Archive of Our Own

When Ford barges in one day, papers in hand as he explains all the reasons why going to Gravity Falls would make for a remarkable opportunity, it takes Stanley all of a minute to shrug and say sure.

Maybe there’s a part of him that revels in the lackluster beat such an unenthused answer provides, maybe there’s the part that watches his brother flounder for a moment, wind sniped right out of his sails. It’s the part of him that chuckles, that punches at Ford’s arm and lets his brother babble because Ford was prepared for something, was prepared for Stan to be more involved in the decision making in his own damn life, was prepared to make a case like Stanley Pines had anywhere else to go.

Stan knows, he does, he knows logically he should be more involved in a decision like this, one that was going to govern both their lives for years to come. He knows it’s as much his decision as it is Ford’s. He knows that if he said he wasn’t all that sure of going to Buttfuck Nowhere, Oregon then Ford would have to listen. They may argue about it, they may butt heads for hours and days and weeks but he would listen. When they were kids Stan was usually the decision maker, the one who put his foot down. It’s a habit you’d think would be hard to break.

Instead he watches from the sidelines as Ford stares at his grant check for hours, then his hand, then various books as he pours over all the possibilities that his future could hold. He grunts when Ford asks his opinions, waves his hand when Ford tries to draw him in, and just nods along when Ford finally decides what he really wants out of his life.

Stan wants to say it’s some noble self sacrifice bullshit, letting Ford have the say so he could finally spread his proverbial wings and let his potential go as far as it could. He really wishes it was that easy, that kind hearted and selfless. In a way maybe it is, Ford always told him he doesn’t give himself enough credit, but Stanley wonders if there’s a different truth there.

(It’s a truth much deeper in him, maybe, in his gut in his bones in every crevice of his skin. That truth is that for all the potential and talent that seemed to burst at the seams from Ford that he, Stanley Pines, Mr. Fucking Personality, was a husk. Whatever talent he had dried up a long time ago, maybe he was kidding himself that he ever had it at all, maybe in the womb Ford somehow suctioned all that skill and left Stanley with five normal fingers on each hand but an empty head, an empty shell, an empty future.)

If Ford suspects Stanley isn’t entirely onboard it doesn’t take much to persuade him to ignore it, just an arm around Ford’s shoulders and enough teasing to ease his brother’s quickly startled nerves back into muted excitement over a new opportunity. Stan tries to drum up the excitement too, he really does, but he can somehow feel his father’s disapproving stare the entire way north.

—

Gravity Falls is about as dull as Stan suspected it would be, at least in the day to day. Really, he doesn’t know how the hell Ford managed to wreck his car in all of a day of being there

(‘It was a sentient tree of some sort, Stanley, I swear!’

'Do you even realize how nuts that- hey, don’t go after it, for god’s sake- Ford!’)

and he honestly can’t believe how dense every single person he met so far was

('So i told 'em I had diplomatic parking rights, and they buzzed right off!’

'Can you try not to sound so pleased with yourself when you flagrantly break the law?’)

but all in all it remained a blessedly rural, boring town.

Unlike Ford he makes the effort to go out at least, explore more than just the spooky woods and spooky lake and spooky god damned everything that made up the area. He visits the diner, flirts with the waitress in her pretty blue eye shadow, convinces everyone a booth over of at least three different stories about the 'strange shack in the woods’ that he definitely didn’t live in. He’s pretty satisfied that he’s painted his brother as the most stereotypical mad scientist in existence, complete with a round of yes, I hear that antenna in the yard is for catching lighting to power his eerie, morally questionable works, when a red headed man slams the door in and Stan’s jaw drops just a touch.

The young man was- well, he was manly alright, everything about him was about as masculine as a man could be. It took a moment for the face to click again, that guy, Dan, the one who helped build their (Ford’s) house.

He could almost feel his father’s breath at the back of his neck, asking him things like why are you turning that shade, boy? or why are you squirming? or heaven damn help me why can’t you just do one thing right in your life! It’s his father asking him why he didn’t date more, why Ford didn’t, what was wrong with that boy because at his age it should be girls, at their age that’s what budding men did.

He gets up and leaves, heads back home to a silent house and wonders what the hell was wrong with him. He sits in his chair and thinks maybe he and Ford were both born weird, Ford with his hands and smarts, Stan with whatever it was inside of him that made him just… not right, just off kilter, just unfinished and bent around in strange, warped edges. He tries not to think about those years Ford was in college and Stan was working, about the apartment they shared, about that concert of The Flesh Curtains that night a long time ago and how effortlessly that crude, bizarre excuse of singer worked his way into Stan’s system, charmed him, and-

Ford comes barreling in eventually, arms stuffed with a bag that was hissing in a language Stan didn’t want to understand. His brother barely nods a greeting as he hurries through, always focused on whatever was ahead of him instead of what was around. Stan tries not to feel lost, lonely.

—

Another problem is Stan needs a damn job, and Ford isn’t all that helpful about it.

“Why do you need a job right away?” Ford asks over breakfast, petulantly adding sugar to his cereal because Stan got the wrong kind and for fuck’s sake Ford, he knows okay maybe you should try sticking your giant head out of those journals for once and doing some shopping.

At least the threat of making Ford go out and experience the human world shut him up, though not on this topic. “We’re doing fine, you help me enough with this and that, I can justify giving you a salary.”

“Is that even legal?” Stan doesn’t really care, the government or whoever wrote Ford’s checks clearly didn’t bother having Ford on any kind of leash with all this nonsense his brother spewed regularly. If Stan was being honest with himself, a rare event in and of itself, even his hardened sensibilities found the arrangement suspicious.

Ford though, ever the unconcerned, shrugs. “It’s like paying you to be my assistant.”

“But I’m not your assistant,” Stan points out, stabbing at his pancakes with a little more heat than he should have. If Ford notices Stan doesn’t look up to verify, just cut cut cut at his breakfast, demolished it thoroughly before shoving too big of a bite in his mouth.

“I’m not stopping you from getting a job if you’re that concerned about it, I’m just reminding you there’s no rush.”

Ford’s statement makes his chewing slow, and he risks a glance up to watch his brother scribble something into one of those damned journals that he really shouldn’t have brought to the table. On a better day he would tease Ford about it, mimic their mother and her 'Stanford Pines your books can be without you for half an hour, wash your hands and get your rear in that seat right now!’ Instead he swallows with some force, sits back, shoves the unsettled parts of him down.

“Yeah, right.”

There was no rush, yeah, he knows, yet the idea settles in his stomach like acid, like lumps, painful and churning and heavy. Again their father’s shadow is in the room, looming over every wall, asking him when he was going to stop riding his brother’s coattails in the same tone he used the night he threw Stan out. It was lucky their father came home late that night, that Stan and Ford already had their bout by the time their father came in and asked with a grim finality how Ford’s presentation went.

Stan tries not to think about it all too much now, the weeks of sleeping in his car before Ford finally found him again, the fight they had that night when Ford tore into him for being irresponsible, for being reckless, for scaring him, for painful little truths in between the lines. It took Stan months to accept that maybe they would be okay, months more to mention the project, poke at the angry coils that were Ford, listen to Ford tell him he wasn’t mad anymore and it was okay. That Ford could salvage it all.

That was Ford though, still always looking forward, so wrapped up in his goal of making something out of his time in Backupsmore work that it was as though he lived in a world of his own.

Stan wants to tell him the truth, to explain he had to make something of himself, that he couldn’t keep going on as Ford’s assistant, Ford’s houseguest, Ford’s shadow. More than anything he wants to find something to be proud of, something to prove to everyone and himself that whatever talent he had didn’t just dry up and evaporate into nothing. He wants, what he wants is

He wants to ask Ford if he could even understand that, understand what it was like to be nothing, to be insignificant and small and aimless. Ford always had a plan, a fixation, some deep driving force that Stan couldn’t grasp.

He wants to connect again properly, like when they were kids, to completely understand each other.

He wants to believe they did understand each other. He wants to believe in growing pains and it’ll get better.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t admit that the distance Ford built around himself in college to focus was still a wall between them, that he is lost and he is tired and he is so very sick of being who he is.

When Ford glances up at him he offers Stan a smile, a sincere one, and it makes Stan’s chest twist.

“I’d say good luck but I think I can do one better, did you know there’s an old urban legend in these parts about a stone that can-”

“Spare me, Poindexter,” Stan answers in a drawl, swallowing at a lump in his throat.

—

For all of Stan’s misgivings about the town, Ford really seems to flourish.

Their time in Gravity Falls is the happiest Stan ever remembered seeing him, Ford’s grins and enthusiasm mirrors of the brand of excited joy his twin exuded during their old childhood adventures. It’s a marked change from his college days, days when Stan barely saw him without a book, without a grimly determined expression, without all the telltale signs of too little sleep around his eyes.

Now whenever Ford came in it was always babbling about ghosts this or telekinetic powers that, spewing that same old nonsense the way he would when they were ten and Ford just had to tell Stan everything about the mystery he just read.

(The small part of Stan, the hollow part, wishes he could feel the same about anything, feel that sort of passion, embrace that sort of commitment. He feels like used to have it, a warm fire, but he doesn’t remember. He feels like he’s made of fire down to the tips of his fingers, a raging one, a bitter one, one that clung and destroyed.)

He tries to find places for himself in it all, like the boat once was, like the shore. He shows Ford the lake, tells him it reminds him of home. He asks Ford to come with him to see it, and Ford agrees then forgets.

Stan pretends not to be mad and is petty instead. Eventually he forgets and just tries to drum up some enthusiasm for Ford’s sake on the day to day. Cheerleading he can do.

Though really, he couldn’t be blamed for not being very excited about gnome kidnappings.

“Oh come on!” The little assholes tied him to a tree, of course they did, though not before he had punted at least a dozen of them through the woods. He would have gotten the rest too if the cretins didn’t play dirty and swarm him. “You little shits better let me go if you know what’s good for you-”

The leader doesn’t seem all that phased by his outburst. In fact he looks pleased. “You’ve got spunk, I like that! We like that, actually, it’s a good quality for a queen.”

Stan groans and smacks his head back against the tree. He was going to murder Ford for this, all Stan wanted to do today was try and fix the stairs but no, Ford had to not show up for breakfast or lunch, Stan had to get worried and go out looking for him, gnomes had to get involved. When he found Ford again they were going to have a long talk about life choices and scheduling.

The way things were going, Stan thinks with the most irate humor he can muster, he might even be making a fucking royal decree about it.

“I’m not even a girl!” He spits at his captors, trying very much so to ignore the fact they were arguing over what gem from their little stockpile would make the most impressive engagement ring. “Are you little assholes listening? Male! Man! Fer god’s sake I have stubble, are you understanding this?!”

The leader walks over, a large gem in hand. “I’m sorry, we weren’t listening but what do you think of this one?”

“I-” Stan starts before the gem in question makes his mouth snap shut. That’d… probably be worth something. “… got anything bigger?”

“Stanley!”

Of course Ford would choose that moment to come barging in, wielding a broom menacingly as a gnome chews on his shoe.

Stan isn’t impressed. “Oh, nice of you to join us, and here I thought I’d be without a maid of honor for my forced gnome wedding.”

The whole thing is almost worth it for the truly high pitched yelp Ford gives when the gnome actually manages to chew through his shoe.

It didn’t take long at that point for Ford to free him and for the gnomes to get sorted out. The hairiest part was the giant gnome, but like most people- creatures, Stan guesses - the gnomes vastly underestimated just how hard Stanley’s head could be. It was perfect for plowing right through them without a second thought.

The end to the whole debacle put him in a good enough mood that he doesn’t even rip into Stanford too much on their way back home. “Those damn gnomes can get bent, seriously, do I look like a girl to you?”

“I think they get confused about human gender,” Ford muses, positively upbeat for someone who still had a welt on his forehead from being pelted with acorns. “They likely only saw certain traits and made assumptions from there.”

“Oh, how flattering,” Stan mutters before careening the conversation around. “And where were you all day? The whole reason those little gremlins caught me is because you went AWOL this morning and someone had to go find you.”

“They’re not gremlins, and I just lost track of time.” Ford waves a hand. “I was talking to the most fascinating squash, did you know many species consider being given the ability to feel as a human being does a curse or punishment?”

Stan groans. “Stanford, are you kidding me? I got kidnapped to become a gnome queen because you were having tea with a squash?!”

“He wasn’t just a squash, he has a human face and emotions!”

“I don’t care if he’s the queen of England, what would have happened if you ran into those damned gnomes when you were distracted?”

“I can handle myself.” Ford sounds indignant for all of a minute, a minute where Stan almost snaps back, fast and sharp. Instead Ford continues dryly. “Besides, I don’t have your impressive shoulders and windswept hair, very popular in gnome circles I hear.”

Stan huffs before putting Ford in a headlock for that statement, feeling that tense itch in him unwind when Ford laughs and punches his arm.

—

His pastime becomes telling stories at the diner, and after a few months he gets, of all things,popular.

It started out innocently enough, just an obnoxious way to poke fun at Ford without Ford even knowing. It was just so damned easy to make up ridiculous rumors about the weird shack way off the beaten road, about science experiments and monsters and things that go bump in the night. Stan never expected the strange hicks to love it but they do, for some damned reason the people in town loved a tall, pointless sort of tale, a local legend without any bite.

Stan wonders about it sometimes, if all the strange, nasty business that occasionally engulfed the town made its residents crave simplicity, fun, pointless lies to fall asleep easier at night. The farther he gets from the truth the happier they seem, crowding around his stool as his stories go even farther than Ford and his shack, as he starts telling tales about the library and the lake and the horrifying Sascrotch sometimes seen in the woods.

The first time people actually tip him he feels like his jaw must have dropped to the floor. The diner management loves him, gives him discounts and free meals, says he’s good for business with how many people will stop by to hear his stupid stories with their meal.

And that’s what they were, right? That’s all they were.

They were, they are just stupid stories, yet for the first time in his entire life Stan feels something like pride swelling in his chest- pride for himself rather than pride for his brother’s latest leap and bound, pride in a job well done that barely involved Ford at all.

He wants to tell Ford, he really does, but that small part of him is scared. He pictures the scenario in his head like

Ford’s grinning, Ford’s proud, Ford leans in and laughs and says go on, tell me one of them they must be good if

Ford’s confused but Ford’s smiling, Ford doesn’t understand but he wants to understand he wants to share it he

Ford’s busy, Ford’s reading his journal, Ford hums agreements and doesn’t hear

Ford’s eyes are on him but hard to see behind his glasses, Ford’s unimpressed, Ford expected something real, something legitimate, instead of just Stan bragging about how he can bullshit well enough to get a free meal.

Stan shudders, it’s his father’s shadow again just looming over him and he knows, he knows he has no right to be proud of something so pointless, something so easy, something that doesn’t make him much more than a few bucks here and there. He knows he’s a knucklehead for even trying.

Ford seems even more distracted lately, too wound up in his own glorious life to notice anything around him.

More than once Stan finds him asleep at the kitchen table or in the living room chair, muttering quietly under his breath, drowsily through his dreams, like he’s holding a conversation. Ford had never been a big sleep talker before, not that Stan had seen. It was something he accused Stanley of several times but never dealt with himself. Stan finds it creepy somehow, like ghosts and scratching and bumps in the night, creepier than he wants to admit.

The strangest thing is when Ford goes silent at the dinner table one day before asking, “Stanley, how did you know when you were really ready to let someone into your life?”

The question throws Stan, forces his eyes up to Ford’s thoughtful face. He chews slowly at a chunk of his chicken soup as he considers. “Whattaya mean?”

“I mean-” And now Ford’s worked up in that way he got when they were kids, when his mind was working faster than his mouth, when Stan had to wait it out. “I mean trusting someone to truly be a part of your life, to… share it with you.”

Stan watches, processes, mulls over the way Ford struggles not to say something. When a thought hits him he practically spits out his soup, coughing and sputtering. “Wait wait wait, do y'mean asking someone out? Marriage?”

“What?” The look on Ford’s face was priceless, lost then found then adamant. “I- no, no I just mean- look it’s hard to explain!”

“Oh no, no way,” Stan chokes out, thumping his chest to get the last rattles out of it. “Don’t tell me you found a girl- or a… I don’t know, mermaid? Fairy? Please don’t let it be one of those horrible tentacle monsters from last week, I know some people are into that sort of thing but-”

“Oh my god Stanley, shut up!” Ford looked ready to strangle him and Stan laughs, unable to help himself. “It’s not anything like that! I just- I haven’t had a lot of people in my life and I don’t have a lot of experience with interpersonal dilemmas and I- It’s complicated!”

Stan sits back, regarding Ford and his nervous, evasive glances. His brother was always a shitty liar but here he can’t really tell where the nervousness was stemming from, what was its source and why it even mattered. Even with all the strange vague comments, the secrecy, it’s the closest thing to really confiding in him that Ford did in a while and Stan…

It was the fucked up thing about it all, it was that the whole situation was making Stan feel good, making him feel important for just a moment. Ford came to him to ask something like this, Ford didn’t know something Stanley did, needed Stanley’s advice rather than Stan just trailing behind again.

He clears his throat.

“Well, I dunno Ford, it’s a pretty complicated thing you’re asking.” He shrugs one shoulder and yes, maybe that’s laying it on thick but it’s the truth. “Like with Carla? How did I know I first wanted to be around her or how did I know I wanted her in my life?”

He can still remember Carla in a sun dress on the shore, the one her and her friend made, how beautiful she looked when she smiled at him under the boardwalk and agreed to be his gal. He still remembers the horrified look on her face when she found him standing at the cliff edge, looking down at the wreckage of that damned hippie’s car. He still remembers when Ford visited him in the asylum and hesitantly told him Carla had filed for a restraining order.

He tries not to think about it much.

His question though, it makes an interesting look cross Ford’s face, one that isn’t pleased. “I told you it’s not- fine, let’s just use Carla as an example.”

“I wanted t'be around her because she had legs that wouldn’t quit and actually gave me the time of day,” Stan answers instantly when Ford finally settles, watching the sour expression that crossed Ford’s face with a laugh. “What, it’s true, Sixer. Don’t get me wrong, I respected the hell out of her but I was a teenage boy. A pretty girl asks for a date and that was all there was to it. As for the other…”

He can’t joke about that, not really, and he knows Ford can tell from the way his brother was leaning forward, listening quietly like it was a school lesson, like it was important. It makes Stan’s throat feel a bit tight, a bit nervous, like he’s on a stage, like he’s dissected. He glances away.

“I guess one day I was just spending time with her, cruising around in the Stanleymobile and I realized we hadn’t said anything in ages. Just the two of us, driving around, not a word but if she hadn’t been there it wouldn’t have been the same.” He feels like a fool saying it, throat bobbing as he swallows and tries to rush through the rest. “I just knew I wanted her around, that’s all. She made me feel like being me was pretty alright.”

It takes him a while to glance back at his brother but when he does Ford is staring ahead, clearly deep in his own thoughts. Stan was about to continue, lighten the mood or make a crude joke when Ford glances to him instead, expression a little pained.

“Stanley I’m sorry, about Carla,” He says softly between them, and Stan turns away, nods, tries to forget. It isn’t too hard anymore, not with his memory these days, his memory of those days.

“Yeah well, me too.” Stan stifles a sigh, anything to get that look off his brother’s face. It’s well meaning but grating in all the worst ways. “You promise you don’t have some monster girlfriend on the backburner?”

Ford’s sigh is exasperated but fond. “I promise Stan, no monster girlfriend.”

—

One day Ford announces that he’s calling Fiddleford up.

“I need an assistant,” He explains to Stan, leaning against the chair Stan’s currently occupying as he was trying to watch the Gravity Falls news. Frankly Ford’s proclamation is far more interesting than anything they ever reported on that channel. “Not only that but I need someone with some real engineering knowledge. Fiddleford is perfect.”

Stan grunts, barely listening. Fiddleford was alright, he guessed, a wiry little dweeb Stanford had some vague approximation of a friendship with. Stanley didn’t really have the heart to tell his brother he was pretty sure Fiddleford had better things to do than run to their special corner of Buttfuck Nowhere to do… whatever it was Ford was doing now.

When Ford nudges his shoulder, looking at him expectantly Stan finally attempts a real response. “Yeah, great, banjo guy. Why do you need him anyway, I doubt he’ll be much help chasing vampires or whatever it is you do all day.” And Stan pauses.

“… you don’t actually do that, right?” Sometimes Stan felt like he should get more involved with the spooky nonsense Ford did daily just to make sure his brother didn’t come back undead one morning. Knowing his brother he’d probably be happy about it.

“I have a new project.” Ford ignores Stan’s last question, which hardly surprises Stan enough to even feel the smallest twinge of offense. “It’s still in very early development but I want to try making an interdimensional portal, one that can finally connect our world to the one that’s pressing up against Gravity Falls’s thin barrier.”

“Don’t you think that sounds kind of like a bad idea, Sixer?” Stan can’t help but point it out. He glances up in time to watch Ford’s face predictably harden in defensive indignation. Stan keeps going, because he was made of bad ideas and brittle. “I mean, the way you tell it this other dimension is the reason Gravity Falls is full of such dangerous stuff, do we really want a more direct path for that dangerous stuff to use?”

“You’re not thinking of the bigger picture, Stanley!” That’s the response Stan predicted, and he leans back into his chair as Ford continues fervently. “Imagine how much we could learn if we could only make it past that barrier! Endless possibilities, who knows how many worlds are out there! It could be a new age for human enlightenment!”

“Still sounds dangerous to me.”

“You’re being shortsighted.” Another unsurprising response, and Stan tries not to bristle as Ford turns away. Ford never did like hearing reality in the face of his enthusiasm. “I just wanted to let you know Fiddleford might be coming to town, I’m going to let him stay here until he settles. I was thinking the attic would make a good guest room.”

“Sure, sure.” Stan’s happy to let the matter drop. A small, sharp part of him was quick to remind it wasn’t his house anyway, not really. Ford didn’t need to bother asking. “Just tell the little weasel to keep his banjo music down.”

He can picture Ford’s eye roll as he brother marches out.

—

Stan works around town, different, menial jobs that never last very long. It’s not exactly easy for a high school drop out to get a decent job, and even though Ford routinely suggests he take night classes and get his diploma he can’t quite bring himself to do it. He doesn’t know how much it will really help in the end, a piece of paper that says it took him a good seven years longer to graduate high school than everyone else. It feels like failure. It feels like second place. Ha, no, it feels like a participation reward.

He enjoys his nights telling tales at the diner the most, lives for them really, as Ford and Fiddleford bury themselves in this weird contraption Ford’s so obsessed with.

Ford’s more distant than ever, so distant that even Fiddleford seems to feel it. It’s Stan who actually talks to the guy, hears about his pregnant wife still looking for a house around. It’s Stan who helps Fiddleford move in and he barely likes the man, more a distant acquaintance from a time Stan would rather forget.

“Stanford’s just as single-minded as always,” Fiddleford jokes, and Stan isn’t sure why it all feels ominous instead of light hearted.

He even says it aloud. “Hey Fidds, are you sure this whole portal thing is a good idea? Sounds kinda dangerous to me.”

“Most things worth tryin’ are a tad dangerous,” Fiddleford answers. Not really what Stan wants to hear. “S'all hypothetical right now anyway- feasible, but nowhere near off the ground.”

He likes Fiddleford’s wife more than Fiddleford. They even meet up sometimes and complain about dealing with geniuses on the day to day. He asks her if she ever feels a distance there, a pressure to catch up, worded as casually as possible.

She says she doesn’t and he tries not to let the thought sting.

—

It takes a year for everything to go wrong.

One day Stan’s coming home, bone tired from giving lumberjacking a try- yeah, not really his thing, as much as it was satisfying to hit something until it fell- when Fiddleford bursts through the room, past him, muttering to himself.

“Fidds, what the hell-” he tries, stumbles, startled when Fiddleford turns on him with wild, wide eyes.

“You’re both cursed.” The words are acidic, burning nastily against Stan’s skin even as he attempts to throw it off, to see it for the melodrama of a B-movie it certainly seemed. “He’s sick, Stanley, run while you still can.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Stan baffled and irritated at the doorway.

He goes down to the basement when Ford’s clearly not around, down the elevator he had only used a handful of times when Ford didn’t come up for dinner and he had to sigh and play nursemaid to a grown man. It was getting worse over the last year, it was getting longer nights and shorter conversations and so much sleeping more than once Stan thought Ford was actually dead until he noticed the steady rise of his brother’s chest. It was getting distant, unreachable, words stuck thick in Stan’s throat, words like

Wanna hear about my day? Saw the biggest damn rodent, I almost called home to get you over here with your stupid journal. Ha, it’s the only thing that’d get you outta the house anyway, right? Not me. Not like I need ya hovering anyway, I’m fine, I’m doing great, I’m making it here just need a little more time, just a little more

Words like that, spoken in his head at meals, spoken to a Stanford that listened in Stan’s own thoughts, one that felt bad and apologized. One that felt chagrined and promised to set aside more time for him. One that asked him to expand upon it, upon his day, upon his life like it was something worth hearing.

A Stanford that came to dinner. A Stanford that didn’t look at him sometimes with a strange, quick hue in his eyes and a laugh.

The basement always disturbed him, made him anxious, an impossibly large space deep in the earth. When they were first constructing the house and all its layers Stan remembers clenching his fists, keeping his mouth shut over what a waste the basement felt like, what an unnecessary expense, what a vast area that boiled down to a large sum they didn’t need to use.

He never said anything, as dearly as he wanted to. It wasn’t his money after all, he was just skating by on coattails.

Deep in the third level of the basement he finds Ford staring at his reflection on the wall. The portal itself looms over them and Stan can’t begin to understand it, how much it’s changed and grown, what it’s capable of. He can’t understand the presence, like some ancient monolith towering over them. He can understand the look of horror on his brother’s face, something dark and disturbed that sets Stan’s teeth on edge as he hurries over.

“Ford-” he starts, taking a step back as Ford whirled around as if expecting a fight. His twin calms, thankfully, when he sees Stan. His fingers twitch against his sleeve, his tone is like the tremor of cold hands.

“Stanley, you’re home early.”

“No, I’m not. You’ve been holed up in here so long you wouldn’t know though, would you?” Stan isn’t sure what’s winning in his warring tone, an old bitterness or concern. “What gives, Ford? McGucket just darted out of here like a bat out of hell, babbling about how we’re cursed. That’s an extreme reaction even for him.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ford’s tone is suddenly burning, harsh and sharp, just as unpleasant as Fiddleford’s was only minutes before. It’s that acid, thrown again against Stan’s skin. Stan bristles. “I don’t- I don’t need him, I can figure this out on my own.”

“It does matter!” Stan snaps, out of a sudden, gripping fear rather than anger, one tearing through his locked chest. “He looked ready to strangle the first person who looked at him wrong Stanford, and you don’t look much better! What the hell happened here?”

“It’s-” His brother was clearly struggling, glancing around, startled down to his bones. “I said it was nothing, Stanley, just leave it be. Why don’t you go visit the lake for a while? You like it there.”

And it hurts, it hurts more than Stan can say, it hurts more than he’d ever want to say. Something snaps in his chest, something fine and brittle. Something tired.

“Fine,” he spits, arms trembling, every nasty little doubt rearing their nasty little heads. “Why would you trust me, right? Why have me involved? Just your brother.” The fuck up, he wants to tack on, the loser, the one who ruined your chances, the one you still haven’t really forgiven, the bumbling oaf, the leech.

“Stanley…” Ford trails off and for one quiet moment Stan wants to believe he’ll continue, wants to believe he’ll say all the things Stan so desperately needs him to say.

But he doesn’t, and Stan doesn’t either. Stan walks away, back up the elevator and into the sunlight, out the door and to the diner. He lays the charm so thick on Susan she agrees to take him home that night, and from her bed he wonders what he actually wanted anymore past surviving another day.

—

He stays away for one day, then two, then more. He doesn’t look at clocks, or calendars, or hole he’s slowly worrying into a gaping tear in his jean’s knee.

It’s easier than he thought it would be, hopping couches, sleeping in his car, the kind of life he lived those few weeks after he was kicked out of the house. Stan’s smart about some things, so very few, so very useless, and he knows now when he’s been crashing at one place too long, the right things to say to avoid people realizing he was just using them for a roof and food, to avoid awkward questions. He has enough money to stay at the ugly motel in between, enough favor at the diner to get a few meals here and there.

Stan waits, and eventually he realizes all he really wanted was for Ford to come find him again like he did years ago. He wants words like

Stan I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I do want you around, okay? We’re a team, we’re partners, I’m glad you’re here, I want you here, I know you can help, I need you to help, I-

It’s stupid, it’s selfish, it’s childish but he needs it, he needs Ford to show he cares, he needs someone, anyone, to reach out like that again, to worry about him, as if in doing so it’d prove that he was worth something.

But Ford never comes.

—

One day he gets a note.

It’s a postcard of all things, a damned Gravity Falls post card, like Ford was sending it somewhere far away rather than the town proper. Stan isn’t sure if the whole thing makes him want to laugh or want to cry, it was just so ridiculously Ford, so ridiculous dramatic and unnecessary and Ford. The writing is large and dire. PLEASE COME.

Stan drops everything and goes to the shack.

Nothing is the way it should be, windows are boarded, freshly boarded, everything is hanging in a loose, deathly gloom. He parks the Stanleymobile, trying to understand how in what could only have been a few months everything fell apart so badly. It wasn’t as though he didn’t keep an ear to the ground, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t jumped at the slightest mention of the mad scientist in the woods, new ridiculous rumors, any information at all. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t ready, wasn’t prepared, wasn’t praying for a road back, a reason to run.

He walks through the threshold, into the house, trying to ignore the clutter in every corner, disorganized in such a chaotic way it felt alien to Ford’s usual, harmless mess. He’s about to call out when he finally notices Ford sitting by the window, staring down at the journal in his lap.

“Ford?” he calls softly, carefully, walking over to see the pages in question were splattered liberally with what looked too much like blood. There’s a red pen in his brother’s shaking hand and rapid, desperate markings all over the page, shaky words, entire blocks of writing crossed out savagely. He catches the title

Bill Cipher

just as Ford glances up with wide eyes. Stan’s throat feels dry as dust and mold. “Looking like shit there, Sixer.”

And oh does he, with bags under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that definitely wasn’t normal even for him and his terrible habits. Ford looks far away somehow, as though Stanley would need to climb a mountain just to reach him, as though he was a faded photograph Stan couldn’t grasp, and all of this is just so wrong. Stan doesn’t understand.

“You came.” Ford’s words are more a statement than a question, one filled with a light wonder as he lowers his gaze back down to the book. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Of course I did,” Stan tries, tries so so hard not to let the last statement sting. When he takes a step forward Ford slams the book shut, eyes narrowing at it with a hateful spite. It makes Stan freeze, scared and unsure despite all the parts of him that viciously mocked those feelings. “Ford, what the hell-”

Before he can try to explain Ford grasps at his own hair, pulling at it in a way that alarms Stan, makes him push forward and grab at Ford’s wrists because he just doesn’t know what to do.

“You were right.” Ford was gasping, grasping at Stan’s arms now that his hands were pulled away from his head. “You were right, Stanley, you were so right, Fiddleford was right, all this time I- I should have listened, I should have told you, I should have asked, should have… should have known! How could I be so stupid, Stanley?”

His voice gets higher and higher as he spoke, louder and more ragged like a dam bursting. Stan struggles with what to say, how to look, even as Ford continues hysterically.

“How?! Being smart is all I have and I couldn’t even- I didn’t even realize-” He breaks, cracks across his surface, still unable to look at Stanley as he clutches Stan’s arms hard enough it hurt. “Itrusted him! I’m so stupid, I trusted him and I’m a god damned fool, I’m sorry. I’m

"I’m so sorry.” Ford’s tone goes small by the end, quiet the way it was when they were kids and Stan had to push him to tell him what was wrong, had to nudge and badger him until Ford muttered about something someone said, something their dad said, something he over thought to the point of driving himself mad. Stan didn’t know what to say then and doesn’t now, so he lets go of Ford’s wrists, pulling him into a loose embrace.

“It’s alright Poindexter, it’s okay, everyone’s a fool sometimes. We’ll work this out.” he finally mutters, placing a hand on Ford’s back as his brother pressed his head into Stan’s shoulder, grasped him back tightly, breath broken and ragged against Stan’s worn out jacket.

—

It takes a while for Ford to calm down, to open up again enough to offer any kind of communication other than quiet apologies and avoidance. Stan’s head is a whirlwind, somehow both emotionally drained and keyed up at the same time.

Stan feels like he’s going on autopilot, trying to take care of shattered world around him all while ignoring all the nasty, rotten chunks lurking in his own gut. He feels guilty, he should have paid more attention, shouldn’t have left. He feels angry, why didn’t Ford come to him sooner, why didn’t he even try trusting Stan? It’s a poisonous mix and it churns angrily, stubbornly. It makes him tired.

Maybe that’s why halfway into trying to make his distant brother a pot of tea Stan speaks again. “Why don’t we ever talk about when I got kicked out?”

He can hear a shuffle, can imagine Ford finally glancing over from his spot at the kitchen table, where he had just been staring out the window listlessly. It was a look that didn’t suit Ford, or so Stan thought. He doesn’t like it at all. It makes him tired.

Stan waits, he waits a long time, not willing to run away before Ford gives him an answer he was very much owed. The water was almost boiling when Ford finally spoke, tone quiet, “Because… I was- I am afraid part of you resents me for it.”

That makes Stan turn, eyes wide as Ford glances down at the table, looking uncomfortable. Stan opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

“What?”

Ford looks up to him at that, brow furrowing before his eyes slid away again. “You took a bullet for me there. I’d understand if you resented that.”

Stan’s honestly baffled, raking his hand through his hair. “Uh… no offense Ford but I think you’re remembering this wrong. I was the knucklehead who mucked up your project, remember?”

“I thought we already discussed it had to have been tampered with before.” Ford gives him a tired look before rubbing his eyes, glasses skewing haphazardly over his forehead. Stan doesn’t bother trying to revisit the old argument, the fact Ford was convinced Stan couldn’t have done that amount of damage with a mere jostle.

Sometimes Stan wonders if it’s all a lie Ford tells himself. Sometimes he wonders if Ford would have forgiven him if he really believed it was a stupid mistake.

Ford continues, “And you did muck something up, you should have told me that night something was wrong. I was mad about that, extremely mad even, but… it happened. Nothing can change that.”

“So you’re not still pissed at me?” Stan hates the way his voice sounds small, and maybe Ford does too from the way he grimaces.

“No, Stanley. I thought we covered all this before, when we argued the first time.”

“Apparently not well enough if you somehow thing I’d hate you for it.”

Ford refuses to look at him now, not bothering to right his glasses from where they were perched on his forehead now. Stan tries not to get irritated, he truly really does, and it works for all of a minute before he sighs. “Ford.”

“When dad came home he asked what happened with the project,” Ford mutters finally, quietly, staring out the window again. “I told him it was sabotaged. He didn’t believe me. He started getting angry, yelling, telling me I must have messed up, that I lost my chance, that I… and then you- you came in and told him you were the one that hit the table. I tried to tell him if your story was right someone else had to have messed with the crate and machine first but he wouldn’t listen. He kicked you out.”

Stan listens silently, grimly, the night coming back in unpleasantly sharp focus. It was

Ford trying to explain, fumbling, so recently cooled down from the hour or more he and Stan spent shouting at each other. Their father’s so tall, eyes covered, eyes still expectant. Their father’s rage mounting, peaking, disgust in his tone and all how did y'mess this up? How did ya mess up theone thing you’re worth, how’d ya lose all our damn money- no, look at me and tell me how, Stanford! This was our ticket you little freak and now, and now and the look on Ford’s face, that look, his hands behind his back and-

Something in Stan snapped. Something in Stan shattered and told his father the truth- or part of the truth at least. He spat it out it was my fault, Pops, I smacked the table, the machine got messed up, lay off him alright and then there was a whirlwind. And then he was outside, on the street. And then the window to their room was dark and Ford wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

He hadn’t thought about it in years, maybe since that night, too focused on everything their father said as he threw Stanley out the door, too focused on everything he and Ford yelled when they found each other again. It was strange, the memory was so sharp but so old, so inconsequential, just another step in the whole messy affair he barely bothered to keep a tab on yet Ford had harbored it like an old wound for years it seemed.

“You really thought I was mad at you for that?” He can’t help a little wonder in his voice, and maybe it’s good because Ford finally snaps.

“Why wouldn’t you? Stanley, you’ve been protecting me my whole life, you’ve been sacrificing because you think I need it and I hated that! I hated how you always seemed to think I needed your protection, your guidance, like I couldn’t handle it on my own and maybe-”

His tone dried, shriveled, died into something small. “Maybe I do. I tried not to, I thought once we were out of there things could be different but here we are again, aren’t we?” His tone was bitter, tired. “You’re dropping everything to save me again.”

Stan swallows something thick in his throat, walking over to smack the back of Ford’s head lightly. He even manages a small smile at the glower that action got him, even manages some warmth through the clutter.

“I just wanted t'help you, you knucklehead. I mean what else am I good for? I’m the one riding your coattails, should at least try to pull my weight,” he admits, and Ford’s eyes widen just a little, just a touch. “You were always the talented one, the one good at everything. The best I can do is get some locals to buy into a tall tale or two for a free meal at the diner or scare away bullies.”

“You road them right into a disaster then,” Ford answers, a exhausted attempt at levity maybe, one stretched too thin against whatever whirlwind of thoughts were in his head. The beat of silence gives Stan a chance to breath before Ford speaks again. “Stanley I… I’m sorry. I had no idea you felt this way.”

“Well I didn’t really pick up you felt that way either. We’ll get to all that.” Stan turns off the burner, uninterested in tea right now as he goes to sit across from his brother. “We’re quite the pair.”

“We always were.” Ford’s smile was small but it was there, and Stan felt lighter than he had in years, even as Ford’s face goes grim and thinning. “I don’t know if you should stay here, Stanley. I don’t think you should get involved in this.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Stan shoots back without a pause. He leans back, watching Ford’s uncomfortable look. “Now tell me what the hell happened here, Stanford, and don’t leave anything out.”

Ford hesitates but ultimately nods, staring down at his hands. “It all started with an incantation in a cave.”

—

The story is long and unpleasant, deeply unpleasant and unsettling, from the clear signs at the beginning of what a mistake it was to the final act where everything fell apart.

And through it all Stan isn’t sure who he wants to punch more: Stanford for keeping this close to his chest, for avoiding Stan, for hiding; this Bill character for just about everything, the underhanded tactics and nastiness and manipulation and everything Stan was reading between the lines of what Ford wanted to admit; or himself for missing this, for not being there to warn Stanford, to help Stanford because he would have, he absolutely would have. Maybe kind could sniff out kind, and Stan isn’t sure what it says about him that every single statement about Bill Cipher made his skin crawl, recognizing the techniques, recognizing the lies.

He always knew Stanford was naive in his own way, ever since they were children and Stan had to make sure Ford didn’t bumble into a particularly nasty bout of bullying when some of the kids around pretended to be nice just to get under his skin. Stan learned a long time ago how to recognize that, recognize people like his mother who spewed bullshit over and under everything they said, weaved it in just to get what they wanted. He loved his mother, still loves her, but she was the one who taught him the damage and rewards of a good lie or a nasty one.

It baffles him sometimes how Ford never picked up that skill, never seemed to understand such a simple, unconscious thing like Stan did. He was so used to his brother being leaps and bounds ahead that it shakes him a little, just a little. It’s eye opening in an unpleasant way.

Even though he told Ford to tell him everything he can see where Ford quietly leaves facts out, like the alarming, glaring fact that his brother was obviously obsessed with a god damned demon. It’s clear in the way he talks, the way glances away in shame at certain points, even from the scribbled out words on the page Ford finally shows him. It’s also clear Ford isn’t being entirely honest about what actually happened between them in this falling out, just that it happened very recently and Bill thought it was another game.

All of it, every single piece, makes Stan’s blood boil. When Ford finally trails off, finally glances nervously at Stan for his verdict Stan forces himself to let out a breath.

“He’s a fucking dead man- demon, whatever.”

Ford stares at that, clearly shocked by the venom in Stan’s tone. Stan’s not sure why, isn’t sure he wants to know why, if Ford expected him to direct that venom at him, expected him to leave, didn’t expect him to sound so uncomfortably vicious. He offers his brother a smile, an unsettling one, and Ford slinks back just a little.

“Hey, you’re the brains and I’m the brawn, right? Dynamic duo. So you tell me how to punch this thing and I’ll break its two dimensional face in half.”

Ford flounders for all of a second before he laughs, a genuine one if not a little shaky, right into his palm. It warms something up in Stan and his smile loses some of its bite. “I’m serious Ford, and don’t go giving me the it’s dangerous bit. You and me together, alright?”

“Together,” Ford answers slowly, quietly, expression torn between the unfortunate reality of it all and something a lot more like hope. “It won’t be easy.”

“It never is.” Stan shrugs and oh, how right he ends up being. How very right.

—

It starts a little too late at night, a little too dark to see anything but Ford’s shadow in the doorway.

“Stanley,” he calls, “Can you help me with something?”

Stan’s tired, cranky, up only to get water and get back to bed so he grumbles but follows his brother. It takes him far too many beats to realize it’s to the basement elevator.

“Aw c'mon Ford! Y'know I hate that creepy place,” Stan whines, scratching at the hem of his tank top, squinting in the dim light as Ford stays turned away from him in the elevator, waiting. Waiting.

“It’s important,” his brother promises and Stan grumbles again, goes, thinks about the last time he was down here, doesn’t think about the last time he was down here.

Ford spasms in the elevator and Stan looks over, frowning. Before he can say a word Ford shoots it down. “I’m fine.”

He’s not fine, Stan knows that, 'I’m fine’ for them was code for 'I don’t want to talk about it’ or 'I can’t talk about it’ or 'I’m not allowed to talk about it, men don’t talk about it, we never talk about it.’ Ford’s not fine and Stan knows it, knew from the moment he walked back into the shack, knew from the spaces between Ford’s story. He’s still tired but he thinks about those spaces, those cracks, the vagueness, Ford starting and stopping and pulling words back. Ford said something like

Stanley just… just be careful. You can’t trust anyone, you understand? You can’t

and Stan didn’t get it but he nodded, tried to pretend he understood, tried to be something more than a loose end.

They’re in the basement now and everything’s dark. Ford doesn’t turn on the lights. He twitches again, spasms, and Stan’s skin crawls. Something is wrong. He takes a step back.

“Now,” Ford says, still only half turned to him. “Do me a favor and go flip that switch on the console, will you? Pretty please?”

He gestures to the console, cold and dead in the heart of the basement save for the strange, glowing symbol like a hot iron sizzling on the side. Stan barely looks at it, too focused on Ford, too focused on the strange lilt of his voice. He’s awake now. His teeth want to grind.

“You’re not Ford,” Stan says and thinks of Ford, staring down at his journals, thinks of Ford’s soft voice and

I made such a terrible mistake but I can fix it Stanley, I know I can. You don’t have to worry- no, it’s alright, I can fix this Stanley, I can

liked he could spare Stan, like he wanted Stan there but didn’t, like he had to do everything himself, like dammit Ford just-

Ford laughs. The thing in Ford’s skin laughs.

“Oh, nothing gets by you, does it, tough guy?”

And then he’s forward, and then he has Ford’s hands at Stan’s throat.

Stan’s first reaction is panic, an animal instinct to claw and bite and punch his way out of danger. He’s no stranger to it, to desperate fights and desperate people. During Ford’s college days he dabbled in more than he wanted to admit, the time after the asylum, when he was bitter and angry and so vicious deep in his bones. He did bad things then, worked for bad people, hurt and suffered and fell to rock bottom before dragging himself out again.

He tries not to think of those days now, the time when Ford barely knew what was going on but frowned in silent, heavy concern whenever Stan came home late with a split lip and money he had no explanation for. He thought he did a good job, that those days were over, yet with fingers trying to choke the life out of him he can feel those years clawing up, that violent, desperate part of him that never went away.

Ford was never that strong. It doesn’t take much to rip his hands away once Stan’s got a good grasp.

Still it sends them spiraling down, the crash of metal and delicate machinery against Stan’s back. There’s a desperate kind of resolve in Ford’s body, a strength born from a lack of care, a lack of self preservation like his skin and bones and blood were just tools to get this one job done. It’s born from some strange inner joy, some joy that didn’t belong to Stanford, and Stan hates it as he kicks his brother’s gut to push him back.

Ford’s body wheezes as it tries to laugh. Stan’s furious, trembling, scared as Ford’s body spits out. “Whoa there, careful on the merchandise, pal! You know how hard it is to get a meatsack for cheap like this?”

“What the hell are you? Give Ford back!” Stan’s livid, shaking, terrified as Ford straightens. “Give him back right now!”

Stan grabs at him, grabs Ford even though Ford doesn’t seem to be home. Even in the dark he can finally see it, a sickly yellow to Ford’s eyes, and Stan’s fingers shake where they’re clenched in Ford’s jacket. Ford’s smile is all teeth, a knife gash across his face, putrid.

“Let’s make a deal then, Stanley Pines. You flip off the switch for that annoying little ward and alllll of this can end.”

Trust no one Stan thinks, Stan remembers, and he wants to slap Ford. “Like hell I am. You got the wrong guy if you think you can dupe me with this bullshit.”

And Ford- Bill - laughs. “Let’s try this the fun way then.”

Ford’s head is bashed against his before Stanley can breath, Ford’s forehead to his nose and fuck, there’s blood and something like a crunch and Stan falls back, loosens his grip. There’s fire on his tongue, pulsing with the shooting pain, filled with vitriol and loathing and how did Stan let it happen. It all falls away as Bill reaches into Ford’s coat, pulls out what looks like one of their steak knives, lifts it and Stan’s head is buzzing and racing and then

Bill lifts it towards Ford’s skin.

And Stan shouts, hollers, explodes from the inside. He’s sure there must be chunks of him on the walls with the force of it and he’s shooting forward, he’s grabbing Ford’s wrist, they’re tangling and tumbling and throwing their weight around and there’s blood between them that might be Stanley’s or might be Ford’s and they fall.

They fall to the ground, near the console. They fall and knife falls, skids, and Stan lets go to grab it, to get the handle, lifting it just in time for Bill to grab his wrist and send the back of Stan’s hand and forearm straight into the glowing, hot symbol on the console. Stan screams, Stan shrieks and it

hurtshurtshurtshurtshurtshurtsohgodoh g o d

and then it doesn’t hurt as much. And then the hand at his wrist spasms, drops, lets go.

And then Ford’s staring at him.

“S-Stanley?” Ford’s words are a breath and Stan can barely hear them, barely function, the knife long dropped and the skin on the back of his hand and arm raw and peeling and god it hurts, it hurts.

“Fuck, fuck!” Stan spits, sees a hand reaching for him and he can’t help it, he can’t, he flinches back.

He looks up in time to see Ford’s face shatter.

“Sixer-” he tries but Ford’s shut off, refocused, hands gentle and trembling as they help Stan up. Before Ford can do more Stan’s wrapped around him, good arm tight around him, and Ford freezes in the embrace. “Jesus Christ, Ford. Jesus…”

“I’m sorry,” Ford breaths into Stanley’s shoulder, muffled and cracked. “I’m so… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, we need to get you to the hospital, I should have said, I should have told you-”

The ride is long, Stan pretends Ford can bear looking at him, he thinks Ford pretends Stan isn’t routinely checking his eyes. In the waiting room Ford goes this wasn’t supposed to happen and whispers I had it under control, I had him out, he never took over that long before, he never and I can fix this, it’ll be okay. Stan pretends he isn’t too shaken, too scared to process it.

He asks Stan how he’s feeling and Stan lies.

—

Stan’s never felt more helpless in his life, and that was damn saying something after everything.

Before the little drama with Bill Ford had been responsive, engaged, willing to include Stan when he spoke about plans and what he had to do next, willing to slowly open up about the details as Stan chipped away at his resolve to keep Stan out of it, keep Stan safe. Dismantling the portal was difficult, that’s about all Stan got from Ford’s babbling science mumbo jumbo, he had to be careful with every single measure because the slightest mistake could rip the fabric of their dimension. Bill knew this, Ford had seethed, he knew he had to weave in complications so the portal couldn’t just be taken apart at the first sign of trouble. At the time Stan had nodded along, gave his support where he could and hoped beyond hope this little nightmare would be over soon.

After Bill’s visit though, after the wound and oddly shaped mark now scarring on Stan’s hand and arm, after that Ford all but avoided Stan. He locked himself in the basement, forced Stan to promise to lock his door every night and sleep with a weapon nearby. Whenever Stan tried to talk him down it went nowhere, his brother was too far gone now, too wired to this new, barely functional paranoia. He barely slept from what Stan could see, and every time Stan voiced a concern over it Ford told him he was busy, it was dangerous, it would be fine.

And now Stan, he doesn’t know what to do, what someone like him could possibly do to help, someone stupid and useless and injured. Someone on the bench. He ’s the brawn and everything about this fight is mental, is on a plane he couldn’t hope to touch let alone conquer. His head filled with nightmares almost every night and he could feel his brother’s paranoia seeping into him, the small, quiet voice that asked him if he was just stressed or just tired or if yellow eyes found a way right into his head and dreams.

The oppressive atmosphere comes to a head when Stan wakes up one morning to find Ford at the kitchen table, eyes glazed and empty quiet vacant. He’s on alert immediately, looking for yellow, looking for predatory grin, and freezes when he realizes there’s something wrong with Ford’s head.

“Stanford!” He rushes over, grabbing Ford by the shoulders. His brother stares at him with an owlish blink and Stan sees it, the hair shaved away from the sides of Ford’s head, the thick twin sutures closing up a gash on either side of his skull. Everything in Stan’s mind is screaming, shrieking, horrified beyond measure as he shakes his brother, clutching him. “What did he do?! What did you do?!”

“I fixed it,” Ford answers, so unalarmed at the treatment it spikes Stan’s nerves raw, sets the bitter fire that made up his bones hot. “S'alright Lee, I fixed it. He can’t… can’t do it again.”

His words are a slur and Stan feels like crying, feels his face heat up and a heavy, sickly lump raise in his throat. He’s almost mechanical as he leads Ford to bed, gets him to lie down with only a murmured thanks from his brother before Ford was out like a light, blood still flaking on the side of his head.

Stan scratches at the bandages around his wrist, the ones covering the brand Ford’s body gave him, the burn that looks like the sigil of a strange tattoo. He paces Ford’s room as he sleeps, attempts to keep his lunch down as his mind races with what to do, with what happened, with how he could possibly explain to a hospital that he thinks his brother might have lobotomized himself to get a demon out of his head.

In all of that he remembers being a kid, being older, being an adult, those rare, painful moments when Ford’s intelligence made him seem so far away from Stan, so above, so superior. He’d close his eyes sometimes, imagine a world where they were equal, wish quietly that maybe Ford could take a few steps down, be more like Stan, even it out so all the nasty, hurt feelings Stan had when people scorned him wouldn’t sting so much.

He feels sick thinking of it, he wants to claw off his own skin and be something else because who was he really? What kind of person wishes for that? Being smart was what made Ford Ford, it was part of who he was, as ingrained as his six fingers or bad taste in clothes. What kind of brother sat around like this, let this happen, wished for it to happen once or twice? He disgusted himself. He’s so, so tired.

An uneasy sleep overtakes him eventually and when he wakes up again Ford’s awake as well, wincing and moaning and grabbing at his head. When he glances up to Stan his eyes are clear and Stan doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, just stares as Ford tries to sit up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know how I got out of the basement,” Ford admits, fingers hovering over the stitches against his skull. “Ugh, those painkillers are stronger than I thought. Look Stanley, can you go down and get more from the basement? They’re in a- a blue bottle. Ignore the… mess.”

When Stan doesn’t respond, just stares in muted shock Ford continues, hesitantly. “Ah… I’m sorry, I should have told you, I just thought you might- you wouldn’t approve. It was easier to just get it done.”

“Wouldn’t approve?” Stan finally chokes out, shock now warring with a fast anger. “Of whatStanford?”

“I had to…” Ford lowers his head as if it was heavy, as if it was weighing him down and throbbing. “Had to think of a way to stop Bill from- to stop him from doing that again. I realized a metal plate should do the trick, it’s not foolproof but he won’t be able to possess me anymore. Never again.”

The last word seems like it wants to be spiteful but is too tired, too worn to bother. Stan storms over, hand reaching out before stopping, clenching into a fist, entire body shaking in rage. “You idiot! Do you have any idea what the last few hours were like? I thought you lobotomized yourself,Stanford! I thought-”

Stan can’t even finish the thought, he wants so dearly to take his brother’s shoulders and shake him, to slap him until he realizes what a complete fool he was and is, until he realizes he needs to think for once in his god damned life. He can’t though, not with the angry cuts on Ford’s head and the clueless way he’s staring at Stan.

“I-”

“No!” Stan shoots him down immediately, finally grasping Ford’s shoulders so his brother had to stare right at him, had to look him in the eye. He lets his grip be a bit too tight, too painful. “I’m done with it Ford! I’m a part of this! I’m a part of this! Never again, Stanford! Never. I thought- I thought I god damned lost you.”

Something like understanding sinks into Ford’s eyes as he glances down, away, that edge of understanding bringing a healthy dose of guilt with it. “I… I’m sorry.” When he finally speaks again it’s quiet, humbled, and Stan’s grip loosens. “I just- I couldn’t let him hurt you again.”

And that small part of Stan understands somehow, it really does, even if his rage still rolls and churns and bubbles in his stomach. He nods just once, swallowing at the discomfort in his throat as he pulls away and straightens.

“The blue bottle you said? Your journals are down there too, right?”

Ford glances up at the question, nodding slowly. “Yes but… why?”

Stan doesn’t bother answering him as he heads out the door and to the basement. He’s done with helplessness, and even an idiot like him knew the more you knew about your enemy the better.

—

Ford’s completely against it but Stan ignores him, letting the painkillers do their job so he can get to work reading up on everything he could. Even with the drugs Ford’s dreams are clearly uneasy, from the way he tosses, turns and mutters to himself too quietly to be heard. Stan knows it must be Cipher, it always seemed to be, toying with them both because the demon knows.

He tries not to let it get to him as he starts on the first journal, stomach heavy and leaden with determination.

If he hadn’t witnessed some of Gravity Falls’s special brand of insane Stan isn’t sure he would’ve believed a word of what he read. Unicorns, blood rain, leprecorns? Every entry is a little stranger than the last, from the artifacts to the creatures to the phenomena that occurred right outside their door. Some of it feels familiar, the vague gist of things Stanford babbled at him here and there sparking in his memory while some is completely foreign and alarming, like the clear drawing of the god damned Grim Reaper and complete lack of advice on dealing with it.

The more he reads the stranger he feels, a faint but persistent jealousy he can’t easily explain. Eventually he realizes he’s jealous of Stanford, of the book for sharing these adventures together without him, of a dream he could have touched. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know about it all, it wasn’t as if Stanford hadn’t even occasionally invited him along but Stan was so brittle then, too scared he’d just be Ford’s shadow again, just be Ford’s errand boy and be trapped forever there, clinging to coattails.

Now part of him can’t help but imagine what it would have been like to be partners, to follow Ford into the kind of adventures they dreamed about as kids, to throw his punches and use his own brand of smarts when his brother’s genius failed. He imagines it with each page, with each creature, good and bad, ugly and wondrous. He imagines another world.

It’s bittersweet to dream of, bitter more than sweet, and he wonders if even this little daydream was a childish wish that would have ended in ruin. He wants to believe he could have helped, that maybe he wasn’t right about himself and he was worth enough to deserve it. Maybe he would have stopped Ford from trusting Bill. Maybe they wouldn’t be here right now, bruised and scarred.

Some of the entries are more personal, doodles of boats and ridiculous little comments that make him snort out loud despite himself. It takes a while, a few days really, to break some of the codes enough to read further, banking on his knowledge of Ford’s ridiculous system when they were younger and process of elimination. By the time Ford’s well enough to forgo the painkillers and whatever else he was taking Stan’s got most of the ciphers down, even has a little notepad full of attempts and scribbles and refuse from his experience.

He feels strange when Ford glances over his notes and whistles. “Wow Stanley, you cracked these quickly, I’m impressed.”

Stan’s face is heating up, an unnatural shyness coming over him. Part of his brain screams that Ford’s just being nice. “Yeah well it ain’t that impressive, I had your notes.”

“It is impressive.” Ford’s stare was invasive, and Stan can tell he’s thinking of their conversation weeks ago, thinking about coattails and Stan’s inferiority. Ford’s just being kind, he thinks as Ford’s brow furrows. “I’m very serious about my codes, Stanley, even with notes it should have taken most people months.”

Then his smile softens a little and Stan has to glance away. “You always were so pigheaded stubborn when you set your mind to something, I’m not surprised it only took you a couple of weeks.”

Stan waves a hand, trying to shake the feeling the entire conversation was giving him, and Ford huffs a little sigh before allowing it. “Whatever the case I don’t know what you hope to accomplish from studying these, they don’t have any information on Bill I didn’t already give you.” His expression darkens, grows tired, the stitched up lines down his scalp an ugly purple in the dim evening light. “I need to hide these so no one can start the portal. My entire life’s work.”

Stan nudges his foot against Ford’s after a moment, watching his brother shake himself of the gloom enough to glance up tiredly, offer a crooked, off kilter smile. “I want to study 'em because I want in on all this, Sixer. No more dramatic adventures alone, no more secrets. I can learn to be a good partner here, like uh… I dunno, those folks you see on TV solving crimes. The Lone Ranger and Tonto- you’re Tonto, by the way. Not rugged enough for the lead here.”

Ford releases an amused breath. “If by rugged you mean a slob then sure.” Stan’s a good brother, he doesn’t bother pointing out Ford looked like shit since the second he came back, clothes dirty and crumpled, hair greasy and wild, bags under his eyes and a paleness to his skin. Stan’s old jacket can’t compare.

Ford sobers somewhat, glancing down at his hands and the notepad still in them. “Is this really what you want, Stan? Assuming the best, that we defeat Bill and move on, do you really want to just spend your life on all this?”

“Honestly Ford? I’ve never had a dream like that,” Stan answers, and for once honesty feels easy. “All I ever wanted was to adventure with you, I never cared where it was or what the adventures would be. So yeah, never thought it’d be chasing ghosts but I want to try, alright?” He can’t help the uncertainty in his tone. “I’ll get good at this nonsense, mark my words. I don’t- I can’t keep being the screw up, not anymore. Stakes are too high.”

Ford regards him a long moment before handing his notepad back. He answers the whole speech with a small nod, and for now that’s good enough.