Oldsmobile, not in the best condition but still obtaining a somewhat admirable speed. In all honesty, Alistair knows he could still leave the other vehicle in the dust…but curiosity wins over. Assured that he can pull away and out of reach just as quickly should things go sour, the professor eases up on the accelerator, allowing his following shadow to close the distance between them. And it doesn’t take long. Within a few moments the Oldsmobile is pressing close to Alistair’s bumper, before it slides to the left, coming up alongside Alistair’s right. Only when they’re neck to neck does the Brit finally recognize the pale, battered face glaring daggers at him through two sets of glass window.

Stanley.

Now isn’t that interesting.

And perhaps a bit amusing.

Right up until Stan decides that the best way to stop Alistair in his tracks is to slam his car up against his. There’s the squeal of wheels and the crunch of giving metal, and Alistair jolts, hair falling out of place and messing with his pristine appearance. The action overall catches Alistair completely by surprise, unprepared for such a drastic and reckless move. Stan must realize that Stanford is on board. Surely he wouldn’t risk—

Another heavy, grinding push from the car beside him and Alistair growls, all amusement gone as he strangles the steering wheel with his hands, trying to force his way back into the middle of his lane. Stanley, however, is persistent. And apparently feels he has nothing to lose, turning hard and relentlessly. When Alistair tries to speed up, something drags, and he realizes that shredded metal has likely interlocked their two vehicles together. If Stanley’s triumphant grin is anything to go by, it’s something he’d done on purpose.

Red hot anger and frustration rises in Alistair’s chest. A feat in its own right, as he’s always considered himself a very calm and collected fellow. It bubbles within him now, however, a heady weight with sharp teeth and a forked tongue. It whispers words of revenge and tarnished fate into Alistair’s ears, building up the hatred he’d let simmer toward Stanford for decades, now extending it to his rival’s twin.

How dare Stanley try to take this from him.

How dare that idiot try to stop Alistair from gaining the closure he so truly is due.

Something within Alistair’s mind snaps. Into place, or out of it, the world may never know. A line is crossed, a moral is further abandoned, and Alistair is left feeling scorched and hollow. There is only hatred now, all else burned away. Because he has not come this far only to be thwarted by some plebeian high school dropout.

Alistair Brewster will have his revenge.

No matter what it takes.

They’re rocketing along the road now, two metal pieces to a desperate puzzle. It dawns on Alistair that there’s no running from Stanford’s brother now, his own haughty confidence having put him right where Stan wants him.

And Alistair can’t have that. So he decides to match Stan’s recklessness with a bit of his own. After all, Stanley isn’t the only one with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Ah, shoot!”

Stan yelps as Alistair all at once pulls sharply to the right, dragging Stan’s car along for the ride at breakneck speed. He tries to pull them back, tries to slam on the breaks and slow them the heck down, but Alistair’s apparently done playing around.

With a screech of rubber on tar and a cloud of heavy white smoke, the conjoined vehicles slide to the side, out of control. Thankfully, they’re still out in the countryside, so when they go careening off the road into a field of tall grass and wheat there’s no houses or shops for them to run into.

But it’s a hell of a bumpy ride regardless.

They hit a wooden guardrail, going right through it, only to slam up a slight incline, sending them into the air for a second. Stan’s head slams hard against his windshield, two quick bumps, one as they go up and a harder one as the crash back down. It blurs his vision with agony—if he didn’t have a concussion before, he absolutely does now—and aggravates every last one of his injuries. By the time he blinks the tears of pain from his eyes, they’ve already come to a complete stop. Tall grass cages in all around them, plants and mud furrows crushed by their heavy presence. The two vehicles are no longer joined at the hip, the impact having separated them, but neither of them are going anywhere. It would take a tow truck to pull them out, their crash having left them a good twenty or thirty feet from the road and tire rim deep in upturned soil.

Stab hisses, stomach churning and head pounding, but he’s already blindly grasping for the door handle even as he’s trying not to throw up. Apparently, two car accidents in a day and a half is his limit, everything within him trying to drag him down, but he can’t let it. Not until Ford is safe. He finds the handle and pulls, then pushes his shoulder against the door with a choked grunt as he fairly falls out of the now badly scratched and battered Oldsmobile. He stumbles to his hands and knees, gasping, the world spinning and the broken shafts of wheat prickling against his palms.

He allows himself a few painful breaths, then forces himself back up.

Alistair’s door flings open, bouncing slightly in its swing before a leg appears, quickly followed by the rest of the aging professor. And what a sight he makes. Gone are the prissy mannerisms and fine groomed appearance, replaced by a man overshadowed by a thin veil of insanity. His hair is mussed, some hanging down over his sharp and fiery eyes, and his clothes are all slightly eschew. His movements are equally sharp, determined, though he must be suffering from the shock of the crash himself, as his intended approach is unsteady, much like Stan’s own. Veins stand out on his pencil-like neck, rage turning his face a dangerous red, and a trickle of blood seeps down from a cut in his brow.

He looks about ready to tear Stanley limb from limb.

Stan doesn’t give him a chance.

Lunging forward, and grabbing two great handfuls of the professor’s now wrinkled shirt, Stan wrestles the man back a few feet until Alistair’s spine makes rough contact with the side of his fancy car. It knocks the wind out of both of them, but leaves Alistair stunned just long enough that Stan can dive a hand into his pocket and relieve him of his miniature pistol. Stan shoves it into the back of his own belt before returning to throttling Alistair with a snarl.

“Open the trunk!”

“Steady on—”

“Open. The trunk. Now.”

“Hard to do with you at my throat, lad,” Alistair chimes back, entirely too calm for a man who looks like he could commit murder. Again. At Stan’s resulting shove and tightening fists, he holds up his hands in mock surrender. “But if you have interest in doing it yourself, there’s a small latch down the side of the driver’s seat. It will do the job.”

Stan doesn’t hesitate, swinging Alistair to the side and delivering the most powerful punch to the face he’s accomplished since Bill met his end. Alistair goes reeling backward with a cry, stumbling before falling into the grass, where he lay twitching and groaning roughly. Stan will have to deal with him further in a moment, but right now nothing is more important than getting Ford free.

Because Stan knows what it’s like. To be shoved into such a small, cramped space, uncomfortable and frightened, unsure of where you are or where you’re headed. And he won’t subject his brother to that same horrid experience for one second longer than he has to.

It’s a quick act to find the little latch Alistair mentioned, and Stan pulls it like it’ll disappear if he isn’t fast enough. There’s a faint click and the trunk unhitches, lifting the slightest bit but no further. Stan careens his way to the back of the vehicle, shoving his fingers into the crack and lifting with all his might. It gives with a series of creaks, rising to reveal the dark interior of the trunk.

Somehow, the sight before him is nothing like—and yet everything like—what Stanley had feared it’d be.

Ford is there, folded in at odd angles in the dirty, claustrophobic space. He’s slid around a bit, or shifted feebly, having somehow managed to jam himself as far into the back of the trunk as physically possible. He’s curled in on himself, mostly because there’s nowhere else available for him to stretch out. That alone is hard enough to witness. What makes it worse is…everything else. Ford’s clothes are torn and filthy, like he’s been put through a paper shredder and then dragged through the mud. Through the tatters of cloth, where skin can be seen, Stan spots bruises, cuts, and charred areas that are bubbled and speckled with pus—burns of some kind. Against all odds, and how limp he’d been earlier, Stan finds his brother conscious, though only just barely.

“Oh, Sixer…”

Hazy blue-gray eyes wander shakily, squinting against the weak light of dawn and landing on Stan after a moment of silent seeking. Recognition is slow, but it comes, and Ford’s hoarse voice croaks out from a throat wrecked from screaming.

“S-Stanl-ley…?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me, buddy. I’m here. I’m right here.” Stan has to swallow back a sob of relief and guilt, all rolled into one horrible mess in his chest. “Sorry it took me so long. Think you can climb up out of there?”

Ford blinks, bleary, and Stan wonders if forcing Alistair off the road had really been the best plan. A knock on the noggin was probably the last thing Stanford needed. He looks pretty out of it, confused and obviously pained.

“Ou’ta…? Where’m—” Ford slurs, shifting slightly before flinching hard and hissing out some alien curse as agony overtakes his senses.

Stan’s right there with him, releasing his own harsh vocabulary as he fights the tears trying to gather in his eyes. The damage is too much to focus on, it dredges up too much regret and too much rage—so Stan stuffs the emotions down deep. He can sort through that mess later. Right now, Ford needs him to actually be helpful and do something.

“Eaaasy does it, Pointdexter. It’s okay. I know it sucks, but you’ll feel a whole lot better if we can get you out in the open. Okay? Take my hand. I’ll help you.”

“S-Stan…”

“Yup, that’s my name, don’t wear it out, yeah?” The joke falls flat. “Come on, Six. You can do this. I can’t just pull, it’ll make things worse. Just shift forward half a foot and I got the rest, okay?”

Ford whines, almost keening, and Stan wonders if maybe there’s more going on here than just pain. The possibility that Ford’s been drugged is high, and frankly explains a lot. Stan’s brother is a powerhouse when it comes to putting up a fight, skills and tactics honed from years defending himself beyond the portal. But all that street sense and strength is worthless in the face of some sedative roaring through your veins. But they don’t have much time. Stan can hear Alistair stirring, ready to make more trouble for them if they don’t get moving. He’s more an annoyance at this point, but Stan doesn’t want to take any chances.

The sky is turning a grayish blue, the first true rays of sunlight beaming overhead. Crickets are still chirping, but the added chorus of birdsong contributes to their symphony. That, along with the swish of wind in the grass, makes the scene almost peaceful. If not for everything else.

Ford grimaces, chest heaving, glazed eyes flitting to and fro dizzily, trying to make sense of the world around him. He might be in shock, on top of everything else, but Stan also recognizes that glint of panic in his brother’s gaze. The frantic fear that only came when the past tried to mix with his brother’s present.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.” Stan reaches for Ford’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Ford, look at me.”

“B-Bill-Where’s—”

“You’re alright,” Stan can promise. “He’s not here. He’s gone. You’re here with me. Breathe, Ford. It’s okay. Bill is dead.”

Ford doesn’t look convinced, but his jittery gaze finally connects with Stan’s own and holds it, questioning and scared, but with just the slightest more lucidity than before.

“Thaaat’s it, you got this, bud. Keep breathing. It’s over now. Stanley’s gotchya.”

Finally, after a bit of further coaxing, a shaky six-fingered hand weakly grasps Stan’s own, and together they manage to guide Ford close enough that Stan can get his arms underneath him. Then it’s just a matter of lifting a hundred and fifty-five pound dead weight with broken ribs, and Stan’s able to achingly set Ford down on the flattened grass and wheat. They rest there a moment, Stan hunched down and Ford propped up against the back end of the car, both panting and shaking from exhaustion and discomfort.

“See?” Stan wheezes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Ford gives a choked huff of amusement, sending Stan a rueful glare. But he can only hold it for a moment, the dizziness and general disorientation still a bit too much. And Stan can truly see why.

Out in the open Ford’s wounds and overall condition seems so much worse. He looks fatigued and ill, lethargic and horribly pale. But he’s breathing, raggedly, but steadily. He’s alive. And that’s honestly more than Stan could have ever asked for.

“I should have had you killed in the beginning,” Alistair growls from their left. He’s still far enough away that he isn’t a threat, on his hands and knees, face bruising and lip split. It makes for an intimidating and bloody glare though. “It would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

Stan shifts so that he’s between Ford and the professor, blocking his brother from Alistair’s view, protective, while still remaining crouched at Ford’s side.

“What is your problem?” he demands, angry.

Alistair wipes his face on his sleeve, observing the red it leaves behind impassively. “My problem? That’s simple. Stanford Pines is my problem.”

“He’s done nothing to you!”

“He’s done everything to me. He’s succeeded in life where I could not, stole my destiny, cut me off from the life I was meant to live!” Alistair licks his lip and spits more blood to the side. “And since the universe won’t enact justice where it is due, I will do it on my own behalf.”

Stan shakes his head, disgusted. “You’re crazy. Absolutely out of your mind.”

“Perhaps. But it is only because that is what Stanford has made me.”

Ford coughs, a wretched, wet sound.

Stan makes a dismissive tch noise at Alistair, before turning back to Ford.

“Don’t listen to him, Pointdexter,” he murmurs. “He’ll spend the rest of his life in the loony bin for this. Whatever he’s told you, it ain’t true. The cops are coming. Just hang in there, okay.”

“S-Stanley.” Caught between a sigh of relief and a plea. Ford raises a shaky hand and Stan threads their fingers together without a second thought.

“M’right here.”

The sudden shifting of grass makes Stan jolt back to face Alistair, half afraid the Brit is trying to get in one final hit on Ford before things are all said and done. But he turns to find the spot where Alistair was abandoned, the tall grass and wheat further out shifting as someone runs through it and away, leaving only a lightly parted path in its wake.

Oh, that coward.

Stan stands, back rigid. He glares over the shoulder-height field, catching a glimpse of something dark streaking across the open space. In the near distance, just visible against the dawn, a barn is framed by the rising light, with Alistair headed straight for it. It’s the only structure for miles.

Ford mutters something unintelligible, sounding weak, hoarse, and confused.

“Sit tight, bud,” Stan grunts, gaze tracking the professor’s course in the dark and dim moonlight. “I’ll be right back.”

Stan moves to step forward, but trembling hands latch on to his pant leg, keeping him anchored at his brother’s side. Ford’s eyes are wide and unfocused, whatever lucidity he’d had before now gone, replaced by fevered delusions. Upon crouching back down, Stan finds he’s worryingly hot to the touch, and Stan hisses in sympathy.

“I know, Sixer, I’m sorry. Someone’s gotta go get Alistair, or he’s gonna give us trouble down the road.”

Because if Alistair gets away, he’ll try this all again someday. He’ll come after Ford. And Stan. And Moses, he knows about the kids, and Roy, and Caroline—

If Alistair escapes, they’ll never be truly safe from him.

After a moment of torn hesitation, Stan reaches and takes Ford’s hand, gently pressing the gun he’s taken from Alistair into his brother’s loose fingers. Maybe it isn’t the best idea, giving a weapon to someone as out of it as Stanford obviously is, but Stan can’t bear the idea of leaving his twin defenseless. Alistair is no longer armed, and Stan’s fairly sure he can take the guy in hand to hand.

“Stay, okay?” He sets a hand on Ford’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “This ends here. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Recognition lights in Ford’s eyes, cresting through the haze. He frowns. “Wh-Where ‘re you—”

“Stay.”

“S-Stan—”

But Stan’s already gone, throwing himself into the tall grass and wheat, following in Alistair’s footsteps. A man on a mission.

A mission he can’t even consider failing.

The barn door is already wide open—or maybe it has been for a long time, years maybe, most of the wood pitted and rotting. It’s the sort of place that no one has checked up on for decades, leaving it to decay in peace.

Stan approaches it slowly, legs braced and muscles tense. He hesitates at the threshold, but for only a moment, before stepping through.

The graying light outside casts Stan’s shadow into the structure, stretching it long and ominous. It’s dead silent, like a tomb, left to sludge and rust, abandoned. There’s hay, or straw, scattered across the floor and piled in mildewing heaps in every corner. Sticking out from the mess, here and there, are the remains of old furniture, tools, and farming equipment. The floor itself is dirt, or perhaps wood that’s been buried by time and neglect. Wood beams and walls show signs of age, dull and cracked, and soft streams of light cast down through holes in the ceiling. Dust motes hang thick in the air, along with a heavy scent of must and dampness, decay and mold. Cobwebs decorate everything, thin wispy veils fluttering in the slightest draft.

Alistair is nowhere in sight, but Stan knows better than to think he’s alone. His shoes grind against dirt as he shifts carefully into the dark building, snatching up an old chair leg on his way further in.

“Well, now, I suppose this proves it, then,” Alistair’s voice echoes out from the blackness.

Stan shifts, not the least bit surprised, but guarded. He holds the chair leg up, eyes scanning the dullness, trying to track Alistair’s voice.

“Proves what?” Stan asks, stalling.

“That you’re twins.” A disapproving chuckle. “You both have the same knack for ruining a man’s plans.”

Stan huffs. “Yeah, well. Some plans should be ruined.” He tightens his hold on his makeshift weapon, stepping just a bit further into the barn. “How many years have you been planning this?”

“Be a little more specific?”

Stan grinds his teeth. “How long have you been planning to hurt my brother.”

A pause. “What makes you think it’s been years?”

Stan laughs, not the least bit amused. He’s starting to get a handle on where Alistair’s voice is coming from. It’s higher than the first floor of the barn, likely coming from the hidden loft above. Stan slowly starts to edge in that direction.

“Oh, I dunno. You call my brother to Pasadena to give some fancy smancy science lecture, something that he can’t turn down. I call that baiting. You do research into my past, getting in touch with old enemies who will work with you just because they want a shot at me. That shows me you knew what you were doing, not acting on impulse. You lie to Rico about government information you know Ford doesn’t have, making things stupidly complicated, but still end up with my brother in hand by the end of it. You’re a scientist yourself, from the same college as Ford graduated from, a colleague but not a friend. You said he stole your destiny, or whatever. Sounds like someone’s holding a grudge.”

“Your point being?”

Stan finds a rickety staircase, a sharp incline to the loft. He tests it with his foot, then starts to carefully climb. “I recognize a vendetta when I see one. You blame Ford for being a loser in the academic world. Or what you think counts as losing. You have an expensive manor house, an expensive car, a degree. I think your idea of winning and losing is screwed up.”

“Hm. Perhaps you’re more clever than I thought. Congratulations on deciphering my motives.”

“Yeah, well you can take your congratulations and shove it. And leave my brother alone. He’s been blamed enough, especially by himself.”

“Aaaah, but you see, Stanley. That’s where you’re wrong. Stanford hasn’t suffered nearly enough for what he did to me.”

“Which is?!”

“You wouldn’t understand.” A pause. “Then again…maybe you would. Tell me, how did it feel to grow up a twin of a genius, hm? That had to have been difficult.”

Stan grimaces, but keeps moving. “That’s really not any business of yours, pal.”

“Mm. I wager you were considered the ‘dumb’ twin. Always in the wrong. Never doing anything right. Always trying, trying, trying, but never being enough.”

Stan remains quiet.

“Ah, I see…He’s hurt you, too.”

“You already know the answer to that,” Stan hisses. “If you looked into my past as deep as I think you did, you know why I left home.”

“And you are trying to tell me you don’t feel even the slightest resentment for that? For him letting you go? Turning his back on you? Cutting you out of his life—”

“Of course I do!” Stan shouts, and the barn air muffles the sound. He reaches the top of the stairs, legs shaking from the effort. He swallows dryly, trying to calm his pounding heart. “I did. But I also cared about him too much to give up the hope that, one day, he’d come looking for me. That we could be brothers again.”

“And did he?” Alistair asks, sneering. “Or did you have to come crawling like the insect he thinks you are.”

And for a moment, one terrible moment, memories flood Stan’s mind. An old motel room, ratty and decrepit, where he sat day after day in hiding. A postcard, with only a few scrawled words etched into its surface, and how painful, desperate hope ignited in his chest. A raving, terrified twin pointing a crossbow at his chest. The portal. Thirty long years of hard, grueling work. A punch instead of a thank you. Harsh words. The threat of being homeless again, after everything. Despair. Sadness. Hopelessness. Fear.

Stan shakes the images from his head, firm and resolute. He replaces them with thoughts of Dipper and Mabel, swooping in to save the day in ways Stan never could have imagined. Of adventures, and laughs, and a future. Of Ford’s first hug and apology. Of a brother’s soft voice murmuring reassurances while Stan regained the horrors of his past. Of wishes and dreams made reality. The Stan O’War II. The roll of the waves and the smell of the ocean. Of Ford, his twin, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they leaned against the ship’s rail, watching a sunrise with hot cocoa in hand, steaming and sweet. Happiness. Relief. Closure.

Brothers.

“Nice try,” Stan gruffs, reaffirming his grip on the chair leg. “You know, it’s funny. Sometimes I think the smarter you bullys are, the harder it is for you to see what’s right in front of you. I love my brother, and nothing you say can change that. The past is behind us, because we’ve moved on and found something better. It’s not Ford’s fault you can’t do the same. It’s yours.”

With a hateful roar Alistair comes leaping out of the darkness, a sharp, broken spade in hand held like a blade, but Stan is ready. He sidesteps, Alistair just missing nicking his shoulder. It’s hard fighting in the dim light, but Stan’s an experienced brawler. He recovers and quickly retaliates with a swing of his own, clipping Alistair on the chin with his fist in a nice, clean uppercut.

The professor reels back, sputtering. Stan doesn’t give him a chance to regain his footing, jumping forward to collide with him, shoulder to chest, sending Alistair stumbling further, slamming him up against a wall. Stan grasps the wrist wielding the spade, trying to squeeze hard enough that Alistair will drop it. A spade is hardly a knife, but well-worn and rusty as it is, broken and jagged, it’s a real threat. Grunting and heavy breaths fill the loft, as both men wrestle for control.

Alistair is a man of culture, not used to getting his hands dirty in a world of dirty deeds. His precious Queensbury rules won’t stand a chance against Stan’s street smarts, and it is quickly becoming more and more apparent. Stan is getting the upper hand.

“I’m sick of being pushed around,” Stan presses, sincere and angry. “I’m done making mistakes. I’m done with my bad past hurting the people I love. Done with people thinking they can hurt my brother and get away with it.”

“Get off of me!”

With a turn and a hard jab to Stan’s collarbone with his elbow, Alistair squirms loose, and the two men fall apart, gasping for air.

“What would you have me do?!” Alistair demands. “Forgive him?!”

“It’s been years, man! Sometimes you have to just let things go and strive for the better!”

“Ha! If you think it’s as simple as that, you’re more naive than I originally supposed.”

“Oh, we are way past naive, bud. You’ve killed tonight. You’re ready to kill again. The best way I can keep my brother safe is by putting you behind bars.”

Alistair chuckles, rough and mean. He adjusts his grip on the spade, jagged edge facing out. “I’d like to see you try.”

In the blink of an eye, Alistair is lurching for him again, swinging the sharp spade like a madman. Stan jolts back with each close call, narrowly missing the tool slashing his throat one—two—three times before his spine hits against something solid. Alistair slams into him, arm posed to stab down but Stan’s quicker as he latches on to Alistair’s wrist and twists it away from anything vital.

They strain against each other for another long, tense moment, locked close and personal, before Alistair decides to play dirty and tries to kick Stan’s feet out from under him. It doesn’t work, but it offsets their balance just enough that Alistair can pull his makeshift blade free and reposition. He goes in for another lunge, but Stan turns to the side at the last moment, and Alistair’s spade and hand crash into the wall at Stan’s back with a nasty snapping sound. Stan doesn’t wait to see if it was the tool or the professor’s wrist that cracked, giving the other man a shove so he can get himself away from the wall. Together, they stagger back into the middle of the loft, Stan delivering a few more quick punches before Alistair regains his footing.

“You—!” Alistair takes another swing, face red and vengeful. “You will regret ever challenging me! I am a Brewster!”

Stan dodges, stumbling to the right, steadying himself against a bale of musty hay. He’s quick to reform into a boxer’s stance, some of his old moves slowly finding their way into his brain through muscle memory.

“And I’m a Pines,” Stan grins back. “I think you’re a little out of your league.”

This time Stan is the first to attack, going in hard with a wide swipe from the right with the chair leg. Alistair jumps back, grabbing a rusty bucket from a shelf and throwing it at Stan’s head. Stan blocks it with his arm, already pulling back for another punch.

The fight continues much the same for a time. Stan finds his rhythm, quick and light on his feet, while Alistair’s attempts to wound him at every opportunity, leaving himself open and vulnerable. He’s not a fighter, that much is obvious, built more for the reading of books and the sipping of tea, but hell if Stan’s going easy on him. Every time he even considers it, Stan remembers his brother out in the field— shaken, drugged, and injured. Any compassion or mercy dries up like a desert well in his soul.

But even amateurs can get lucky, and even the experienced can make mistakes. Stan turns his ankle against a dip in a floorboard and suddenly Alistair is too close to fend off easily. Stan raises his chair leg, but a slice of the spade against his knuckles makes him drop his weapon with a shout. The small victory fuels Alistair’s ferocity, the man grinning from ear to ear with a malicious glint to his eyes. All Stan can do is try to dodge and block, resulting in several bruises and cuts all along his forearms, but he still holds his own, getting in hits where he can.

By this point they’ve dragged this brawl all along the length of the loft, stumbling over barrels and clamoring around piles of wood. But it isn’t until Stan realizes how far they’ve moved that he recognizes the very real danger of falling. The loft is open on all of one side, a dizzying drop, made all the worse by the poor lighting. It makes Stan’s stomach churn, understanding that all it would take is a wrong step in the wrong direction and then—

Alistair strikes again, and Stan hisses in pain before he gives an ill-aimed swing that sends him clattering to the floor. The professor leaps out of range easily with a raspy laugh. He’s getting cocky, drawn blood adding to his climbing euphoria. It’s sickening, the pleasure he seems to be deriving from the smallest of feats. His focus is purely on Stan, the rest of their surroundings little more than a stage to which he can dance—

Stan’s eyes widen. “Wait, Alistair—!”

But it’s too late. The professor goes back too far, his footing lost on the uneven floorboards of the loft. He’s left floundering on the edge for a moment, arms pinwheeling and eyes comically round, and then he tips, balance abandoning him. Alistair falls, only saving himself a painful drop by snagging the ledge with one hand as he goes, stopping him short and leaving him dangling a good ten or eleven feet from the barn floor. Below, wooden crates and farm equipment lay, the world’s worst safety net.

“Help!” Alistair cries out, hoarse and strained. Gone is the cockiness and sadistic glee, replaced by a very human fear. “Help me!”

Stan groans, sore and bleeding, but still moderately mobile. He thumps a fist against the floor, part of him hating how he can’t ignore Alistair’s calls for help, and bitterly hauls himself to his feet. His steps are unsteady and limping, but he makes do, hobbling his way over to the overhang and lowering himself gingerly to his stomach, leaving his arms free to stretch down toward his opponent.

Alistair looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes. His spade is nowhere in sight, likely having been dropped during the fall. “Please! Please, help me!”

“Grab on!” Stan commands, already attempting to gain a firm grip on the wrist of Alistair’s suspending arm. The other he holds out, fingers outstretched, offering. “I’ll pull you up!”

Left with no other option, Alistair complies, grunting as he swings his free arm up and latches on to Stanley’s own wrist. Stan hisses in discomfort as his back and shoulders bear the weight of the other man, the strain almost too much, but he can handle it. Digging the toes of his shoes into the boards behind him, he shifts the best he can, trying to find a position where he can pull Alistair up without being dragged down with him.

“Th-That’s it! Hold on!”

Aaaand, there. It’s as good a leverage as he’s going to get.

Stan starts to heave with all his strength, distributing the weight as best he can. He grunts, ribs and joints unhappy with his choice of activities, but he’s not letting go. The same little voice in his head that wouldn’t let him leave Rico for dead won’t let him drop Alistair either. He puts his all into gripping the professor, grimacing as Alistair’s fingers dig hard into his wrists, desperate and afraid.

It takes a few minutes, a lot of gruff sounds and slow, shaky shifts against straw, but eventually Stan succeeds in pulling Alistair up over the edge. The guy looks pale and shaken, as anyone would be after a close call like that. The fall might not have killed him, but it really would have sucked.

“Thank…y-you,” the professor pants, moisture dripping from his brow to the loft floor. “You…helped me…even when I…”

Stan tries to act like he’s not already deeply regretting all his life choices, his shoulders feeling strained and sore. He shrugs with a wince.

“No. N-No, seriously, Stanley. Thank you…”

“S’fine, I guess. God, my back…”

For a moment, there’s a wordless truce, the two men kneeling on hands and knees, gasping and sweaty as their hearts stop fluttering so hard in their chests. They’re not kids anymore, for goodness sake, and it shows. Stan groans, body like taffy stretched too thin and full of old bones. Slowly, on swaying legs, he rises to his feet. His spine crackles in protest, but honestly he’s had worse.

“P-Place is a death trap,” he huffs, dusting off his hands on equally filthy clothes. “You..ngh…You alright?”

He holds out a hand, intending to help his opponent back to his feet. Because, as far as Stan is concerned, this cat fight is over. He’s saved Alistair’s butt, and they’re both beat up and exhausted. They’re just a couple of old men duking it out in some musty, abandoned barn in the middle of a Californian wheat field. Weaponless, asthmatic, and frankly kind of sad.

“Can you stand? I think we can—”

And then Alistair is careening to the side, snatching something up from leaning against the nearest beam, and taking a feral swing in Stan’s direction without so much as hesitating; all one fluid motion. Planned.

It’s a heavy hit, too fast to dodge and too strong to hope he can get by with just a few bruises. And so, in the split second Stan has to realize how poorly this is about to go, he braces. Or tries to. The solid wood handle of the shovel slams hard into Stan’s ribs with a startling crack, like Babe Ruth gunning for a home run. He staggers back, gasping for air that won’t cooperate and mouth open in a silent scream as bile burns in his throat. The pain is beyond anything he could have prepared for, and it only takes a moment for his legs to give out and buckle, slamming Stan down hard to the floor yet again.

Vaguely, Stan is aware that Alistair is coming toward him, stalking him like a hungry tiger, but right now he has enough to deal with. His ribs must be shattered. It’s the only possible outcome that could cause this much agony. It burns all through him, strangles his every tight, stinted breath. His vision is going dark around the edges, awareness teetering, teasing and horrible and faltering.

“Look at you.”

Scuffed expensive shoes come to a halt just within Stan’s wavering sight. There’s straw stuck to them, dust and grain taking away their usual shine. Wincing, one arm gingerly wrapped around his middle while the other shakily tries to keep him moderately upright, Stan looks up. He’s too hurt and afraid to put any work into looking fierce or defiant, and it must show in his face as clear as day, because Alistair basks in it.

“All that nonsense about loyalty and always being there for one another. And you end up right where you’ve always been. Where people like Stanford always leave people like us. Alone.”

Stan’s chest aches, and he hazily wonders if one of his ribs has punctured a lung. But, somehow, that isn’t priority number one right now. Staring up at Alistair, unblinking, panting through the unbelievable pain, not looking away—that is what he needs to do. It’s all he has left.

“Pathetic,” Alistair spits.

In the dim light of the dawn outside the loft’s open window, he looks like a man back from the dead, ragged and clawed, stooped and braced, filled with hatred and a will to harm. The shovel is still in his hand, held at an angle that says he’s not quite done using it. This assumption proves true as Alistair takes another step closer, the homely bludgeon rising slowly.

“Getting rid of you will be doing the world a favor.”

Stan wheezes, clutching his ribs, trying to remain conscious through the pain just a few moments longer, an idea half formed in his rattled brain. He doesn’t have time to think it through. Doesn’t have time to determine if it will work or not. It’s just pure desperation and instinct. Alistair takes one final step forward, and Stan shoots him a final, lopsided grin.

“Y-Yeah. I get th-that a lot.”

Stan draws back a leg and kicks out, hitting Alistair sharp in the knee. Distantly Stan feels something give and Alistair roars in pain, staggering a few wild steps back before hitting the ground with all his weight. There’s a creak of old wood, the crackle of something splintering, and Alistair has only a moment for the horror to register on his face before the floor beneath his feet collapses. With another sharp cry, this time of fear, Alistair falls through and disappears. There’s a loud crash and a heavy thud, and then the barn goes quiet.

All is silent and eerily still.

Stan is left there, alone, panting and stunned as he shivers, bodily shaking under the weight of his upper torso. He blinks, trying to process the sudden peace and calm. It’s like an afterimage, the sounds of the fight still echoing in his brain. Then, with a grunt, he rolls himself over and painstakingly starts to drag his throbbing body carefully over the dusty floor. He moves until he can peer over the edge of the jagged hole Alistair made as he fell.

Gritting his teeth and bracing for the worst, Stan looks down.

Below, Alistair’s body lay still and sprawled, limbs askew, littered with straw and surrounded by shattered wood. For a heart-stopping moment, Stan thinks he might be dead, but the slightest rise and fall of the professor’s chest shows sign of life.

Good. It had never been Stan’s goal to kill him. Alistair needed to face justice at the hands of the law for what he’d done, and now he would.

Stan releases a shaky sigh of relief, allowing the tension in his body to flow out and away. What strength and energy he had bleeds from his shoulders and spine, and Stan allows himself to go limp, lying against the wood and straw of the loft. He feels weird, like he’s floating, perception strangely skewed and warped. Blinking blearily, it takes him a moment to realize he’s losing consciousness, and by the time he does, he doesn’t care.

The last thing Stan is aware of before passing out is the sound of distant sirens and the flicker of red and blue lights approaching through the trees beyond the field.

Then everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

When Stanford Filbrick Pines drifts back into consciousness, slow and groggy, it’s to a muted pain and the sound of a television on its lowest volume. It lulls him out of a dull, senseless void and into a warm, hazy existence.

Ford has been in enough med bays, health wards, and clinics in his life to know, even with his eyes still closed, that he’s in a hospital. They have a certain feel to them no matter where in the universe they are; that too clean smell and the chill of heavy cooling in the air. He doesn’t mind them, really, seeing as most of his experiences with medical facilities have been relatively positive—which is why he doesn’t immediately panic.

He can’t remember why he’s here, but knows with patience it’ll return to him and things will start making a bit more sense. His task, therefore, is to wake up properly, get his brain cells firing, and see if he can get some answers in the long run.

And so, with that much planned, Ford opens his eyes.

Then closes them again. Because that was bright, and too bright hurt. And while he’s never been one to shy away from pain, it isn’t like he is directly looking for it.

His second attempt, after a few moments of blinking and squinting, is a lot more successful. His eyes adjust and he finds himself seeing nearly exactly what he expected.

A hospital room. Small. With two large windows to his left letting in an ungodly amount of sunshine. Judging by the position of the shadows and angle of the beams, Ford determines that it’s sometime around mid-day. There’s little equipment in the room, other than what appears to be a heart monitor, also set up on his left, with a wire running to a clip latched onto his finger. He watches the line on the screen fluctuate, reading that his pulse is healthy and regular, if not a little bit sluggish. Given how calm and fuzzy he feels, that’s more than likely a sign that he has been put on painkillers—intravenously, since he’s been unconscious before now. A glance at an IV taped to his inner arm with a tube trailing up to a bag at his bedside confirms his suspicions.

What little pain he feels is light and distant, as though aching from another lifetime. In its place is a comfortable haze, where he feels pleasant and well at ease.

But, by the Oracle, is he exhausted.

The bed is surprisingly warm and soft, broadcasting safety to every inch of his body, coaxing him to close his eyes again and sleep. But, as appealing as that sounds, Ford does not want to drift away again. Not until things settle right in his head. And so he lies there, relaxed and limp, just sort of letting the medication do its work and float him like he’s on a gentle sea. He won’t push himself to remember, because that never turns out well. The best thing to do is wait. Breathe. Stay calm.

He lets his eyes finish their lazy scan of the room. There’s the television. So low in volume he can barely hear it. But he can see. The colors, the mouths moving on the screen. Some older film, or show, domestic and trivial. Further to the right Ford notices a few chairs, a desk or table on wheels with a small pile of dirty dishes on it, and what he can only assume is a small hallway leading to a bathroom and to a door, likely exiting out into a hospital hallway. Typical layout. Nothing fancy. Nothing dangerous.

Ford’s gaze finally wanders to the full right side of his bed, blinking in surprise as he realizes he’s not alone.

A man, slumped in a chair with his head thrown back against the wall as he drooled in his sleep. Soft snores, breathy and rhythmic, garble from his throat, and Ford finds himself staring, struggling through the fog.

Twin.

Brother.

Stanley.

It clicks in place, dragging a sigh of strained relief from Ford’s throat that somehow sounds more like a sob. Because, with the remembrance of his sibling comes a flood of other memories and emotions, all sliding in too fast to process, overwhelming and yet very, very welcome. Ford remembers the conference, Stan’s odd behavior, and visiting the children and their parents. He remembers arguments and fears, of Stan’s disappearance and then finding his brother in the act of running for his life. And Ford remembers the car chase, the crash, and…

Ah. That’s right.

Alistair.

Betrayal is a stinging wound that Ford is all too familiar with. It opens up in his chest, bitter and sad as he wonders why he always falls for ‘friends’ who only mean to hurt him. First Bill, and now Alistair Brewster. Sometimes it feels as though his back is painted with a giant target, asking to be shot at, a prize to be won only to be torn down. A deep, forlorn part of him thinks he deserves it. A smaller, slowly healing piece of him is learning that isn’t true. It’s something he’s…still working on.

His pulse must have raised at some point, because the monitor at his side starts beeping at a slightly faster and higher rate. The increase is small, barely noticeable, but it is apparently enough to drag Stanley straight from a deep—and probably much needed—sleep.

“Wha-What?!” Stan comes up flailing, hands gripping the chair arms as he levels himself into a proper sit. “Uh-hm-ngh?!”

Ford can’t help but smile, fond and incredibly relieved. He opens his mouth to speak, and succeeds, though he’s surprised by how weak and scratchy his voice is.

“E-Eloquent as e-eh-ever.”

Stan’s eyes snap to his, wide and achingly hopeful. “…Ford?”

“Nnh…last I ch-checked…”

“Ford!”

Stan lurches up from his chair, eager and so, so happy—but then he winces, staggering a little, and his face goes worryingly pale. He ends up falling forward to brace himself against the hospital bed, arms shaking slightly. His breaths are measured and careful, like he’s riding out a sharp pain.

“S-Stanley?”

“Juuuust a sec—”

“A-Are you—”

“G-Give—Give me a minute, ‘k, Sixer?”

Ford frowns, but complies with a small nod. He waits until Stan stops shaking, until his twin gives a tight sigh and finally stands up a bit straighter again, though Ford notes Stan raises an arm to cradle around his middle. Only then does he voice his concern.

“Y-you…alright?”

Stan huffs, rueful but regaining color. “Yup. Just…Heh. Broken ribs suck.”

Ah. That would explain Stan’s reaction to standing so quickly.

“How…bad?”

“Eh, nothing too drastic,” Stan dismisses with a flap of his hand. “Besides, I’m not the one in a hospital bed right now. How you feeling, buddy?”

“Mmm…Fuzzy,” Ford answers honestly. The technical term, if one exists, escapes him. “M-Medication?”

“Yeah. The good stuff, too. Though I think they turned off the juice about an hour ago. S’about time you woke up.”

Ford frowns again, still fighting through the haze. Though Stan is right, it does seem to be clearing, if very, very slowly. “H-How long?”

“Ya mean, how long you been out?” Stan winces. “Uh. Well. Almost three days.”

“Three days?!” The very idea frightens Ford a little. His exclamation comes out in a high squeak, another result of his apparently ravaged throat. “Th-Three earth days?!”

“Now, hold on, don’t get all worked up,” Stanley is quick to sooth, flashing a nervous look toward the heart monitor. He’s reached out and taken hold of Ford’s free hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “We gotta keep you calm, okay? Doctor’s orders. And yes, you weirdo, earth days. Jeez, keep talking like that and they’ll hall you down to the psych ward.”

Ford’s distress is very short-lived, that exhaustion returning, draining any upset away before it can really settle. Must be sedatives in the IV as well, in addition to whatever pain medication they’d had him on. He breathes until the panic fades away and his muscles relax back into the bed, leaving him drained and mildly irritable.

“D-Doctor’s…orders?” he croaks.

Stan rubs the back of his neck. “Uh. Heh, yeah. See, um…whatever Alistair did to you, it sort of…messed with a pre-existing condition we didn’t really know about.”

Ford raises a tired brow. “Wha’s it?” he slurs in question.

Stan looks nervous again. “Uuuuh, maybe this should wait until after you’re feeling better.”

“Stanley—”

“I don’t want you getting upset or something!” Stan defends.

Ford huffs. “N-Not knowing is upsetting m-me more,” he says simply.

Stan sighs. He sits back down in his chair, carefully this time. He stares down at his feet, thinking for a long time before he finally speaks.

“The doc says they tortured you with electricity. In addition to…I dunno. Other stuff. Beating you up. Drugging you. The works. He says it put a strain on your heart. Repeated shock’ll do that, I guess. But he also said that it’s happened before. And…there’s really only one guy I can think of who’d do something like that to you.”

Stan falls silent, and doesn’t look up. Which is fine by Ford because, at the moment, he’s regretting making Stan tell him at all. The name hangs silent between them, the dead demon that keeps haunting them even long after he’s gone. Ford never really talks about the extent of Bill Cipher’s cruelty. Of how he treated Ford, both during the early days and that awful period during Weirdmageddon. He doesn’t like to think about it.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan finally asks, soft and sad.

Ford finds himself shrugging, gaze fixed to the corner by the window. “Couldn’t,” is all he says, and hopes Stan will accept that. It’s their own special code for something being ‘too much’ to talk about. At least just yet.

Stan gives a low grumble, but doesn’t push. “Well, anyway…Doc says there’s nothing to really worry about too much. Your heart’s kinda bruised and weak, but it’s getting stronger. Nurses say it’s a miracle. I say it’s those creepy alien vitamins you still take. Normal human heart would have given out.”

Ford winces. “A-Anything to watch out for?”

“Besides staying chill for a week or so? No, not really. Scared the hell out of me though.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Yeah,” Stan says, just as tired as Ford. “Me too.”

They fall into an uneasy silence, strained with too many words needing to be said and neither one of them knowing where to start. The sunlight looks pretty now, streaming into the room, now that Ford’s eyes have fully adjusted to everything. The view outside says they’re somewhere in Piedmont, most likely the General Hospital. That’s a long way from Fresno. Even further when you can’t remember how you got from one place to another.

Stan, as usual, is the first to break the quiet. “Good news, though. We don’t gotta worry about Alistair or Rico ever again.”

“Oh?” Ford asks, for a lack of anything else to say. He looks to Stanley, just a little apprehensive.

Stan nods. “Rico will be heading to a state penitentiary once he’s recovered from, ya know, being shot. Not sure if you remember that or not. Alistair pulled a fast one on him.”

Ford nods slowly. “I vaguely recall something happening, but it’s…very hazy.”

“I’ll bet.” Stan sighs. “Alistair needed some patching up once I was through with him. Once he’s released he’ll be taking a ride too, to the nearest jail. I’m told both of those jerks’ll be put away for a long time. Long enough we don’t gotta worry.”

“Good. That’s…good.” Ford hesitates. “Stanley, after you pulled me from the trunk…I…You were…” He huffs, frustrated, before looking to his twin. “What happened?”

“Ya sure you want to know?” At Ford’s flat stare, Stanley chuckles. “Alright then. But let’s back up the train a little, and start on when we last saw each other…”

Stan launches into a carefully edited version of events, stretching from the first car accident to Ford’s rescue, and on to the fight with Alistair. Ford listens with rapt attention, his mind continuing to clear the longer his veins are off the pain medication. The sedatives are keeping him calm and at ease, but still Stan is noticeably careful, trying to keep their conversation moderately light despite the topic.

“—and then I woke up here,” he finishes. “Wasn’t in too bad a shape. Some nasty ribs and a punctured lung, plus all the dumb aches and pains from our wipe out on the roadway. Still, not bad considering. All it took was a little surgery, and I’m told I gotta give myself six to seven months to recover fully. Give me a few of those weird pills of yours and I bet we can half that.”

Ford nods slowly, soaking in the narrative. He felt slightly sickened by what Alistair had tried to do, how the man had been willing to kill Stan in an effort to have Ford all to himself, but…It’s over, he reminds himself. Alistair will be behind bars, likely for the remainder of his life. And that is an immense relief.

They sit and talk for a bit, about less troubling things. Stanley explains that Royland, Caroline, and the children are currently back at home, safe from any dangers that may have plagued them during this whole mess. They’d visited, multiple times, to see how Stan and Ford were getting along, and had apparently invited them both to stay at their house until they were well enough to sail again. Both men are looking forward to that, and try not to feel as though their life mission at sea is being delayed. But after everything that has happened, a longer respite is actually very much appreciated.

Eventually, a nurse comes in. She’s a petite young woman with a small waist and auburn hair pulled tight in a bun. She fusses around Ford for a bit, checking his vitals and asking a few questions, and Ford, for once, doesn’t put up much of a fight. He answers back in a tired, raspy voice and offers his arm when the woman asks if she can take his pulse and blood pressure. She jokes around with Stan, showing that his brother has already tried pouring on the charm and that she—her name is Maddy—doesn’t seem to mind. It brings another layer of life back to Stanford’s soul.

The nurse’s attention also provides Ford with a proper diagnosis of his overall condition. He apparently had a few cracked or bruised ribs himself, as well as a concussion, both a result of that first car wreck before he’d ended up in Alistair’s hands. The rest of his injuries, gained while under Brewster Manor, were all relatively superficial: burns, bruises, cuts, and chaffing around his wrists. His heart could have been an issue, but as Stan had already said, all it needed was a bit of rest and it’d be fine. Probably.

Maddy finishes up, giving both men a parting smile before leaving them to their own devices. The more pleasant conversation of before having been interupted, the following quiet is a bit more tense and awkward. They sit there, floundering for what to say next, and it stretches on for a bit with neither quite meeting the other’s gaze.

Finally, Stanley can’t take it anymore. “Hey, Ford—”

“Don’t.” Because, in the split second Stan opened his mouth, Ford already knows what he’s going to say, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

Stanley, as usual, doesn’t care. “Ford, I’m sorry.”

Ford sighs and runs a hand through his hair, or what’s available around the bandages due to his concussion. He trails the hand down the side of his face then lets it drop to his lap, the turns and gives Stan a mostly lucid and very contemplating look.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says simply.

Stanley laughs, a small, unsteadily sound. “Sure it isn’t. And pigs can fly.”

Ford frowns. “Stanley.”

“Ford. Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m serious. You shouldn’t feel responsible—"

Stan throws his hands in the air, agitated. “Well, how am I supposed to feel, Sixer?! I put you and our family in danger. You got messed up, could have died—How is that not my fault?!”

He collapses, slumped back in his chair as he covers his eyes with a shaky palm. “None of this would have even happened if I hadn’t lived such a criminally shameful life.”

A life he hadn’t even remembered until the last week. Honestly, Stanley was always far too hard on himself. Ford winces internally when he realizes he’s largely to blame for that. And it fuels him and provides Ford with the words to say.

“Mm. Funny, one might say it was my fault.”

Stan drops his hand to his lap, giving Ford a look that said he isn’t in the mood for false platitudes. Good thing Ford has more than that to offer.

“If I had done something to stop Pa from kicking you out that night, all those years ago, then you never would have been forced to live that life.” Ford smirks, pained. “You see? Blame can be found for all of us if we choose to look for it and take it on.”

Stan grunts, slumping further, grumpy. “Yeah, well, I’m not the one laying in a hospital bed with a concussion and a heart on the fritz. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes.”

“Says the man who literally gave up everything he had to help atone my own shortcomings.”

Stan’s gaze snaps back up to Ford’s, stunned, before his eyes narrow. “That’s—”

Ford doesn’t let his brother interupt. “You spent thirty years working to bring me back from the portal. You paid for my mortgage, and kept an eye on our family. You ran a successful business. And, when it came down to facing Bill, you ended the pact I’d made with him years before, at the cost of what, in a sense, was your very life. Do you really think I wouldn’t do the same for you, given the chance?”

“I…It’s not the same,” Stan insists, though it’s weak.

“Not exactly,” Ford compromises, “but close enough. We’ve both made some bad choices in life. But we’re here for each other, to help get back out of it again. So this?” Ford gestures to his battered body. “This is a small price to pay for ensuring we can continue on together, free of the mistakes that hunt us.”

Stan looks away, silent for a long time. Then he huffs, eyes wet but a rueful smile on his face as he shakes his head. “…That morphine really did a number on ya. You sound like a freaking poet.”

“I am heavily drugged, yes,” Ford deadpans. His expression softens and he says, “What happened wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what would happen, and even if you had, if we both had known, it still would have been my decision to go after you. Because you’re my brother, my twin. Where we go, we go together.”

“You are such a sap.”

Ford doesn’t even try to deny it. “And besides, if you consider that Alistair was the mastermind behind all of that drama…then one could argue that it was all my fault.”

“You do and I’ll chuck your next pudding cup out the window.” It’s said with far too much affection to be a true threat. Made even less intimidating by the fact that Stan is very visible holding back tears.

Ford smiles fondly, and lifts up his pale hand, IV and all, and spreads his fingers.

“High six?”

Stan releases a wet laugh, then reaches up himself, clasping his fingers to Ford’s, entwining.

“High six.”

Stan and Ford end up staying with Dipper, Mabel, and their parents for the total of three months, long enough for Ford’s burns to fade and his heart to fully recover. Stan, too, gains strength and health at a steady pace, his ribs setting perfectly and concussion a thing of the past. They stay through the rest of the winter, spending Christmas, which ends up being the very thing they needed, and enjoying their time on land immensely.

Another reason they stay so long is to work out everything in regard to the law. Stan, himself, had racked up a few charges, all of which Sergeant Willis was able to get waived for him, seeing as the situation had been so dire. There was also some investigation into Stan’s association with Rico that had the whole family on edge, but, again, the sergeant came through for them and got things settled. Everyone involved gave their statements regarding Alistair’s crimes, and Rico and him were indited, sentenced to a lifetime in prison.

The incident with Alistair and Rico had left its scars on those left behind in the aftermath, and not all of them physical. Both Stan and Ford suffered from nightmares for the following several weeks, but those were met with patience and compassion from their twin. Soon, even that soothed away. With Caroline’s fine cooking and Mabel’s assortment of colorfully themed band aids both brothers felt their strength and peace of mind return with the typical Pines resilience.

It’s early march when they finally feel the urge to depart, fully healed and itching for the next adventure. Roy volunteers to drive the brothers back to the coast, and before Stan and Ford know it they’ve inspired a full on family trip. They all pile into Roy’s new car—a bit of a squeeze but with Dipper and Mabel sharing a seat belt—but they all fit fine enough. The drive to the shore is filled with a million laughs and badly song karaoke, heartfelt talks and bad dad jokes that have Stan and Roy roaring with laughter. Mabel takes so many pictures she probably has enough material for a whole new scrapbook.

Before they know it, they’re on the docks, the Stan O’War II already signed out and ready to be boarded.

It’s then Stan and Ford once again find themselves faced with a difficult but familiar situation.

The older twins stand side by side on the wharf, hearts and stomachs full, the warm sun on their shoulders and the small clutter of family gathered opposite them. Seagulls shrill overhead, and the salty air is pleasant and inviting.

Stan rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixed to the dock. “Ugh. I hate goodbyes.” Ford grunts in agreement at his side. “But I guess it’s necessary. Gotta say goodbye for now so we can say hello again later. Right, Pumpkin?”

Mabel nods, throat tight and eyes moist as she fidgets with her hair. She’s got it twisted into a braid—a new but good look for her. She chokes back a sob before lurching forward, closing the distance to wrap her arms around Stan’s chest.

“We’re gonna miss you,” she sniffs, face buried in yet another new sweater she’d made for him. “We’re gonna miss you so much.”

And wasn’t that just a terrible way to break an old man’s heart. Stan’s shoulders slump slightly, his hands resting on the weeping girl’s back and sending Ford a forlorn look before he gently pulls her away from his chest. He holds her at arms length and gets down on one knee, looking up to meet her gaze with his own, smiling gently.

“Two old fuddy-duddies like us?”

“You may be ‘old fuddy-duddies’,” Dipper warbles, trying to be brave, “but you’re our old fuddy-duddies. So…take care?”

“And try not to get into any more crime boss wars,” Mabel adds sagely.

Stan grins fondly, tousling Mabel’s soft, brown hair. “We’ll try our best.”

Ford nods, setting down his carry bag on the dock. “Trouble seems to find us, so I think it best to not make any promises. But rest assured we will be there for each other and make it through.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Caroline says warmly, before capturing Ford in a gentle embrace.

Ford stiffens, as he usually does, before melting into the hug, returning it firmly. Caroline gives Stan a similar treatment, then Roy and Dipper move in for their fair share. It’s a bittersweet few moments, but the boys promise to visit again soon, next time they’re in the areas.

And then it’s time to board the boat and cast off, their endearing family a huddled clump of smiles and waves on the dock that gets smaller and smaller until the shore altogether falls out of sight. Then it’s just Stan, Ford, and the endless plain of water stretching out in all directions, familiar and beautiful. Peaceful.

“…You alright?”

Stan, leaning against the rail and still watching in the direction of shore, looks over as Ford moves to join him, two cups of warm coffee in hand and a soft look of understanding in his eyes. It’s a fair question. They’d both gotten rather used to having the kids and their parents around. The sudden quiet is jarring, almost painful even as it is also a relief to get back to.

Stan considers, thinking back on everything that’s gone down since they’d last sailed. Everything with Rico and Alistair, recovering from their injuries, and having to say goodbye again to those they love. But good had come of this whole adventure as well. Stan had regained his memories, all of them. And, for perhaps the first time in three years, he feels whole.

It doesn’t mean it’s not still a burden. That it’s all rainbows and kittens. But it’s a start. And Ford knows it’s been hard; it’s been hard on them both. Which is why Stan decides not to lie as he answers.

“Not…completely.” He side eyes his brother, smiling softly. “But I will be.”

Ford returns the smile, handing Stan his coffee. “I’ve gotten a reading on an anomaly up north, just inland of Togiak. With luck, we’ll moor in around seventy-three hours from now.”

“Nice. What we on the trail of this time?”

“I’m glad you ask. This one is fascinating, though it may prove to be a bit of a challenge. If my calculations and research are correct, which they usually are, we should be able to locate a beast of Viking legend…"

Ford prattles off into a long-winded and very enthusiastic info-dump, and Stan listens, in his own way, smiling while sipping his warm beverage. He gazes out over the waters before them, the chill spring wind rustling his hair and clothes. The rocking of the boat is soothing, and the prospect of adventure crackles like static in his soul. Everything feels good and right in the world.

Stan takes a slow, long breath in, his healed ribs and longs not even twinging, then lets it back out in a happy, shuddering exhale.

He’s home.

THE END