Chapter Text
Stan sometimes thought there was a kind of relief in being sick. Something about surrendering, letting the illness take the reins, like murmuring 'I tried, I'm tired, you can have me now.' No more resistance. His mind drained itself, preparing for sleep. He didn't want to fight, didn't want to be brave or strong or worth more than this moment. He didn't want to count the ways he could have been better; he wanted someone to carry him inside from the car. He was ready to be weak, to crumble, to let go. Ready to buckle under the weight of it all. Ready for it to be messy and miserable and let it hurt.
When was he allowed to feel this without having to apologize after? When did he get to let it happen without cleaning up the wreckage in the morning? When did he get to be the raw, selfish, weeping wound he longed to be?
In his dreams, he sank into his secondhand mattress, just another stain pressed into its surface. Nothing less. Nothing more. It was quiet now.
Until it wasn't and the rotary phone blared, splitting the silence like a blade. Stan groaned, barely cracking his eyes open before fumbling for the reciever. His fingers found it, half-numb from sleep. (Phones rang in boxing rings too. Sharp bell, gloves up, time to take a hit.)
"H-"
"You ever wonder how much damage a skull can take?"
Stan's mind blanked. The voice was familiar but far too raspy to be recognized, sharp and clipped but weirdly casual, like someone reading off a grocery list. (Wonderbread and old coffee. Hospital waiting rooms. Ford's voice, shaky, I just hit my head, I'm fine, really, it's fine, Stanley, I said I'm fine- The doctor told him Ford had a mild concussion. Stan heard you almost killed your brother.)
"...Wh-what?" He sat up, blinking fast. "Who is this?"
"Been a while, hasn't it? Thought I'd call, since, y'know... you owe me."
Stan's stomach lurched, and the voice suddenly sounded way too familiar, unmistakable and way too- "Ford?" His grip on the phone tightened. "What's- what's goin' on?"
"Ehhh, let's just say I'm having a real bad night, buddy. Bad enough that I've decided - HEY! - why not call my favorite twin?" A laugh, sudden and too loud, nearly blew out Stan's eardrum. "Anyway, listen, I'm thinkin' of doin' somethin' real stupid. Something messy. Thought you oughta know."
Stan swung his legs over the side of the bed, fully awake now. His pulse pounded in his throat. "Ford, slow down - where are you?"
"Gravity Falls, Oregon. Funny how life dumps you in the weirdest places, huh? Anyway, here's the deal, knucklehead-" The voice dropped into a whisper, overly dramatic, like a kid telling a ghost story. "I'm gonna start bashin' my head against the walls. Think of it as a fun little game! You come find me, I stop. You don't? I'm just gonna assume you don't care."
Stan's breath caught. (He had seen a guy do that once. Bar fight gone bad. Skull split open like a cracked egg. Blood on the tiles, pooling under cheap plastic stools.)
"Orrr maybe you do care! Maybe you'll come running, all wide-eyed and desperate, 'cause deep down, you know this is all your fault!" Another laugh, jittery and uneven. "C'mon, Big Shot. Make it interesting for me."
Click.
The line went dead, and Stan was left holding the reciever, his hand trembling. The silence in the room felt like it was closing in on him, the air thick with something he couldn't quite grasp. For a moment, he just stared at the phone, as if it might ring again or somehow make sense of the mess he was in.
But it didn't.
Stan slammed the reciever back down, his mind spinning, his heart racing. Gravity Falls. Ford. His brother's life on the line, and he was a thousand miles away, stuck in a shitty motel room in New Mexico, with no idea how to fix any of this. All he had was a phone call and a ghost of a chance to make it right.
Stan didn't know much, but he knew that he couldn't stay here.