Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley lay on the sofa, with absolutely no idea what to do now. He held his brother’s glasses, the ones that fell on the floor in the lab just that morning. He could still hear Ford screaming his name as he reached for a hand that was too far away.

He knew that, realistically, he should be doing something . Like, finding food. 

But that would require walking around this cabin. Walking around the cabin of his brother, who had clearly lost his mind, and had essentially just died.

(He knew, deep down, that his brother wasn’t dead. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. All he needed to do was to get that portal to work. Somehow.)

There was a TV opposite the sofa. Stan couldn't help but stare at it, his mind empty. (He had gotten really good at emptying his mind on command).

He had to move at some point, though.

Stan finally forced himself to sit up, with a considerable amount of effort. He paused before standing up. It wouldn’t do any good for him to pass out because he stood up too fast. 

The TV, while dusty, had less dust than most of the other furniture he had seen in the cabin. The power switch was clearly well used. 

This was rather strange to Stan, remembering his brother never enjoyed television all that much, and knowing almost for certain that Ford was not one to waste valuable research and studying time.

Then again, it has been 10 years since then. People change.

(Stan certainly has.)

The screen lit up, still tuned to the last channel. The glow brightened the room considerably. Stan’s eyes flickered to the clock directly above the TV. 

8:55 PM.

Is it seriously already night time? Stan had arrived at the cabin roughly around 10 AM. He knew he could spend a lot of time staring into space, but certainly not that long, right?

The theme song for the 9pm show began playing, and Stan returned his attention to the screen.

M*A*S*H.

Better than silence.

Chapter Text

The trick to faking your own death is, essentially, tricking the news (although, it was a significant help that he was in Gravity Falls, Oregon; a state he wasn’t wanted in, and a town that was strangely overlooked by even the US government).

He found his in at the local church. Hanging around shady places clued Stan in on the fact that priests were far from moral, and would do things for you in exchange for ahem things that were considered sinful in their religion.

With a relatively easily obtained death certificate, and a body acquired similarly from the local morgue, he could be announced dead in the papers from a car accident, while the man whose body he had borrowed had simply disappeared.

Stanley couldn’t stop thinking about that show. About the war general in that first episode he watched, whose son died as a result of the war he was keeping alive. Stan thought about it as he crashed the junk car into the tree, and made sure his true name was able to be found on the body he placed in the driver's seat. He thought about his dad receiving the news that Stanley Pines had died, and wondered if Filbrick would regret his actions from ten years ago, just like that general in the show. He wondered if Pa had ever even cried in his life, much less over the son he kicked out of his home.

Stan couldn’t help but leave the television on while he worked. Over the course of the past two weeks. He had much to do: get enough money for food so that he could clean the house and fake his own death without actually dying of starvation in the process.

Naturally, a cabin in the woods, ten miles outside town, during a snowstorm, was an awfully quiet place. Stan never did well with silence. Thankfully, that show, M*A*S*H, was playing constantly on the local CBS channel. 

The show was nearly over, as well. Advertisements for the final episode began playing at a frequent rate, though it wasn’t for a few weeks yet.

The characters and stories began to worm their way into his brain, as something to look forward to. It’s not like he had much else.

Chapter Text

The only thing Stan can think as this week's episode plays is, “This hits too close to home.”

It was always something he pushed into the deepest corners of his brain, but Stan remembers, with painful accuracy, the first time he killed someone. He remembers the alleyway, and its specific, horrible smell, and the amount of blood that came from the man’s mouth and nose. He can still feel the recoil of that gunshot on the palm of his hand 6 years later. The memory brings adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he notices that he’s breathing harder than he really should be.

He had known the guy, too. And the worst part, by far, is that it had been a mercy killing. The only other option had been the hospital, and he knew, from experience, that being homeless and being told you were going to the hospital, made your brain go haywire. The man was having enough of that already. He couldn’t bear to make it worse for him. Stan knew what he, himself, would want in that situation.

The plot of this episode was quite different. But the feeling was the same. Seeing someone that had shown you kindness die by your hand, right before your eyes.

It's something you never forget.

Chapter Text

Stan had been pretty sure that he would be burying an empty box tomorrow. He had arranged the whole thing with the Valentino’s, who were strangely sad that no one had actually died, and, disconcertingly not at all fussed about a fake funeral and grave. 

To Stan, though, it was practically a godsend. He would be able to put an empty wooden box in the ground with a little metal plaque marking his name with very little fuss. At least, that was the plan.

Stanley left the television playing the next program, though all he could think about was the idea of creating a time capsule, like they did in the most recently aired episode of M*A*S*H.

Stan was never the most overly poetic or sentimental guy. This wasn’t typically the kind of thing he would go for. (The picture of him and Ford he kept in his car didn’t count.)

But, before he knew it, Stan was up and about, almost feverishly gathering things he thought significant, things that were going into either storage or the dumpster.

Ford had so many things from their childhood that Stan had (intentionally) forgotten about.

Stanley’s comics (Ford had kept them).

A stack of photos definitely taken by their mother (which Stan hasn't built the courage to look at).

Mr. Sock (one of their best inside jokes for years).

A copy of The Hobbit , (which their mother read to them almost every night as kids).

It wasn’t much, but the coffin he’d be burying tomorrow wouldn’t be empty. If Stan ever got the portal to work, he and Ford could dig up the grave.

(He knew he would never get it working. He just never wanted to see those things again.)