Chapter Text
Finally.
After thirty long, painful, strenuous years, he finally did it.
Stanley practically felt his soul leave his body when the portal turned back on, that horrifyingly familiar glow resonating from the inside of the triangular void. He looked to his side, seeing Dipper and Mabel. He made sure they were very far from the portal, not wanting them to get sucked in like Ford. Once he was sure they were safe, his gaze fell on the whirling center of the portal once more. He saw a shape begin to emerge. A very humanoid shape. This was it. After so so SO long, he could finally see his brother again. The man he missed so much. He could finally apologize, finally make up for his shitty actions– no, for being a shitty brother as a whole. He stepped closer to the portal, watching excitedly as the shape emerged. But something was off. As soon as it fully emerged, it… fell to the floor. The portal shut off, and Stan ran over to his collapsed brother.
No.
Something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Why was his body so cold?
He pressed two fingers to a certain spot on his wrist, trying to find any form of a pulse.
Why was there no pulse?
“Stanford?”
Just the name of his brother left a strange taste in his mouth. Stan shook his brother, careful not to hurt him any more than he possibly was.
Why wasn't his brother breathing.
What was that large gash across his torso.
He wasn't dead. Ford wasn't dead. There's no way. No possibility. It can't be. He heard the small footsteps of Mabel.
“Grunkle Stan.. who's that strange man?”
Oh. That's right. The twins didn't know him.
“Ah, uh.. that's the author of the journals.. my brother.”
Dipper walked closer, inspecting the body.
“...He looks dead.”
“Don't say that.”
Stan refused to believe it. There's no way Ford was dead. Stanford Pines, the man who almost sold his soul to Bill Cipher and survived, Stanford Pines, the man with twelve PhD's, Stanford Pines, the brother who had much more potential, Stanford Pines, his brother. This had to just be some sick joke he was playing, to get back at him for being an ass.
“C'mon Poindexter. The jigs over. Get up off the ground and tell your grand-niece and nephew who you are.”
He lifted one of Ford's arms, wrapping it around his shoulder, and carefully lifted him up.
“Up ya go…”
The twins looked horrified.
“Grunkle Stan.. he's.. he's dead!!”
Mabel shrieked, taking a few steps back.
Stan looked at Ford. He looked deathly pale, and he was covered with scrapes, cuts, and bruises.
That's when it hit him.
Ford was dead.
No. No no no no no no no no no. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Ford was supposed to walk out of the portal, alive. Why was he dead? Why did he do this? He set Ford's corpse down onto the ground once more, falling to his knees. He felt tears pooling in his eyes, but this time, he didn't care to hide them. Stan looked down at the decomposing mess for a brother.
This was all his fault.
If he just controlled his anger instead of shoving Ford into that portal, if he had stopped Ford from making a deal with that stupid triangle, if he had been a better brother , maybe this wouldn't have happened. But no. His stupid attachment issues just had to mess things up. Maybe if he didn't mess up that perpetual motion machine Ford had made, this would've never happened!! Ford would've gone to that snooty college, but at least he would've been alive! He really was good for nothing, wasn't he?! He messed up his brother's chance of a good future, he messed up his own life, he messed up the twins' life, and now he murdered his own brother!!
Stan thought back to the Stan-O-War. That old rickety boat. There was once a promise linked to that boat. They would've traveled the world together, exploring everything they wanted. Now that promise was permanently unfulfilled.
Stan thought back to the argument. God, he'd been such an ass. He had just gotten his brother back, and he threw it all away just because he couldn't accept the fact that he fucked up his own life. He wanted to apologize so bad. But now, no matter how many times he could try, it would go forever unheard.
Stan thought back to the twins. They would never get to know how wonderful their great-uncle Ford was. They would only know the screw-up of their great-uncle Stan. Dipper had admired the author of the journals. He was practically a miniature Ford. They would've bonded so well. Mabel was weird and quirky in the best ways possible. She would've gotten along with Ford perfectly, matching his level of dorkiness. They would've had the best grunkle ever. But he screwed it all up. He ruined their chances of ever having someone to look up to, a good example.
Stan thought of his brother. Ford had such a bright future ahead of him. Stan knew it from the start. He was the straight-A student, the brains out of the two of them, the problem solver. He was a genius, a prodigy, the next Einstein as some would say, but most of all, he was his brother. He loved his brother so, so much. He would give the world just to keep him safe. So after Ford locked himself away for ten years, Stan was excited to see his brother again. But that crazed look in his eyes, the deep eyebags, the uncharacteristically messy hair, and the shaky limbs, all topped off with a crossbow being pointed at him hurt his soul. To know that he was the cause of his brother's insanity hurt so, so much. Now, he was dead. All of it, those years of potential, the chance of reconciliation, gone.
Stan thought of himself.
He was a monster.
He had taken so many opportunities away from those he loved, all because of his selfish desires to stay with his brother.
He was a murderer.
He killed his own brother.
Stan picked up Ford’s corpse. He held it close, hugging it tightly. Like if he held him tight enough, he would undo the atrocities committed, Ford would wake up again, and everything would be fine. He knew it was naive to think that it would actually happen, but it was a fleeting hope. Tears began to pour down his face, soaking the hair of his brother's corpse. Deep red blood soaked his hands and suit, but he could care less about how messy he looked, or how stained his clothes were. Not when Ford, his brother , the same person he grew up with, went through so many hardships with, was lying in his arms dead. No miniscule thing such as that could compare to the tragedy in front of him. His hands were stained a similar shade of red, and he knew that no matter how much he tried to wash that blood off his hands, it would never come off.