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To say Ford was wrapped up in his own world would be an understatement. He was... semi-aware of this, all things considered. It wasn't his fault, he'd just... There was so much he had seen and done in his time between dimensions that even being back in Gravity Falls couldn't compare. Not to mention having to worry about keeping his family safe, poring over everything he'd ever known and then some. The particulars of caring for himself were largely trivial concerns - he'd gone without food for perhaps longer than any other human who lived to tell the tale on at least two occasions, brushed with death in extreme colds and heats alike, been forced to never sleep more than a wink while on the lam. He could handle it. He would handle it, so no one else had to.
"Hey, Grunkle Ford?" Mabel tugged at his sleeve.
"Hm? Oh, yes, Mabel..." he said absent-mindedly, ruffling her hair gently. She snorted lightly, but that didn't deter her.
"You okay? You've just been kinda, staring at the cupboard... you know, like..." she mimed a silly gesture in front of her face, though her worry was clear.
"...Have I?" he asked quietly, then shook his head, "No, of course I have. I knew that, I'm just... trying to decide what to eat." His following 'I think,' went unspoken.
"Oh!" she clapped her hands, grinning widely, "I can help you find something! Wait," she gasped, "We could even make something!"
Oh dear. What a situation he'd landed himself in now. She was a sweet girl, she shouldn't have to deal with his problems. "Let's see what we can find first?" he answered, and she shrunk a little. "Okay."
So, they rummaged through the cupboards. As it happened, there was a half-eaten bag of jelly beans, a box of crackers, and a tin of walnuts. "That should do fine," he smiled reassuringly, "Thank you, Mabel."
Mabel blinked, but her protest died on her lips as Ford turned away, walking off with the spoils that couldn't in any world make a full meal. "You're welcome..." was all she could sigh.
"...so you see, Dipper, that's just a misconception. But isn't it fascinating? Not only a whole world, but whole universes - of course there would be categorical errors here and there," Ford smiled. Dipper was so bright, not to mention eager to learn. In some sense, he reminded him of himself - it wasn't good enough to simply be in the world, but to truly know it. That was the beauty of knowing, getting to forge an even deeper connection, coming to understand that which attempted to defy understanding.
Dipper nodded enthusiastically, "Yeah! I mean, I wouldn't even have thought something like that was like, possible, you know?"
"No one ever does," Ford chuckled, "Even I didn't, once. But when you open up your eyes... the way things change, it's enough to change a man. Puts the hair on your chest."
Dipper snorted, smiling with satisfaction. Then, a little more somber, he asked, "Hey, Great Uncle Ford?"
"Yes?"
"So, uh..." he scratched the back of his head awkwardly, "You know, like... Mabel's helping with dinner tonight? And uh, she wanted to see if you'd like to try it out..."
Ford sighed. She hadn't been happy after yesterday's incident, had she? "I have a lot to do tonight, so if--"
"She's gonna kill me if I don't tell her you said yes," Dipper pleaded, "So- please? Will you please come up for dinner tonight?"
Backed into a corner. Shit. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took in a deep breath, then nodded. "Alright, okay."
"Ta-da!" Mabel flourished, "We got mash! We got green beans! Heaps o' butter! Garlic, onion, and some spice!"
Stan chuckled at her enthusiasm, "You got a good eye for this stuff, you know that? I mean, when you're not-"
"--And if anyone wants sprinkles, I got 'em!"
He snorted, shaking his head fondly, "Yeah, doing that."
"This looks good, but..." Dipper started, "Mabel, really? Sprinkles?"
"You just don't see my vision!" she poked her tongue out, throwing a dash of sprinkles on her serving. "But you will!"
Everyone apart from Ford had started eating. Stan gave him a quizzical glance, but opted not to say anything for the moment, thankfully. He stared at his serving, trying to will a blessing into his brain. It was kind of funny, given everything that he'd seen and experienced, he didn't know what to think or feel about religion these days - but with how hard it had been to come by good food, it felt wrong to eat without some sort of blessing or thanks. And, yet...
It felt like the meal in front of him just wasn't food. Even though the others in front of him ate it just fine, he... couldn't. How fucking ridiculous it was, for 30 years he didn't have the freedom to be picky, had to eat whatever he could get on his plate. Now that he was back home, though? He was lucky to be able to get down simple snacks. The more he thought about trying to dig in, the more he could feel his body resisting, his hand trembling, his brain irrationally denying it, sounding the alarm like he was going to poison himself.
Abruptly, he stood from the table. "I-I'm sorry, I'm not that hungry after all," he lied, ignoring Stan's questioning, and the kids' utter disappointment, as he rushed back downstairs.
"Oh no he absolutely does not," Stan hissed, marching on to follow him.
"What the fuck was that about?!" he shouted at Ford, eye twitching.
Ford huffed, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not hungry. That's all."
"That's a load of bullshit, and we both know it. Now, you're gonna tell me what is fucking wrong with you."
"Look, I-" Ford hugged his elbows, gripping tightly onto his sleeves, "That's- That's all there is to it-"
Stan growled, hands animated as he spoke, "No, it fucking isn't! You know, Mabel is worried about you, the least you could do is pretend that you even remotely care about that! Oh yeah, she told me what happened, that you've somehow got it in your head that- that our snacks make for your fucking meal! So what is it, huh? You think you're too fat? Or maybe, maybe you just think you're too good to eat our slop!"
Ford, pained, squeezed his eyes shut as he answered, "It's... none of that, Stanley."
"Then what?" he asked, deadly serious.
Ford braced himself, "It's... it's irrational. Absolutely nonsensical. You wouldn't get it."
"I've gotten a whole fucking lot for you, Ford. Spit it out."
He sucked in a deep breath, and sighed. "Most food... it just doesn't look like food. It's not a slight, it's-" he shook his head, struggling. "Do you know... The sorts of things I had to scrounge to survive, half the time? How many times I was lucky to only be mildly poisoned? For all that time, I had no choice of what to eat, or even when to eat. If I passed something up... in some dimensions, it would be days before I got another chance. Weeks, if I was really unlucky."
Stan eased a little, sighing deeply. Ford took that as a sign to continue, "And even when food came easy... very little of it was familiar. I've eaten organisms that defy any human definitions. I've, ugh," he tried not to gag on his own thoughts, "I've eaten things I don't even want to think about, much less eat ever again. So now, I suppose-"
"You've got an eating disorder, is what you mean to tell me."
"What?" Ford shook his head, "I don't know if I'd say that-"
Stan rolled his eyes, "We put good food in front of you and it doesn't look like food, 'cause of all the shit you've been through? What else would that be?" he punctuated with a shrug.
Ford relented, "I suppose you have a point."
"Well," Stan huffed, "I'm not standing for it. I'm getting you to eat a real meal, one way or another. If nothing fucking else, the kids don't deserve to be worrying whether you're going to keel over and die on them."
"I-"
"Tomorrow. After the kids are done their dinner, we're having our own. And you do not get to say no, Stanford Pines. I will drag you to the table and shove it down your gullet myself if I have to."
Before Ford could say anything else, Stan was already on his way back up, stewing in frustration.
Did Ford really want to be doing this? No. The way Stanley talked, it sounded like he didn't really want to either. But, well, the threat of Stanley doing whatever it might take to force him here sounded a lot worse than just trying to go along with it. And it wasn't like he didn't have a point... sure, it'd take a lot more than just some low level malnutrition to kill him, but the kids were already worried from the little they'd seen of his eating predicament. If he kept it up, how much more would they worry? Worse, would they adopt his habits, neglecting themselves? Their parents would kill him - assuming Stanley didn't get there first.
So, he sat himself at the table, looking at the matzo ball soup in front of him. He thought of childhood, days spent sick at home with their Mom's soup, the recipe she cherished from her own mother. How even when the world seemed wrong, turning inside out before him, there was always the promise of a warm, delicious meal. He thought of blessings, of thanks, ones he could never put into real words, as he looked up at Stanley.
"Mom's recipe," he said with a nod, "Eat up."
Ford took a deep breath, some part of him still hesitant. But... the familiar allure, the scents of home and love, his bottomless hunger, and not to mention Stanley's glare as he ate, all won out. Slowly, he began eating, taking his time. Savouring the experience. It had been easily over 40 years at this point... he just needed some time to get lost in it, revisit his long-gone feeling of childhood safety. It filled him with warmth, on a far deeper level than just physical, nourishing his very soul.
"...So, how's it looking? Is it uh," Stan braced himself, "Is it as good as Mom used to make?"
Ford inhaled sharply, pressing his fist to his lips in thought. It wasn't entirely the same as he remembered, but it was just as comforting - maybe even... a little more. He didn't know what would make it so, he'd long forgotten how to cook most earthly foods, but he hummed as it went down. After a stretch of silence, he answered, "No," shaking his head - and if Stanley looked something between shattered and utterly enraged, he didn't see it, too busy in his thoughts. "It's... It's even better."
Stan paused in shock, then stammered, "Shut up, you don't have to say that..."
"I mean it... between us, you always were the better cook."
Bitterly, he snorted, "Yeah, well, you were the better everything else."
"Maybe so," Ford answered, "But don't discount yourself, Stanley. You've done amazing with this."
Stan opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. "Yeah. Guess so."
The rest of their dinner went by in relative silence, Stanley's mind a whirlwind of thoughts, but refusing to voice anything out of fear Ford would up and leave. He wondered if he should try and teach Ford the recipe again, or if it would be a fruitless effort. Finally, as Ford wound down - having drunk up the very last drop of his broth and eaten through every crumb, he smiled.
"That was lovely, Stanley."
Stan smiled half-heartedly, as Ford stood and cleared his throat. "I should... get going, after that. Will we be doing this again?"
"...Sure, yeah."
As Ford walked off, yet again down into that fucking basement, Stan slumped forward, resting his arms and face on the table. He loved Ford, and he also fucking hated him. All of that work, and still, he couldn't give a real compliment without it turning backhanded, couldn't give his fucking thanks. Couldn't even stick around to chat, had to go and isolate himself like the world revolved around him and his work, no one else's.
It's for the kids' sake, Stan, he told himself, It's for the kids' sake.