Chapter Text
Stanley Pines saves his smokes for when the kids are out of sight – usually asleep, like they are now. And he always smokes outside; the Shack is stuffy enough, and he refuses to let the lingering smell or second-hand smoke put Dipper and Mabel at risk. No way are they getting cancer on his watch.
Now, he’s settled on the musty couch on the Shack’s porch, staring out at the surrounding forest under a sky full of stars. A few stray planks lie scattered across the porch, a reminder of their recent confrontation against the government agents. The old totem leans slightly to one side – something else he’ll have to fix tomorrow. For now, his only companion is a bottle of whiskey resting on the armrest.
He pulls a cigarette – a Valor cigarette – from the pack and flicks the lighter. The flame dances in the night air before catching, lighting the end of the cigarette. Stan inhales deeply, the sharp sting of smoke filling his lungs. Then, without a pause, he reaches for the whiskey bottle at his side and takes a slow sip, the burn in his throat chasing the bitterness in his chest.
Stan doesn’t usually drink and smoke at the same time, but tonight is different. He rubs his jaw where Ford’s punch landed, wincing slightly. It still aches. Sure, maybe risking the fabric of reality to bring his brother back wasn’t his smartest move, but that punch was definitely uncalled for.
His mom used to call him a hopeless optimist, and maybe she was right. Even after the punch, even after both of them explained their sides of the story to the twins, Stan still clings to the hope that they can make up for lost time. Maybe, just maybe, they can rebuild some version of the bond they had as kids.
But that flicker of hope dims when Ford demanded for him to leave this place and shut down the Shack ‘junk’ forever. The words sting worse than the punch ever could. How can his brother be so ungrateful? He built this place from the ground up, pouring years of work and grit into paying off Ford’s mortgage. Was everything he had done – all the sacrifices, the scams, even that entire debacle against the government agents – really all for nothing?
The argument replays in his mind, every cutting word digging deeper into his chest. He takes another drag from his cigarette, the glowing ember casting fleeting light on his weary face. Exhaling slowly, he watches the plume of smoke curl and dissolve into the night.
The forest around him remains indifferent, silent but for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant lament of an owl. The stillness offers no solace, no answers – just the unrelenting reminder of the chasm between him and his brother.
“Okay, Stanley, here’s the deal. You can stay here for the summer to watch the kids,” Ford said, his tone bursque. “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. You got it?”
“You really aren’t gonna thank me, are you?” Stan stared at his brother, hoping there was some trace of humor in his words. But Ford’s expression was stone cold. “Fine. On one condition: you stay away from the kids; I don’t want them in danger. Cause as far as I’m concerned, they’re the only family I have left.”
Only family. The words still weigh in Stan’s mind, heavy with truth. The twins have grown on him this summer, worming their way into his heart in ways he never expected. He has next to zero experiences with kids, but he has to look after them for the summer because the twins’ parents were too wrapped up in their own marital issues. And Shermie is on the other side on the continent with his hands full to take care of their ailing Ma.
So the twins ended up on his doorstep. Stan hadn’t thought much of it at first – it was another responsibility he didn’t ask for. He has taken great care to isolate himself from the rest of the family, to focus on getting his brother back. Yet, the twins have become more than a temporary burden. After all, it is thanks to the twins that he got his brother’s two other journals to repair the Portal.
And now, Ford’s rejection stings all the more. It’s not just the demand to leave the Shack or end the Mystery Shack business – it’s the way Ford continues to push him away, as he always has. Even after everything Stan had done to bring him back, Ford was still keeping him at arm’s length.
Stan sighs heavily, the weight of it all pressing down on him. When Ford first called, asking for help all those years ago, Stan had dropped everything. And now? He’s back to being the screw-up, the outsider, the one who doesn’t belong.
But there’s one person left he can reach out to. The only other Pines who might understand.
Sherman Pines. Shermie. Their eldest brother.
Stan lets out a sigh, pulling his brick Mokia from his pocket. It’s unlikely Shermie will be awake at three in the morning, but he dials the number anyway. To his surprise, the call barely rings for ten seconds before a familiar voice answers.
“Stan? Is that you?”
Stan hesitates, a little lost for words.
“Stan?” Shermie repeated. “Is there something wrong?”
“Er, not really.” He coughs. “Everything’s alright here. Kinda great, actually.”
“Stanley, I’m your oldest brother. ‘Kinda great’ at three in the morning doesn’t sound great at all. What’s really going on?”
“I, er-” Stan rubs his head with his knuckles. “We got him back, Sherm. Ford’s back.”
The line goes silent for a long moment. “He’s… back?”
“Yes,” Stan answers.
“Well, then, where is he? I’ll like to call him-”
“That’s the problem.” Stan sighs. “He isn’t exactly thrilled to be back. He barely looks at me, Sherm. And now he wants me out of the Shack by the end of the summer.”
“What?” Shermie’s voice sharpens – a commanding tone he developed during his years in Vietnam. “After everything you’ve done to bring him back?”
“Yeah, well…” Stan leans back on the sofa, twirling a cigarette in his other hand. “You know Sixer. Always been the stubborn one. Always assumes the worst of me.”
“Maybe if I can come over and try-”
“No, I don’t wish for you to leave Ma behind for this.” Stan waves a hand. “Anyway, he won’t even listen to you. You aren’t as close to him, given he left for college.”
“I, erm- yeah. I know I wasn’t around much when you two were growing up,” Shermie admitted. “And even after ‘Nam, I decided to continue serving in Korea and Egypt…”
“Don’t.” Stan’s voice is firm. “Don’t do that to yourself, Sherm. You did what you had to do for your family. Besides-” He takes another drag. “-we were already screw-ups before you came back.”
"Still," Shermie persists, "Ford might come around. Give him time to adjust and think things through."
“Maybe…” Stan lights another cigarette again, the flame briefly illuminating the darkness around him. “But something’s different about him when he came back. He seems to have changed a lot.”
“Thirty years in God knows where… that’s bound to change anyone for sure,” Shermie states.
“Yeah, like he’s carrying something heavy.” Stan exhales another plum of smoke. “Something that’s made him harder. Colder. More stubborn.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Or heck, maybe I’m just making excuses. Maybe Sixer’s always been this way and I just didn’t want to see it.”
“Maybe try to ask him what’s going on?” Shermie suggests. “You know, just talk things out?”
“Yeah, right. I mean, the last time he tried explaining anything to me is just to push me away.” Stan sighs. “And I think he still blames me for dashing his chances to his dream university.”
“Is he really still holding on to that?”
“He even says I don’t even listen to him. And er- yeah, he’s really not very happy what I have turned his place into. But I did what I have to do, don’t I? To pay off his mortgage and all.”
“Hmm… From what I heard, you’ve kept things together pretty well. Your tourist trap thing. Maybe Ford just needs time to see that.”
Stan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “I doubt that. He just thinks I’ve just been running scams and living off his name in those thirty years.” He takes another drag. “Which, I mean, he’s not exactly wrong about.”
“That’s not fair to yourself, Stanley. You-”
“Look, Sherm,” Stan cuts him off, suddenly feeling very tired. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. But some things… some things just can’t be fixed. Maybe Ford’s right. Maybe it’s better if I just clear out at the end of summer. Let him have his life back.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to give up like that, Stan,” Shermie advises. “You’ve already done the impossible bringing him back. Don’t stop now.”
Stan lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “But what else can I do? I’ve spent all those thirty years breaking my back to get him back… And now that he’s here, he doesn’t even want me around. He didn’t even say thank you.” His gaze drops to the porch floor as he rubs the back of his neck. “I just… I feel so useless. Like there’s nothing left for me to do here. Like I was only good for fixing that one mistake and now I’m… done.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them filled with the faint hum of the phone line.
“And what about the kids?” Shermie finally asks.
Stan’s grip tightens on his phone. “Well, they will be going home before this summer ends, right? Anyway, this stays between me and Ford. I’ll try deal with it myself.”
“Stanley-” Shermie starts, but Stan’s already pulling the phone away from his ear.
"Look, it’s late. I should let you get back to sleep. I shouldn’t have called. Tell Ma I… tell her Ford and I said hi.”
“Right, er- just take care of yourself. And those kids.”
Stan doesn’t respond. He simply ends the call and let his hand fall heavily to his side. The cigarette has burned down to the filter, but he barely notices as it singes his fingers. Above him, the stars wheel indifferently in the Oregon sky, as distant and unreachable as his brother in the basement below.
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