Work Text:
“And then Ducktective realizes he's… dun-dun-dun… a wereduck!”
Mabel holds her hands out in a “horror story-telling” fashion, fingers wiggling at her Grunkle Stan. “And that's the end of chapter four!”
Following the events of Weirdmaggedon, and honestly just the whole summer in general, Mabel and Dipper had been visiting Gravity Falls a lot more, wanting to spend as much time with their grunkles as possible before they leave on the Stan-’O-War 2 (so creatively named by Grunkle Ford) for their little Arctic adventure.
And so, here Mabel is on a cool, November afternoon with her (definitely totally not favorite but also definitely favorite sorry Grunkle Ford) Grunkle Stan, talking to him about Ducktective fanfiction while her brother and Ford are out studying some new anomaly out in the woods.
And if she's trying today, just like every time she talks with him, to see how Stan’s memory is doing? Well, that's not exactly a crime, now, is it?
Stanley grins at her, affectionately patting her head. “You sure got a lotta this story planned out, don’cha, Pumpkin?”
“Of course! I started right after we binged all the existing episodes,” she giddily explains, showing him her disjointed notes, written in frantic handwriting in a pink, sparkly journal with several stickers on the cover, recently devoid of any unicorns. The assholes. “Besides, it's been quieter these past few weeks, so I've had more time to perfect it and remove any plot holes or problems.”
Stan chuckles at that, resting his head in his hand, adjusting his elbow just a bit so he's comfortable on the wooden kitchen table. “Well, I wouldn't say any problems. There is something missing, I think.”
The teen girl’s eyes widen, mouth opening to do the same, newly braceless teeth showing. Stan fights not to crack a smile. “There is? Oh, no, what did I forget? A song for them to sing? Some part of the twin's redemption? I have something really good planned for that, you see—”
“Nah, nah.” He waves a hand, finally letting his lips upturn. “I'm talking about the uncle you mentioned a few chapters back. Where'd he go? He deserves a bigger part, if I can say so myself.” He brings a finger to his own chest, chuckling in his signature gravelly tone.
Mabel stares at him for a second, and maybe a second too long, cuz Stan starts to wonder if maybe his joke didn't land, or if he overstepped, or—
“Oh!” His fears melt away at her bright, sunny smile. God, he'd kill for this kid. “No, Grunkle Stan, I didn't forget about him! He'll have a real important part in a few chapters! But first, you see, when…”
She starts up on her story again, now doodling on the blank parts of her notes for visuals to show Stan. He watches diligently, nodding and asking questions when appropriate, letting her get it all off her mind.
Except…
Then she—who…?—brings up an old plot point, something about an uncle, and she seems to be especially keen on his reaction to it, with how her eyes sparkle as she looks up at him. He tilts his head at her, trying to remember when she’d brought it up before. “I, uh—e-explain it again, kiddo? Might've zoned out a little.”
He watches the girl's—Mal…Mallory? No. Maple? M…—face. Just for a second, not even, he catches her expression falling. But just as quickly, she's back to her peppy self, flipping back a few pages. “The uncle is based off of… real life events, Grunkle Stan!”
(is that his name? what a funny word. “grunkle.”)
“He's not super present for most of the story, but he’s really important. He saves Ducktective from the werewolf that turned him in the first place!”
Her smile fades a little, and she looks back at her notes. “He… he sacrifices everything. For Ducktective.”
Stan stares at her, watches for a second when he sees a wet droplet land on her notes, blurring a doodle of what he assumes is the uncle.
“Oh, Pumpkin.” The familiar unfamiliar nickname rolls easily off his tongue as he opens his arms for her. Hesitantly, she climbs down from her chair and settles up into his lap, letting him wrap his large arms around her small frame and leaning her cheek on his chest, her curly hair tickling his neck slightly. “Maybe you should modify yer story a little. Seems unsatisfying.”
The girl happily eats her cereal, basically using him as a booster seat as he grumbles half-heartedly about respecting your elders, pointedly ignoring the boy—Dipper—and his teasing snickers—
The girl sits on his lap as they watch Ducktective, bouncing excitedly when one of her favorite scenes shows up—
He holds the girl to his chest as she cries, begging him to return to her, to remember—
Mabel. His grandniece.
“From my experience? Not that the uncle is based on anyone we know personally, of course,” he amends, powering through the memories flooding his brain, trying to reassure her first, “but I think the uncle will be able to come back from it. It may be rocky, but…” A calloused finger on her chin prompts her to look up at him, the same hand brushing her hair out of her mouth and wiping a tear from her cheek; a familiar gesture, he realizes somewhat sadly. He lets a small smile grace his wrinkly face. “He should be alright eventually. Ain't that a much nicer ending?”
She smiles up at him, the sleeve of her oversized sweater coming up to wipe another stray tear from her eye. “Y-Yeah.” She sniffles, then reaches forward to grab her notes, using the new angle to her advantage to let Stan see closer. “Besides, it is my story. I can do what I want with it!”
“Atta way to think!” Stan's mind at least supplies him with the entirety of what she'd shown him thus far, and he grins down at her. “Now, let's see about giving this uncle guy some cool superpowers or somethin’.”
(when she finishes her story, and he's given her a thorough review with some small critiques, he excuses himself into the Shack. he grabs some aspirin from the bathroom, swallows them dry, and takes exactly one minute—no more, no less—to hold his pounding head and let exactly two pained tears leak from his eyes. then he takes a deep breath, and heads back outside to discuss more ideas with his great-niece.)
He awakens to the sound of a door closing. He shoots up, and the first thing he notices is that he's cold. He gives no indication of this, however, instead jumping into a defensive position, grasping in his—jacket? Where's his jacket, where's his knife—
“Whoa!” The exclamation of a child, no older than thirteen, startles him to turn. The kid has on some sort of lumberjack hat, and he can't be taller than 4’9”. He's wearing a coat, way too big for his frame, his nose already red from the cold. “Grunkle Stan, it's okay!”
The man doesn't answer him, staring at him warily before looking around. Why is he in the woods? Last he knew, he'd been in Chicago; no woods around for miles. The—couch?—he’d slept on before is sitting on a porch, worn and ripped. The house connected to the porch is… pretty big, all things considered. Something tingles in the back of his mind as he reads the sign attached to the building—”Mystery Shack” has a nice ring to it—but he doesn't let it distract him, instead looking towards the boy. “Where the hell am I?”
“Where—Oh.” Understanding seems to dawn on the kid, which irritates Stan more, because how come this child is more aware of the situation than he is? “What's the last thing you remember?”
“Don't start that, kid, I asked you a question.” He steps towards the teen, who tilts his head, not seeming to perceive him as a threat. Odd. Stan has been told several times he has a threatening demeanor. He'd never known whether to take that as a compliment or not.
“Well, I need to know what you last remember to answer that.” Stan blinks, and the younger one sighs. “I'm not trying to be difficult. You'll understand in a sec.”
“...Chicago. I was in a bar.” Something about this kid makes him hesitant to give out that information, an almost protective feeling surging through him. Definitely strange. “Must've blacked out.”
The teen scratches his head under his hat, sighing. “Age?”
“Now, hold on—”
“Please.”
Stan’s finger twitches. “Twenty-four.”
“Okay, a while back. That's fine.” Stan bites his tongue, still waiting on the answer to his previous question before asking another one, and lets the child talk. “Wanna…Wanna come inside? We have… juice? Soda? I don't know what you like.” He seems sheepish, as if this is something he should know about a complete stranger.
(they're strangers, right?)
(...)
(yeah. he'd remember this kid, he thinks, silently noting the hints of a strange birthmark on his forehead.)
Stan doesn't answer the question, instead crossing his arms and raising a brow. “If you think I'm gonna follow some random kid into a shady house, you're sorely mistaken. I may not be the smartest, but I ain't no idiot.”
The teen sighs again. “C'mon, Gr—man. You really think I'm a bad guy?”
Images flash behind Stanley's eyes, and he grasps his head with a groan. “You… huh—?”
“Look into my eyes, Mabel. You really think I'm a bad guy?”
A flash of blue. Tears. The phantom pain of someone slamming into him. Of his back slamming into something else.
The portal.
Memories flow into his mind in waves, and he groans again, rubbing his eyes as he falls to a knee.
A startled cry from Dipper(!) causes him to look up, seeing the familiar child at his eye level, small hands hesitating to help him up in fear of… something.
“Eugh. Hey, kiddo, what's goin’ on?” He plants on a smile, ignoring the pounding of his head as he gets his knee out of the cold snow.
Dipper reaches over to dust the snow off his grunkle’s knee, shrugging the oversized coat off his shoulders and offering it to him. “Wanted to make sure you were alright. You've been a bit out of it today. Are…” The teen hesitates, wringing the sleeve of his sweater (and isn’t that just so familiar?). “Are you alright?”
Stan puts the coat on, planting a grin on his half-frozen face. “‘Course, kid. Why wouldn't I be? Li’l memory lapse never h-hurt anyone.” His teeth chatter around his words, and he uses the coat to cover the lower half of his face, attempting to warm himself. “Let’s get inside, though. Could use some hot chocolate.”
Dipper doesn't answer, looking at Stan with an expression he can't quite place.
“...What? I got something on my face?”
“Nah. C'mon, hot chocolate sounds good.”
Stan just nods, looking to the side as he tightens his coat again and follows his great-nephew into the Shack.
(he nurses his hot cocoa and does his best to ignore the splitting headache. Dipper silently hands him some aspirin, earning a small, pained smile from Stan. the teen doesn't speak as they drink, letting his grunkle collect himself.)
The world around him tips subtly, back and forth. Something in his mind tells him this is normal, that he's gotten used to this, but he can't quite grasp why.
He opens his eyes, his vision blurry with sleep. The first thing he registers is the faint red glow of a digital clock, though he can't make out the numbers displayed. He shifts his arm, realizing his head is pillowed on the forearm instead of the light blue, fluffy-looking pillow just inches from his face. He squints in irritation, shifting to rectify that.
He ends up on his back, staring up at the grainy, blurry wood above him. A bunk bed? Strange.
He doesn't have it in him to panic at the unfamiliar surroundings, a hand coming up to scratch at his chest. He burrows himself back into his blanket, eyelids already drooping.
It's lighter in the room when he wakes up again. A groan reaches his lips, startling him when it escapes the confines of his throat.
He moves to shift his leg, but a (familiar?) weight bars him from doing so. He lifts his head just enough to blink past blurry vision and see another man laying at the foot of his bunk, his lower body hung off the edge as he snores silently.
See, this is the part where he panics.
A startled yelp tears its way through him as he sits up with far too much speed for someone with as many aches as he apparently has. This earns him a splitting headache that sprouts the second he smacks his head against the wood above him.
It apparently also earns him a gun to his fucking skull.
The man is across the bed within half a half a second, some sort of… high-tech looking blaster aimed directly at his left temple, finger shaking next to the trigger. The man's face is inches from his, painting the first clear pictures he's been able to see this whole morning.
His only instinct is to freeze when he registers the gun, not a single muscle moving even as his brain screams at him to runhidegetawaygonow.
A strange noise comes from the other man's mouth, connected to a familiar voice that almost makes him relax. Which is fucking insane. Why would he relax when a gun is pointed to his head?
A different strange noise, except this one is angrier, almost like the man is trying to speak to him. A different language perhaps? All he knows is it's not English, Spanish, or Yiddish.
How does he know three fucking languages?
The man's pupils are like pinpricks, dark grey hair disheveled and lip curled back into a snarl as he stares intently at him. His breathing is heavy, but it shakes, almost like he's afraid.
“Ford.”
The name slips past his lips without a thought. Funny that he’d remember this guy's name—the guy who is actively shoving a blaster into his hair—before his own.
The man’s eyes widen just the smallest bit. The gun shakes in his—Ford’s grip, and he swallows, hoping against hope that the trigger doesn't get pulled.
“Ford. Wake up.”
Again, he speaks without thinking. It feels strange to tell a man who seems hyper-alert of everything going on to wake up, and he curses himself. He should keep quiet, shouldn't startle Ford any more than he obviously already is.
Ford's adam's apple bobs as he stares at him with a new emotion. Confusion, maybe?
His mouth moves on its own again. “Stanford, wake the hell up.”
The gun is dropped next to him, powering down the moment it's out of Stanford's grip. He releases a shuddering breath, eyes intently staring at Ford as the man leans back and his hand comes up to his own hair, running through it and messing up the curly, grey locs more, somehow.
“S-Stanley, I—”
So that's his name.
Stanley doesn't move still, staring at the familiarly unfamiliar man.
Stanford stares back, and Stanley can practically see the gears turning in his head. He wonders if his own expression matches.
(oh, wait. they look pretty similar, don't they?)
(they're twins, aren't they?)
“Do you know where you are?” the man across the bed asks, and Stanley hesitantly shakes his head.
A string of curses that almost makes Stanley grin slips through Ford's mouth. “Fuck. Shit, I'm sorry, Stan, I just—you startled me, and—”
Stan just brings a hand up to rub his head, looking away from his twin. His vision is still blurry, which doesn't help the headache at all. “I want to go back to sleep,” he mutters, ignoring the sharp intake of breath this prompts from Ford.
“A-Are you sure? That doesn't usually help your—”
Stan pins him with what he hopes is a withering look despite the tremble in his hands. “When I wake up you can do whatever. But right now my head hurts, I can't see straight, and I'd like to get a few more minutes of sleep.” He doesn't wait for an answer, turning onto his side away from his twin, the blanket coming up to the top of his ear and restricting most of his vision.
There's no movement from the other party for a few seconds, and then, slowly, the weight on his bunk disappears, and near-silent footsteps leave the room.
Stan sighs, bringing the blanket back to his shoulder, and lets his eyes drift close again.
When he wakes up once again, he's able to remember that he's on a boat with his brother. He remembers he wears glasses, he remembers he's old, and he knows that his head is killing him.
So nothing new since he'd last gone to sleep.
A long-suffering groan leaves his mouth. He stares at the wall despondently, not willing to get up quite yet.
A knock on the door prompts him to roll over. The same guy from before—Ford, his mind supplies him a few seconds late—peeks in shyly, holding a cup and what look to be pills in his—six-fingered hand?
Sixer floats through Stan’s mind leisurely. It carries a negative feeling with it, so he doesn't voice the nickname.
“Hi,” he mumbles instead, sitting up slightly. He's careful not to bump his head this time, almost surprised when he doesn't have to hunch over to achieve that; he really was startled earlier.
“Hey. I noticed you hit your head earlier, so…” Stanford steps further in, grabbing a chair from near the wall and sitting across from Stan, putting the pills and water on the bedside table and then tapping his fingers on his thighs.
Stan just eyes him as he swallows the pills dry. Logically, he knows this is his brother. However, that, and the fact that he’d pointed a fucking gun at his head this morning, are the only facts he knows about this man. Not a great first impression, if you ask Stan.
He voices as much, and Ford flushes slightly, though his darkish complexion doesn't allow for it to very well show up. “M… My apologies, Stanley. I was startled awake, and… well, that's not much of an excuse, but it's at least a reason.”
Stanley watches as the man fumbles over his words, trying to explain himself. He chuckles to himself, a feel of comforting familiarity rushing through him at the sight. “I'm gonna withhold from responding for now,” he cuts in, “because I don't know why you would've done that in the first place, or even where you got it. Wanna tell me? Could help me remember, right?”
Ford cocks his head slightly, but nods. “I suppose so, yes. Talking tends to help jog your memory.”
And so, Stanford tells stories. He tells of a time in other dimensions—the multiverse, he called it. He tells of the M dimension, the Finger dimension. He tells of wars, he tells of deaths. He tells of friends, few and far in between, but held close to the heart.
Stanley listens, reacting when needed, and after a while, the stories start to sound familiar. He starts cutting in—”Like that embarrassing tattoo!” “...Yes, Stanley.”—and lets the memories flow back.
Ford shifts to stories in their own dimension. He describes their childhood, bittersweet but nostalgic nonetheless. (“Boxing was fun for you, at least. I never took well to it.”) He tells about a shack in the woods, way out in Oregon, hundreds of miles from their current position in the Arctic Ocean.
Stan blanches when he mentions Bill; fire, an icy blue, flashes behind his eyes. An all-seeing eye, a haunting, almost screeching laugh echoing in his ears.
“STAN -LEY!”
He reels back, as if dealt a physical blow, as memories of his time working on the portal, in the Mystery Shack, with Soos and Wendy, with the kids, flood through his mind. A rush of air escapes him, cutting off Ford's ramblings about eye bats.
“Shit.” Stan intakes a deep breath of air, letting it escape slower this time. “Shit,” he repeats, quieter.
“Are you quite alright, Stan?” his brother asks, tone gentle and eyes worried.
“Hah. Yeah, I'm good. You?”
Ford furrows his eyebrows, so Stan elaborates. “I startled you earlier.” He pointedly doesn't bring up the blaster, but Ford seems to remember instantly, a frown settling in his features.
“Ah. Yes, you did, but it was no fault of your own. Really, I didn't even mean to fall asleep on your bunk, I just—”
“Don't worry about it!” Stan waves an arm out, other hand rubbing at his face and then grabbing his glasses off the nightstand to place them on his large nose. “No one's fault. Don't worry.”
Ford grunts, which Stan takes as a win. They'd both been working on their self-esteem and self-blame issues since boarding the Stan O’ War II however many months ago, reassuring the other on multiple occasions until they were slowly becoming able to do it for themselves.
(they're still making progress though, Stan thinks, mind flashing to a meltdown he'd recently helped his brother out of when the scientist had gotten too deep into his bad thoughts.)
“You know what, though?” Stan pulls the covers off his legs, standing up and cracking his back with a groan. “I'm starving. Let's go see what we can whip up for brunch, yeah?”
“Are you sure? Usually after a lapse, you're a bit more… out of it, Stanley.” Ford stands up as well, but tugs on his turtleneck sleeve, another familiar nervous habit.
“Ah, don't worry. I'll just be sitting at the table, anyways.” Stan grabs his brother's wrist and drags him out of the room, pulling his hat off the door’s hook and placing it on his bed head, newly grown mullet sticking out of the red fabric messily.
Ford finds his brother later that day leaning on the railing on the deck, eyes tired and scanning the gentle waves that rock the ship sightly, a comforting movement that they've both grown used to.
Stan says nothing when Ford approaches, though the elder twin isn't sure if it's because he doesn't hear him or if he just doesn't have the energy to acknowledge him.
When Ford leans on the railing next to his brother, Stanley finally glances up at him. There's a spark of recognition in his heterochromic eyes.
They sit there quietly for nearly half an hour, neither willing to break the silence. Stanley is the first to even move, though it's only to rummage through his pocket. He comes up with a lighter and a box of cigarettes.
Ford watches in interest as his brother manages to grab the cigarette out of the box and light it, all with one hand. The other hand never leaves the railing, loose grip occasionally shifting.
Stan puts the cigarette in his mouth, then offers the box and lighter to his brother. Ford glances at the offered items, then mumbles a curse in Xorclagian under his breath and grabs them.
Stanley continues staring at the ocean, occasionally blowing out a puff of smoke. Once his brother hands the lighter and box back to him, he finally looks over at him. There's a deep sadness in his eyes. “I'm so sick of forgetting, Ford.”
Stanford's gaze softens.
“I know it's not as often as—as it could be, but,” Stan blows some smoke through his nose, “I hate forgetting you. I hate—I hate feelin’ unsafe around you.”
Ford blows out his own trail of smoke, watching it dissipate into the salty air. He stays silent.
“I try so hard to keep it all in my head. I'll be fine, sometimes. Goin’ about my merry day like any happy old man living out his childhood dream. It's great. And then I just—”
Stanley scratches his beard, longer now than it had been before they set sail. “It's just gone. Like it was never there. I'm not Stanley Pines anymore.”
Ford frowns.
“Heh. Sometimes I'm back to when I was Stanford Pines.”
They let that settle in the air around them. The waves crash, a seagull squawks.
“Or when I was Stetson Pinefield. Or Hal Forrestor. Or—” Stan cuts off when Ford's hand lands on his shoulder. His voice sounds close to cracking when he continues, but stubbornly does not. “It all just don't wanna stay in my head.”
“Through no fault of your own, you surely realize,” Ford finally says. A heavy cloud of smoke escapes his lips, mimicking the thoughts he refuses to voice; not right now.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Stan's demeanor says otherwise, but Stanford doesn't comment. A beat of silence, and then: “Sorry, still.”
“Don’t apologize,” is the immediate response, no thought needing to be put into it.
Stanley hums.
They stand there for another minute in silence, then the hand on Stan's shoulder shifts. Ford's arm wraps around his brother, pulling him to his side.
Stan spits his cigarette butt into the ocean, pressing his face just slightly into his twin’s(?) shoulder.
He blinks, and one second he's Stanley Pines, and the next he's just… there.
There's a very, very brief tensing of his shoulders at the realization, but the strong arm wrapped around him doesn't falter.
The ocean surrounds them, the water reflecting the slowly setting sun in the distance.
Overall, it's a nice scene.
That's why he doesn't panic when he realizes he has no idea who he is or why he's here, nor who has their arm wrapped around him. He feels… safe.
(why does that seem like such a strange concept to him?)
He turns his face just slightly further into the broad shoulder. He can worry about that stuff later.
Stanford's arm tightens around him. They both smile, watching the sun disappear over the horizon.