Chapter Text
Stanley stood in the living room of the Mystery Shack, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn-out trench coat. Stanford’s rant had ended a few minutes ago, but the sting of every word still clung to him, sharp as broken glass.
"You don’t think!" Stanford had shouted. "You’ve never thought things through, Stanley! Do you even understand what you did to me? Thirty years—thirty damn years lost because of you!"
Stan didn’t say anything. He knew better by now. Talking only made it worse. So he smiled—because that’s what he always did—and nodded like he understood, even though his chest felt like it was going to collapse. Ford glared at him one last time, then turned away, disappearing into the basement with a slam of the door.
The silence in the shack felt heavier than Ford’s anger. Stan let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and ran a hand through his hair, the strands rough and greasy from days without proper sleep. He glanced around the empty room as if expecting someone to tell him everything was fine.
No one did.
He rubbed his sore ribs, where Ford’s fist had caught him during their argument—an accident, Stan told himself, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You make excuses for them, even when it hurts.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, marking every second he stayed in this place where he wasn’t wanted. With a glance toward the closed basement door, he slipped out the front and headed into the forest.
The spring greeted him with the familiar hum of cicadas and the soft splash of water over stones. It was tucked away from the world, hidden in a grove that only he knew about. It was the one place where he could fall apart without anyone watching.
He sat down at the edge of the water and let his legs dangle over the side, dipping his boots into the cool stream. His reflection wavered on the surface—a tired old man with too many wrinkles and not enough hope. He smiled at himself, just to see how it looked.
It was a pathetic smile.
"Guess even I can’t fool myself," he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. The tears burned behind his eyes, but he held them back. He always did. Crying was for kids and cowards, and Stanley Pines wasn’t either.
He pressed his forehead to his knees, forcing slow, steady breaths. He just needed to get through the day. Then the next. And the one after that. Eventually, things would get better. That’s what he told himself, at least.
The truth, though, was that he wasn’t sure if it ever would.
Every time Ford looked at him, all Stan saw was disappointment. No thank-you for pulling him out of the portal, no recognition of the years Stan had spent alone, trying to survive. Just resentment. As if rescuing him had been another screw-up in a lifetime of failures.
It wasn’t like Stan expected Ford to throw him a parade, but a little kindness wouldn’t have hurt. Some days, he felt like he was still that little kid giving up his toys and glasses so Ford could be happy—only now, the stakes were higher, and the rewards were fewer.
He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and forced another grin. "C’mon, Stan," he whispered. "Don’t be such a crybaby. You’ve been through worse."
And he had. He’d been beaten down before—by bullies, by life, by every lousy break, the universe threw his way. He could handle this. He had to handle this. Ford needed him, even if he’d never admit it.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. The stars would be out soon, blinking down from the same sky that had watched over him for thirty lonely years. Funny how the universe kept spinning, no matter how many times it broke your heart.
The forest around him felt alive with quiet magic—nothing like the chaos inside the Mystery Shack. Out here, things made sense. You didn’t have to be smart or special. You just had to exist.
"I wish things were different," Stan whispered to the spring. "I wish Ford didn’t hate me so much."
The water didn’t answer. It never did. But it listened, which was more than he could say for anyone else in his life.
He leaned back on his hands, closing his eyes. He’d stay here a little longer—just long enough to gather the strength to face his brother again. It was getting harder to keep smiling, but he would do it. He’d always done it.
Because that’s what brothers do, right?
They give everything, even when it hurts.
Stan stayed by the spring until the sky faded from pink to deep indigo, the stars peeking out one by one. He thought about staying all night, letting the forest lull him to sleep with its quiet rhythms. But he knew he couldn’t. Ford might need something.
Even if Ford didn’t care about him, Stan still cared about Ford. That was how it had always been—how it always would be.
With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, feeling the ache in his ribs flare up. He winced but forced a chuckle. "Guess Ford still has a mean right hook." He clapped his hands together as if to shake off the pain, though it clung to him like a second skin.
The walk back to the shack was slow, the chill of the night settling into his bones. The porch light flickered as he stepped inside, its dim glow casting shadows along the cluttered walls. The place smelled like dust, pine wood, and the faint trace of old coffee—just like it always did.
He paused at the top of the basement stairs, listening. There was no sound coming from below.
Probably buried in his research, Stan thought.
Ford was always down there, working late into the night on mysteries Stan couldn’t begin to understand. It was like the thirty years apart had only deepened the gap between them, and no matter how hard Stan tried, he couldn’t reach his brother through the walls Ford had built.
He sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "You’re a damn fool, Stan," he muttered to himself. "What’d you expect? A hug and a ‘thanks for savin' me’? Yeah, right."
He shuffled toward his room, ready to collapse into bed. But just as he reached for the door handle, he heard a creak from the basement stairs.
"Stanley?"
Stan froze. Ford’s voice was low but clear, cutting through the silence like a knife.
"Yeah, Sixer?" he called back, forcing his tone to sound cheerful. Always cheerful. Always the same old Stan.
There was a long pause, and for a moment, Stan thought Ford might say something… something important.
But all Ford said was, "Did you lock up the shack?"
Stan’s heart sank. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing the disappointment down where it couldn’t hurt him. "Yeah, don’t worry. Everything’s locked tight."
Ford made a noise of acknowledgment—something between a grunt and a sigh—then the stairs creaked again as he retreated into the basement.
Stan stood there for a moment, hand still resting on his doorknob. His chest felt tight like there was a weight pressing down on it, squeezing the air out of his lungs.
Of course, that’s all he wanted, Stan thought bitterly. What else did you expect, ya sap?
He slipped into his room and shut the door behind him. The room was small and cluttered, filled with trinkets and souvenirs from years spent on the road. It wasn’t much, but it was his.
Stan sank onto the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots. He stared at the ceiling, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn’t stop.
It was funny, in a way. He’d spent so many years imagining the day he’d finally get his brother back. He thought it would be like old times—laughing, bickering, pulling pranks on each other like they were kids again.
But this wasn’t what he’d imagined.
Ford’s eyes were cold now, filled with anger and regret. And Stan? Stan was still trying to be the brother Ford needed, even if it meant pretending he wasn’t hurting.
He rolled onto his side, curling up with his back to the door. His ribs throbbed with every breath, but the ache in his chest was worse.
Stan closed his eyes and let the tears come, silent and hidden in the dark where no one could see.
Morning came too soon, dragging him back into the same routine. He plastered a grin on his face and stumbled into the kitchen, where Ford was already sitting at the table, poring over some old book.
"Morning, Sixer!" Stan greeted, as bright as the sunshine streaming through the windows.
Ford grunted without looking up.
Stan’s smile faltered for just a second before he plastered it back in place. "How’s the research comin’? Find anything cool yet?"
"Not really," Ford muttered, flipping a page. "I’d make better progress if I had fewer interruptions."
Stan’s stomach twisted, but he kept his tone light. "Guess I’ll leave you to it, then."
Ford didn’t respond.
Stan grabbed a cup of coffee and took it out to the porch, where the cool morning air helped settle the knot in his chest.
He sipped the bitter liquid slowly, watching the forest come to life around him. Birds chirped from the treetops, and the sunlight danced across the trees, painting the world in shades of gold and green.
It was peaceful out here—so much quieter than the storm brewing inside the shack.
Stan set his coffee down and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. He’d get through this. He had to.
Because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how many times Ford looked at him like he was a failure, Stan would keep showing up.
He’d keep smiling, keep giving, keep sacrificing—because that’s what family was, right?
And maybe, just maybe, one day, Ford would see him.
Maybe.