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“Alright kids, it’s been a long day and me and my brother have a lot to talk about. So why don’t you hit the hay, huh?”
Stanley Pines, for all his showmanship, couldn’t help but scowl down at the twins who were fawning over his newly-returned long-lost brother. He couldn’t blame them, sure, but his heart certainly swelled with jealousy at the thought of them loving Ford, a complete stranger, more than they loved him. But hey, that wasn’t new, right? More like his entire life.
At the suggestion of sleeping though, they both turned, clearly wanting to do everything but go to sleep. Ford simply looked lost, the shock of dealing with adoring fans still not fully sinking in.
“But it- it’s the AUTHOR!” Dipper pointed back to Ford frantically, his young voice cracking, his pen clicking. Grunkle Stan rolled his eyes at the display. “I’ve been waiting so long to ask questions about-!”
“I said hit. The hay!” He took the kids by the shoulder not unkindly, giving them a gentle shove towards the Shack door. At this, they both obliged, heading inside with crestfallen faces. Soos, spectating, also decided that it would be a good time to vacate the premises, and went running off, dialing Wendy as he exited.
Stan let out a gravelly sigh, feeling his old bones aching. He turned around, really facing his brother for what must have been the first time in over 30 years. The memories from that moment hung fresh in his brain after recounting the story to the kids. He had worked so hard. Sacrificed so much. And now, here Stanford was, staring back at him, in the flesh, with a scowl that looked like it may not have been wiped from his face in the entire time since he’d seen him last. It had been so long… hell, he wouldn’t have believed it was really him if he hadn’t felt the punch to his face, the arms grappling him to the floor. He can’t help but wonder when Ford had found the time to get that strong. Then again, being stuck in a portal for 30 years…that’s a lot of time to finally hit the gym.
Stan can’t help but notice it though; all the changes in Ford. The stiff posture, the strength in his arms, the slight twitch in his fingers, the crazy, windswept hair, the lengthened sideburns. He looked tired, but so alert. He also looked dirty, maybe injured judging by the bandage wrapped around his arm; certainly like a man who could use a good shower and a good shave. Maybe a trim, if Stan could get the clippers in. Certainly a new pair of boots too. He’d have to check, but he is sure some of Ford’s old clothes are still in the closet up in his room, tucked away, just in case he ever got him back. Just in case…
Five whole minutes passed and neither of them uttered a word. A lot to talk about, he had told the kids, and yet they didn’t say a thing to one another, still sizing each other up visually. Stan knew Ford had given him a good look over, had ideas and thoughts formulating in his sciencey brain on what Stan may have been up to all these years, how he felt about the renovated house, how angry he was about the portal… He was sure his brother was stringing up a long, mathematical equation on why he was wrong, again, for simply trying to help him out. Stan frowned reflexively, thinking of all the things Ford might say to rebuke. Hell, he had already started as soon as he walked out of that portal. Ford’s preamble had been set in place; get out of portal, punch Stan, tell him how much of an idiot knucklehead he is.
Now that they were alone though, neither of them spoke. Neither of them said anything. They didn’t even move. It was a Mexican standoff and they didn’t know who would be the first to grab the gun and pull the trigger.
But after so long Stan couldn’t take it anymore. He had always been the doer of their dynamic duo, and if Ford expected him to act first, then damnit, he would. He strode forward, crossing the distance between them in just a few short strides. Ford’s eyes widened and he shifted his weight, as if looking to duck out of the way, but Stan couldn’t be deterred as he wrapped his arms around his brother’s shoulders.
Ford instantly stiffened under the touch, his breath hitching. He let out a strangled sounding “Stan!” before pushing harshly against his brother’s chest and squirming out of his hold. Stan, for his own credit, didn’t punch Ford out of reflex (which he certainly was in the mind to do because how much of an upstart asshole do you have to be to not want to hug your brother), and instead gave his twin the benefit of the doubt. His arms went limp as Ford bitterly left the embrace and he had just a second of glimpsing the panic in Ford’s eyes before he swallowed it back down inside. Stan felt his heart constrict at the sight.
“Don’t,” his brother said curtly. He rubbed his arm, his breathing ragged, keeping just out of arm’s reach of Stan. “Don’t touch me unexpectedly like that, I…” Stan held up his hands in a show of peace.
“Yeesh, relax Sixer, it’s just me, if I was gonna punch you, I wouldn’t disguise it as a hug.” he had said it like a joke, but something in Ford’s face looked more than venomous, so Stan changed tactic. “b-but I won’t hug you if you don’t want it. Seriously, I promise.” Ford looked down and shook his arms, as if trying to get a fly off of them. He wouldn’t meet Stan’s face so finally he grumbled out. “Good Lord, Stanford, I’m sorry, okay?” He hated having to say it so soon after getting his brother back, but there it was. Another thing that Stanley Pines had done wrong in his long line of fuck-ups. At the confession though, Ford looked back up, his eyes not so panicked and much more normal.
“It’s fine, Stanley, I’m just… I’m still getting used to being back. I don’t want to be touched until I’m a little more.. settled.” Stan just gave him a curt nod before letting his eyes give his brother one more up-down. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, looking away.
“Well, we should probably get you inside then, huh? Get you outta those sci-fi rags you’re wearing.” Ford nodded in agreement, and they both stiffly walked inside, Stan following Ford back into the Mystery Shack.
“The kids are charming,” Ford offered up as a conversational piece. Stan just barked out a quick laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. More like a couple of handfuls that are almost impossible to keep an eye on. Kinda like we were, back in the day. Just a couple of twins, getting into mischief, running around, having a good time, not caring how many bruises and scrapes they get on the way there.” He side-eyed Ford and when he didn’t return the look, he felt his heart get swallowed by a black hole.
“Where is the rest of the family,” Ford asked, bittersweet. As if he knew what Stan was going to say regardless.
“Gone. Even Shermy. It’s… just been pretty much the twins and their parents for some time now. I… I never went to the funerals. I never made it. I did visit their graves once or twice, when I was doing really well for myself. The airport wasn’t so bad when I was traveling as you.”
“Well, when you aren’t a wanted criminal on this side of the portal, I’m sure things were a lot easier for you indeed.” Stan raised an eyebrow at that, but Ford didn’t look like he was in any mood to share. Instead, they went through the living room and down the hallway. Stan watched as Ford’s eyes darted around all the changes he had made in the house, pausing every now and then to frown and shake his head. A few times he glanced angrily at Stan, opening his mouth before thinking better of it, letting out a gruff breath and just continuing on. Stan could feel his stomach falling with every disapproving stare, every angry look, every scowl at the state of disarray and the treatment of Ford’s belongings. It wasn’t until they got to Ford’s old room that things really came to a head, and Stan opened his mouth to warn Ford at the same time Ford swung the door open.
Inside, the room that Ford had used the most and had kept most of his personal belongings in was now littered and covered in Soos’ things. The handyman had transformed the room into his personal break room, where he worked on fixing the many knickknacks in the Shack. He also, of course, took the liberty of plastering up posters of his favorite movies, setting up an old computer in the corner, stringing up Summerween lights, and leaving piles of snacks over in the corner. Ford stood in the doorway, soaking it all in, while Stan stammered along.
“Sorry, I- this is the break room for the handyman. Soos- you met him downstairs - the overgrown hamster?” Stan scooted in past his brother, his heart racing. Lord, he could feel the outburst just boiling under the surface of his brother’s skin. “This isn’t his only break room though! I can always tell him his old break room is free, I can get this cleaned up in a few hours even, and you can get your -”
“Stan, it’s fine.” Ford held a hand up as he said that, and Stan stopped his yammering, staring at his brother. Ford’s eyes were dark and downfallen, staring around at everything. “I’ve… it’s been a long time since this has been my room. It’s not…” he shuddered out a breath, steadying himself. “I’m fine if I don’t stay here. Let your employee keep their break room. I’ll… I’ll think about what to do later.”
There was an odd pain in Ford’s voice that Stan couldn’t place. Was it nostalgia? Bittersweetness? Something deeper than that? The emotion was palpable, but then, Ford’s emotions were always strong. He tried to hide them, but they were always there, waiting just below the surface.
Ford walked around the room, hands behind his back, looking at all the things lying around. He then moved aside the large mirror and went over to the dresser by the fireplace. Inside, he grabbed a few articles of clothing. A turtleneck, pants. Undershirt. Underwear. He seemed satisfied with that and walked back to Stan.
“I’m gonna take a fast shower,” he quipped, pointing to the bathroom over in the corner. Stan just nodded; he expected that; his brother may have been a busy-body but he did his best to stay clean, at least. He then shrugged off his thick, soot-colored coat and his belts and handed them to Stan carefully. He took them, shocked at the unexpected weight of them. Just how strong had his brother gotten in 30 years? He wondered this as he watched Ford continue, taking his boots off and setting his large gun to the side. Ford looked back up at him as he watched and Stan felt his cheeks color, getting caught in his act of voyeurism.
“I’d rather you waited outside Stan. I don’t need you here to bathe and shave me.”
Stan just gulped and nodded. “Yeah, right. Got it.” And at that, Stan backed out, closing the door behind him with his free hand. As soon as he was out in the hallway, he slumped against the closed door, letting out a heavy sigh. the coat and belt in his hands felt so heavy, as if weighted down by the last 3 decades of constant travel, of constant…who knows what from the other side of that portal. Stan grunted and set them on the floor; he didn’t want to look at them at all. It was too depressing; too much not like the Ford he knew. The Ford he knew wasn’t covered in black and dirt; he was clean, smart, excited, colorful. He deserved better than the muted tones he had arrived in. So as he heard the water running, he walked up the steps, tiptoeing past the door to the kid’s room and walking down the hall to his own. Once inside, he wasted no time digging around his closet until - aha, there it was. The old trencoat that Ford had loved so much he had had a spare; just in case of any chemical spills landed on the first one. He pulled it off the rack and went downstairs. It wasn’t his best, but it was the most he had on short notice. Ford deserved better, but there would always be time for shopping later.
He waited by the door, leaning against the wall, dozing a bit while Ford got himself washed up and cleaned up. When he exited the room, he looked much trimmer; his hair looked quite a shade lighter than when he had walked out of the portal, and though his chin was clean-shaven, he noticed his brother had decided on keeping the sideburns. The turtleneck was bright red; even after 30 years, it had avoided fading away from being in storage for so long. Stan couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at his shoes though; while he had respectfully cleaned the bottoms, the tops still bore the scars of dirt. Stan scowled; he hoped his brother wouldn’t want to track mud on his own carpet. Stan watched as he went and put on his chest belt and a holster for his waist. A worn gun hung from the side which Ford patted lightly, as if checking it was still there. He must have left the other gun back in the room. When Ford’s eyes met his, Stan grunted and held out the trenchcoat for him. His twin eyeballed it with a cocked eyebrow.
“You held onto my trenchcoat for 30 years?”
Stan could feel himself grinding his teeth to dust in his cheek. “Yeah, I kept it safe in my closet. Now do you want it or not? ‘Cause if not, it’s just going back into said closet.”
Ford hesitated a moment, and then grabbed the coat from Stanley. Stan felt the weight of Ford’s hand through the coat and had an urge to snatch it, to count each finger, to feel it, to make sure everything was still there. But he knew, he knew how Ford was about being touched, so he let the coat leave his grasp, and the six fingers with it. As he watched Ford pull the coat over his shoulders, checking the fitting, Stan crossed his arms and huffed at him.
“So, I have to ask. A turtleneck? In summer? C'mon Ford, we both know that not even the Oregon nights are that chilly.” Stanford stiffened a bit at the question, his eyes darting around before answering.
“I…it’s nothing. Besides I figured I would sleep in the basement. I have a bed down there that I always kept for when I was hard at work, having sleepless nights. It… gets cooler down there, so I will need the extra layers.” Stan squinted. If his brother ever said ‘it’s nothing’ it was always something. Besides - he knew how cold it got downstairs, and he never felt the need to wear a sweater. He put aside the questions for now though, knowing he wasn’t going to get anything out of him. His brother straightened himself, and Stan had to admit: Stanford didn’t clean up bad. His chest was a lot broader than he gave it credit for earlier, his silhouette more streamlined. Amazing what a shower and a shave could do to a guy. Stan cleared his throat and Ford looked at him.
“So, uh, I pulled this mirror out of the closet as well. Figured you could use a good look at yourself, after all this time.” He motioned to the large, full-body mirror that was hanging by the doorway. Ford hesitated, but him and Stan walked over, side by side. He couldn’t help it; when he saw their reflection together, it was like his heart had lodged itself in his throat. Their differences were now so apparent, even though they still looked so much alike. Their years apart had caused them to lead totally different lives; become totally different people. Stan, with his heavyset, broad shoulders. Ford, with his slimmer, trimmer, survivalist build. And yet they were the same height still. They had the same jawline, same nose, same hair, just Ford’s was longer. Stan even wore glasses now; hell if he didn’t have his fez, they would look almost identical, depending on the light. He forced himself into a pained smile.
“Look at us,” he croaked out. When did we become old men?”
“You look like Dad,” Ford shot back, fast on the uptake. Stan flinched back, grinning from ear to ear.
“Ugh, gross! Don’t say that!” and he nudged him with his elbow, glad when his brother chuckled back. It was a joke, and a terrible one at that; heavy and full of unspoken emotion. But it was something, and Stan held onto it for as long as he could.
Turns out it wasn’t very long at all. In the next instant, Ford let out a heavy sigh and Stan could practically see the wall being built up in front of him, shutting him out.
“Okay, Stanley, here’s the deal. You can stay here the rest of the summer to watch the kids. I’ll stay down in the basement and try to contain any remaining damage. But when the summer’s over, you give me my house back, you give me my name back, and this Mystery Shack junk is over forever. Ya got it?”
Stan swallowed. Hard. He didn’t expect his brother to so easily cut him off from his livelihood. The Shack had been his only source of income for the last 30 years and Ford was just willing to destroy it, just like that. He set his jaw, chewing over the words, thinking about Wendy and Soos. He didn’t want to believe this; didn’t want to have to tell them they would have to find new jobs. But…he looked at Ford, his face indignant. He knew his brother. He knew he could work him. If he could just hold out for a few more months, maybe he could change his mind. He was a persuasive guy, after all. So he didn’t fight the house. He wouldn’t fight the name. Instead, he went for a different bite; straight to the throat.
“…You…you really aren’t going to thank me, are you?” The look Ford gave him said it all. He was behind the wall now; the wall of secrets, the wall of ‘I can’t let you in this time Stanley.’ He knew that look so well, but he also knew how to tear it down. He growled, pointing a finger at his brother, making him step back. “Fine. On one condition. You stay away from those kids; I don’t want them in danger.” He took a step back, preparing his blow.
“‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, they’re the only family I have left.”
He stomped out, not sticking around to see the look on Ford’s face. He was sure he had done it, crushed his twin’s morale under his boot. So why didn’t it feel like it? Why did it feel like his own heart was lying on that floor, instead of his brother’s?
He paused for a moment, hand on the top of the stares. He turned his head, ever so slightly, breath hitching. But he couldn’t see Ford; his back was turned and his face was hidden. Because that’s how it was with him now; they were both men of mystery, living under the same goddamn roof.
Twins indeed, to the very end.
Stan frowned and climbed the rest of the stairs, retiring to his room for the night. Tomorrow would be a new day. And he was determined to tear down that wall in the worst way, if necessary.