Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Thanks for visiting the Mystery Shack!"

Soos' voice boomed as a group of tourists suddenly funneled into the gift shop from the tour area. Stan was idling by the counter, observing some of the new merch Soos had in stock: a plastic toy of a creature with a shark's head and a leopard's body (Soos had dubbed his cryptid the "Leoshapardark", before Melody convinced him to change its nickname to "Claws"), keychains of both Soos and Melody that said "Mr. Mystery Dude" and "Mrs. Mystery Dude" respectively, and red shot glasses that looked like Stan's fez.

"And remember to always tip your local Mystery Dude! That's, uh, me, by the way," Soos pulled at the lapels of his suit confidently before grabbing an empty basket from behind the register. The crowd happily forked over more cash, filling the basket in record time while Stan watched with a mixture of amusement and swelling pride.

It'd been about a year since Stan had passed the torch to the twenty-two-year-old, and despite some initial growing pains—Soos couldn't get through his first month of giving tours without breaking out in tears every time he introduced himself as "Mr. Mystery"—he was really coming into his own. He now carried himself with confidence and charisma, yet still held onto that childlike wonder and natural curiosity that made him so endearing.

"Jeez, he's really gotten better at bleeding those people dry, hasn't he?"

Ford strolled up beside him, resting an arm on the shelf of snow globes with a smirk.

"He's a natural," Stan agreed with a chuckle, "A chip off the ol' block."

"Yes, well, let's hope he doesn't pick up any of your less ethical business practices," Ford joked, rolling his eyes.

Stan turned to face him and shoved him lightly in the arm.

"The guy who wanted to steal a baby kraken for 'research purposes'"—Stan made exaggerated air quotes—"is preaching ethics to me?"

Ford sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, no doubt exasperated at the rehashing of this lecture.

"As I've told you before, I wasn't going to steal it. I would've ran some simple tests on its molecular makeup and had it back to its family by dinner—which would've been us, by the way, had it not been for my fluency in multiple cephalopod languages."

They'd been sailing in Finland, on their way to make a pitstop in a cozy, coastal town for a supply restock, when their path was blocked by a towering wannabe-Cthulhu. It thrashed and swung its tentacles at their ship angrily, but it was nothing the two of them hadn't faced before.

Ford had cocked one of his dozen or so guns while Stan brandished his brass knuckles, when a distressed cry from the water caught their attention. Turns out, one of the monster's babies had gotten its head stuck between their ship's rudder and propeller, unintentionally creating the perfect bargaining chip for a non-violent confrontation. Stan was a bit disappointed that they hadn't gotten the chance to fight, but Ford reasoned that it was better for them to save their energy (and gun fuel) for a real mission.

In the end, Ford had spoken to the monster in a strange tongue that Stan could only describe as "wet" and "guttural", and to his credit, it did cause the kraken to stop its aggressive onslaught while the two of them freed the young sea creature.

"For the record, I did ask the mother politely," Ford continued defensively, busying himself by shaking a snow globe gently, "I even told her she and her kin would be contributing to a noble scientific cause!"

Stan snorted.

"What, you're tellin' me that didn't sell her on the idea? I'm shocked, Sixer. Can't believe she heard that pitch and still took one last swipe at us before she left."

His sarcasm was met with a shove to his head, grinning as he relished in how easily he was able to get under Ford's skin, despite how hard his brother tried to be stoic and "mature" all the time.

It almost felt like they were kids again, and Stan cherished these moments more than anything.

"Welcome to the Mystery Shack!"

Soos' greeting was accompanied by the sound of the gift shop's bell jingling and a heavy thump of boots.

"Bummer. You just missed a tour, dude. But the next one's in twenty minutes, so why not hang around the gift shop 'till then?"

Stan was about to tune them out and continue bickering with Ford until he heard the customer laugh behind him, a deep, wheezy sound that sent a jolt of shock throughout his entire body. He hadn't heard that laugh in over thirty years, and his hands immediately began to sweat.

"What's wrong?"

Ford's voice, low and full of concern, brought him back down to earth. He was eyeing Stan intensely, and Stan cursed his inability to keep a poker face. Before he could feed Ford some half-assed lie, the customer spoke again.

"Now this is a work of art," the man said, and when Stan turned to face him, the wind was nearly knocked out of him.

There, holding his stomach and laughing boisterously at the horrifying brainchild of Soos and Mabel that had been affectionately labeled "Founder," was the man he once considered to be one of the only true friends he'd ever had. Someone who had taken him in when he'd been at his lowest, who had given him food, a roof over his head, and genuine companionship when Stan had nothing.

Someone who had, at one point, been the love of his life.

"Jimmy...?"

The name came out as a confused whisper, a sharp exhale as Stan let go of the breath he'd been holding. It felt weird on his tongue, having not uttered his ex-boyfriend's name out loud in what felt like an eternity.

When was the last time he'd ever even thought of Jimmy? For the past three decades, his life had been consumed by one singular goal: to get Ford back by any means necessary. He held onto the dozens of pictures he and Jimmy had taken together, kept them neatly stacked in a box in his closet that had, by this point, accumulated a thick layer of dust.

Yet, they remained unopened, untouched, under the riding helmet and biker jacket Jimmy had gifted him for their one-year anniversary, for as long as Stan could remember.

At the sound of his name, Jimmy turned to him, and Stan watched as his eyes lit up, crinkling as he smiled wide.

"I'll be damned," he said with a shake of his head, "And here I thought I was already talkin' to the real you!"

Jimmy jut his thumb at the statue with a smirk, tilting his head far enough forward for Stan to see his piercing blue eyes peeking out from behind his sunglasses.

Bastard.

Stan's initial apprehension at seeing his old friend began to dissipate as they naturally fell back into their old banter, ripping on each other playfully.

"You lost, old man?"

The smile on Stan's face betrayed any malice as Jimmy strolled up to him with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. The insult didn't even really make sense, especially coming from Stan of all people, since Jimmy still looked really good for his age, despite being a few years older than Stan.

His hair, once blonde and wild with long, unruly curls, was now silver, and much straighter. The kind face Stan had fallen in love with all those years ago was still just as handsome as ever, with Jimmy's wrinkles and age spots somehow making him look even more attractive. Stan had forgotten just how much Jimmy had towered over him, but as the man walked closer to him, he found himself looking up at him, his broad chest right at Stan's eyeline.

He tried to ignore the warmth that spread across his face as Jimmy wrapped his arms around him in a crushing hug. Stan was lifted into the air effortlessly, caught in an embrace that was simultaneously suffocating and achingly nostalgic.

"You don't look a day over ninety, Stanley," Jimmy grunted into his hair.

"Yeah?" Stan wheezed, struggling to get the words out, "How old does that make you then, gramps?"

Jimmy laughed again, and Stan could feel it rumble against his chest. Breath ghosted over his ear, making him shiver.

There was a loud, pointed cough behind them, and when Stan craned his neck to view its source, he was met with the curious, yet guarded glare of his brother, who was awkwardly watching the display with a quirked brow.

Jimmy, still clutching Stan, tilted his head to the side to look at Ford, and the way his eyes widened was almost comical. His eyes darted between the two brothers, and Stan felt the air return to his lungs as he was gently put back down.

"You're a twin?"

His tone was cheerful, but if there was one thing Stan prided himself on, it was reading in-between the lines. The underlying confusion and hurt was obvious to him, and it made a pit form in his stomach.

During their time together, Stan had only spoken vaguely about his life in New Jersey. He mentioned a few things about his mom here, ranted about his dad a couple times there, and talked about Shermie and Shermie Jr. a few times when retelling stories of how he'd helped his mom take care of the baby on occasion while his older brother was overseas.

But he'd never told Jimmy about Ford. Not once. His existence was a secret Stan kept from everyone, even his closest friend and partner, except back during his drifter days, there was no excuse of losing Ford to the multiverse, no interdimensional portal in the basement that would be impossible to explain without sounding like a lunatic.

Instead, Stan had lied to Jimmy for reasons he didn't particularly want to unpack.

The silence was dragging on, and Stan had made the mistake of chancing a look at Ford. He had an unreadable expression on his face, his arms folded. It made Stan uneasy, so he coughed exaggeratedly into the crook of his elbow and put on a wide smile.

"Yep! Uh, this here's my brother, Ford."

He walked over to Ford and threw an arm around his shoulder, the two of them now standing side-by-side.

"Ford, this is Jimmy Snakes," he said, gesturing at the other man, "He and I go way back."

Jimmy didn't seem offended by the vague introduction, much to Stan's relief. He didn't really feel like having to explain their romantic history to Ford.

Jimmy extended a hand to Ford, and for a moment, Stan felt anxious. His friend had never been the type to judge appearances, but there was a surge of protectiveness that instinctively rose within Stan whenever anyone new met Ford.

The cruelty of their childhood was forever instilled in him, the constant bullying and screams of disgust whenever anyone noticed Ford's extra fingers, and as Ford took Jimmy's hand, Stan was prepared to defend Ford in case Jimmy's reaction wasn't pleasant.

Instead, Jimmy simply raised his brows.

"Hell of a handshake," was all he said with a warm, knowing smile.

Stan felt Ford relax slightly under the weight of his arm, and he returned Jimmy's compliment with a grin of his own.

"So I've been told," he said with a chuckle, "Nice to meet you."

"Sorry you gotta share a face with this guy," Jimmy teased, nodding his head at Stan, and before Stan could defend himself, Ford puffed his chest out exaggeratedly.

"Oh, it's not so bad. Thankfully, I'm the handsome twin, so I've got enough good looks for the both of us."

Stan glared at him, though there wasn't much bite behind it. Truthfully, he was thrilled his brother was actually getting along with Jimmy, even if he was telling bold-faced lies—everyone knew Stan was the handsome one, but he'd let the insult slide for now.

"Yeah, yeah," Stan groused with a wave of his hand. He turned to Jimmy with a hand on his hip. "You gonna tell me what brings ya here after all this time or are you gonna keep holdin' hands with my brother?"

Jimmy took his hand back sheepishly, sticking it in his pocket with an awkward clearing of his throat.

"Was havin' a smoke at the bar the other day when I caught your new commercial," he explained, scratching the back of his neck, "Thought I'd come and check the place out."

Stan took a moment to process Jimmy's words. He wasn't even aware that those cheap, poorly-made commercials even broadcasted outside of Gravity Falls, and if this had been one of the old commercials that featured just Stan, he would've felt embarrassed.

But ever since Soos took over, he'd been filming and editing the commercials himself, making sure to get plenty of shots of Melody, gratuitous Clip Art effects, and references to Stan.

"I was also hopin' you and I could, uh. Catch up? Maybe hit the diner?"

Stan was used to Jimmy being suave and charismatic, always with a snarky comeback or joke to put Stan at ease, but seeing him now, idly fiddling with the zipper to his biker jacket, looking almost bashful, made something within him swell with adoration.

It was a tender, vulnerable side to his charming friend that was seldom shown to anyone except Stan.

"Sure, pal. Why don't we go for a walk around the Shack first? Do some sightseeing?"

Jimmy smiled at him and raised a skeptical brow.

"You're gonna charge me for a tour," he accused.

Stan put his hands up defensively, yet avoided Jimmy's gaze.

"I would never! My protégé might, though."

He eyed Soos, who was watching them from his spot behind the counter. Next to him, Melody was polishing a shrunken head in a jar.

"Eh, I thought about it," he responded with a shrug, "But then I thought about making a plate of nachos instead and that idea was, like, way better. Back in a sec."

With that, Soos left the gift shop and after a few moments, Stan could hear the telltale sounds of an entire bag of corn chips being poured onto a plate, followed by a series of beeps from the microwave.

"You should probably get outta here," Melody warned, "Last time, he nearly blew up the microwave with his concoction. It was a pretty mean plate of nachos, though."

Stan quickly turned to Ford, who was still staring at them with that indecipherable expression.

"I'll be back later, Sixer," he said, shooting Ford a confident finger gun.

"Right," was the terse reply, "I'll, um. Be here. If I'm not blown to pieces, that is."

He couldn't blame Ford for acting awkward—maybe his past with Jimmy wasn't as ambiguous as Stan thought, and even someone as aloof as Ford was able to easily put the pieces together and feel like a third wheel—but he'd talk to him about it later.

For now, he was too preoccupied trying to ease the butterflies in his stomach.

Chapter Text

It was surreal, walking around Gravity Falls at this time of year. After spending so much time in sub-zero temperatures, battling monsters in the Arctic, hardly seeing much land outside of supply runs and special missions, being back in the blazing hot Oregon sun felt foreign. It made him strangely nostalgic.

Unfortunately, it also reminded him of how much he hated mosquitos.

"Damn things," he mumbled, swatting his shoulder. Jimmy watched him amusedly, gesturing to himself broadly.

"Heh, the good thing about the biker getup? No mosquito bites. No ticks or spiders, neither."

Stan rolled his eyes and scoffed.

"Bet you're probably sweating buckets."

"You're talkin' to a Texan, smartass. The heat doesn't do much to me, remember?"

Stan did.

Back when they lived in Colorado together, Jimmy was the one who faired better in the warmer months, while Stan was sticking to the couch and baking in the sun.

Once winter rolled around, though, Stan was practically a living furnace, acting as a personal heater for Jimmy, whose teeth would be chattering in even the mildest cold. He had warm memories of holding Jimmy close as they walked through December snow, coming home and fixing him up some hot chocolate on a particularly cold night.

"Whoa!"

His reminiscing was interrupted by a sharp tug of his arm as Jimmy abruptly pulled him close. Stan was about to ask him what the hell he was doing when a loud hiss from the ground had him snapping his eyes to his feet. There hiding in the dirt, inches away from Stan's foot, was a badger.

That wouldn't have been anything to freak out over, if not for the badger's body. It was a sickly green, long and slender, and as it slithered closer to them, Stan recognized it as something from one of Mabel's many questionable drawings.

"What in the fuck is that?!"

Jimmy's eyes were wide as he clutched onto Stan tightly, though Stan was beginning to think it was less out of protectiveness and more out of genuine fear on Jimmy's part.

Which, to be fair, was pretty reasonable for anyone who wasn't familiar with Gravity Falls' day-to-day weirdness.

"It's a snadger," Stan said matter-of-factly, unable to keep the casual boredom out of his tone. A year ago, he didn't think this creature was even real, and assumed, optimistically, that maybe Mabel's imagination was running wild and this was simply one of its unorthodox creations.

Guess that was his fault. Since then, he'd seen this affront to nature slither (or did it crawl? It did have front paws, Stan noticed with discomfort) its way around town, with most people barely giving it a second glance.

"A snadger," Jimmy repeated monotonously, his expression a deadpan glare.

Stan threw a hand around Jimmy's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Jim, you have a lot to learn about this town."

Jimmy snickered and shook his head.

"That so? Shit," then, quieter, "Seems I got a lot to learn about you, too."

That soreness was in his tone again, that subtle edge buried underneath his cheerful demeanor that anyone would've probably missed.

Anyone except Stan.

"Jim, listen, I—" he stopped himself and sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to piece together a good excuse for why he'd kept such a major secret from someone who had only ever given him his unwavering support and trust.

"About my brother..."

They continued walking into the forest, Stan's heart pounding in his chest, desperately hoping Jimmy would interrupt him, put a soothing hand on his back, tell him it was okay, it didn't matter, he understood completely, Stan had nothing to feel guilty about.

The stone weighing heavy in his gut only grew at Jimmy's silence, his friend patiently waiting for Stan to explain himself.

No gettin' outta this, huh? He thought miserably.

"I—I should've told you about him, I know. And I'm real sorry. But it's not that I didn't trust you. It just...wasn't the best between me n' him back in those days, y'know? I can't really get into it, but things were pretty bad."

And that was putting it mildly. He had a hard enough time giving the sugarcoated version of his homeless days to the kids and Soos. Where did he even begin with telling Jimmy, who he hadn't seen in three decades and up until an hour ago, didn't even know that Ford existed?

Jimmy contemplated his words with a thoughtful nod, crunching twigs beneath his boots.

"Can't blame a guy for havin' secrets, I guess," he conceded, and Stan felt relief wash over him. He still sounded troubled, but Stan would take what he could get, and ignore the nervous swirling in his gut for as long as he could. "You two seem to be on good terms now though, so that's good."

"It is," Stan agreed sincerely.

This past year had been the most fun he'd had in years, the happiest he'd been since he was a dumb teenager in Jersey, that the events of last summer felt like an entire lifetime ago. Constantly arguing with Ford, the looming threat of being kicked out at the end of the summer, not being able to stop their fighting even when the fate of the world literally depended on it...he couldn't imagine ever going back to that.

Sure, they still bickered, as brothers do. They both still had their own hangups, which often surfaced in the form of unfairly lashing out at each other or rehashing decades-old arguments. Forty years of bad blood doesn't get erased overnight.

They still kept their secrets, Ford still not knowing even a fraction of what Stan had gone through during their decade apart. He wasn't like Ford, writing his thoughts and feelings out in a carefully-organized series of journals. Stan had ghosts from his past that he kept locked tightly within his subconscious, buried deep and only surfacing to haunt him in his dreams, something Ford had noticed within the first month they'd been on the Stan O'War II.

Stan would have nightmares of bags of coke being thrown at his naked body, or Rico catching him and stuffing his body in a steel drum, or jumping off a bridge and dying a nameless drifter that nobody cared about. He'd wake up to the feeling of six fingers patting him on the head and Ford's awkward attempt at comfort as he mumbled to Stan in the dark.

His brother would ask him if he wanted to talk about it, and Stan would always refuse.

"So, is he a rogue, too?" Jimmy asked, bringing him out of his thoughts. "Or were you the only one blessed with a crooked conscience?"

Jimmy ruffled his hair playfully, and Stan absently noticed that he still wore those fingerless gloves that Stan had always found tacky.

Ford was no stranger to the law, and if the stories he'd told Stan were any indication, Stan had half a mind to consider him potentially worse than himself in terms of the sheer magnitude of his crimes.

At least Stan wasn't wanted by the multidimensional government.

He figured it was probably better to keep all of that under wraps for now, though. Jimmy had enough of a heart attack just seeing the snadger, talking about other dimensions might scare him off for good.

Either that, or he'd deem Stan certifiably insane. Stan didn't particularly care for either, so instead, he shrugged.

"Nah, Ford's a square. Been a straight-laced nerd for as long as I can remember. Got a hell of a head on his shoulders though," Stan admitted, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, "At least he makes up for his objective lameness with his smarts. Guy's a genius."

Jimmy put a finger on his chin and hummed, unconvinced.

"I don't know about that. He was wrong about somethin' pretty crucial back there."

When Stan furrowed his brows in confusion, Jimmy flashed him a confident grin.

"He called himself the handsome twin."

The only thing that managed to cut through the flustered pounding of Stan's heart in his ears was the beautiful sound of Jimmy's wheezing laugh.

They ended up forgoing the diner, instead heading straight for Skull Fracture, a place Stan hadn't visited in decades, though not for a lack of indulging. Stan was careful to never drink around the kids, but he did still do it ocassionally.

Shortly after Ford's disappearance and opening the Shack—then still called the Murder Hut—he'd spent a large chunk of his earnings drinking away his sorrows at this bar, vision swimming with tears and intoxication, before he'd stumbled out the door and puked his grief into the nearby alley.

These days, his habits weren't nearly as bad as they used to be, and besides, sitting and drinking alone while various other patrons were throwing fists and drinks at each other just wasn't as fun as it had been when he and Jimmy were still together. They'd been involved in as many scraps as they could, sometimes with other customers, sometimes with the bouncers, and more often than not, they got their asses handed to them.

But that never mattered. They'd walk home buzzed, arms linked, swaying back and forth, with black eyes and bloody noses, happier than ever.

"What did you say about my girl?!"

A scrawny biker screamed at another man, rolling up his sleeves. He was practically foaming at the mouth, itching to fight, as the other man sneered at him.

"I said," he spit on the floor and cracked his knuckles, "She's cheap. Nothin' more than a hunk of scrap metal."

"I'll kill you!"

The smaller man lunged at him with his arms outstretched, letting out a battle cry that probably would've been more intimidating if he didn't sound so ridiculous.

Next to him, Jimmy clicked his tongue.

"Now that's just petty," he chastised with a roll of his eyes. "Insultin' a man's bike is almost as bad as insultin' his mom. My money's on the pipsqueak."

If he was being honest, Stan never understood all of this "Biker Etiquette", but he knew it was important to Jimmy, so he kept his judgements to himself.

Their bartender brought over their drinks, and Stan couldn't help but smirk at Jimmy's order: a tall, bright pink margarita. It definitely stood out next to Stan's basic whiskey on the rocks, especially in a place like this. Initially, the bartender had given them some spiel about how they didn't serve "girly shit" like that here, but one glare from Jimmy from behind his sunglasses had the asshole eating his words and assuring them he'd find a way to make it.

"What? I like the way it tastes," Jimmy had casually said the first time they went to a bar together, almost thirty-five years ago. Stan had been gawking at him, not unlike many of the bikers here today, and Jimmy had simply explained that he doesn't care much for so-called manly drinks. "Listen, motor oil is great for my bike. Me? Not so much."

He'd let Stan have a taste and, to his credit, it did taste pretty damn good. In retrospect, he figured it was something Mabel would probably like once she grew up.

It wasn't until he'd gotten to know Jimmy better that he learned another reason he liked that particular drink.

"Reminds me of my momma's pink lemonade," he'd said once while the two of them were on a date. He always talked about his mom, how strong she was, how much she sacrificed to take care of him and his many siblings. She called their apartment daily, and Stan had gotten to know her quite well back then.

Whether or not she knew they'd been dating was anyone's guess, but if she did, she never brought it up.

"So! What else you been up to, Mr. Founder?" Jimmy asked after taking a long slurp from his glass. "Besides rising from the dead and opening up a tourist trap?"

Stan was about to regale his friend with his various legal troubles, or maybe some stories about the kids, when the weight of Jimmy's words hit him like a truck. His eyes widened as he realized exactly what Jimmy had been referencing, and it made him sick to his stomach.

He had never even thought about Jimmy when he'd faked his death back in the 80's.

It'd been years since their breakup at that point, after Stan had ran out on him because he couldn't control his own insecurities and self-destructive tendencies.

On top of that, with everything that happened to Ford, his life as a drifter was the last thing on his mind. He was obsessed with just getting him back, and to hell with everything—and everyone—else.

The image of his mom's anguished face at his fake funeral had been seared into his mind, taunting him even to this day. Had Jimmy reacted the same way? Or had he stopped caring about Stan by then? It's not like Stan would've blamed him.

Memories of their breakup stung the back of his eyelids, as he remembered how pained Jimmy had sounded when trying to understand why Stan was mentally checked out all the time, how confused he'd been by Stan leaving the life they'd built with one another for no discernable reason.

Stan remembered barking out a delirious laugh, because he was just as confused as Jimmy. He was ruining the best thing that had happened to him and he had no idea why.

Except, deep down, he did know.

He knew exactly why he kept lying to Jimmy, why he kept hiding things from him, why he stopped coming to bed, instead spending his nights lying on the couch, wide awake with damp, red-rimmed eyes.

It was the simple fact that he was Stanley Pines; him fucking up everything he touched was weaved into his DNA. Every relationship he had—familial or otherwise—went south one way or another, and it was always because of Stan.

His recklessness, his stupidity, his inability to recognize when he's got something truly good, squandering it either because he was greedy and wanted more, or because he felt he didn't deserve it at all.

He pushed Jimmy away, he pushed Ford away, he nearly pushed the kids and even Soos away at one point, something he selfishly believed would never be possible.

The room suddenly felt sweltering, blurring and swimming and making him blink several times in vain. He was desperate for some fresh air, and before he could even process it, his legs were taking him out of the bar, into the humid summer night. Behind him, Jimmy was calling out confusedly, but he sounded a thousand miles away.

Stan's breathing became rapid as his father's stern scolding rang in his ears, telling him how useless he was; his teachers' disappointed sighs as they told him he'd never make anything of himself; Ford's disheveled, frustrated ranting that he'd never done anything worthwhile in his life.

These feelings of worthlessness were like an old friend to him. He'd heard them throughout his entire life, and no matter how much he tried to let them roll off his back, he couldn't deny how much they stung. They ensnared themselves in his psyche, feeding into his most deeply-repressed insecurities until they consumed him.

Just as he was about to collapse and vomit his anxiety into the dirt, a strong grip stopped him from falling. The warmth encompassing his hand was grounding, the feeling of a thumb in fingerless gloves rubbing his palm soothingly until it stilled; Stan hadn't even realized he'd been trembling.

"Stan, it's okay. You're okay. Look at me," Jimmy said softly.

He didn't tug, didn't rush Stan, only held him until Stan was ready to face him.

Stan wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"We can stay like this too," Jimmy said with a light chuckle, "I got pretty good arm strength."

Stan took deep breaths, calming himself until the urge to throw up subsided. His eyes were screwed shut, and he could feel sweat dripping down the side of his face.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ground was no longer vibrating in front of him, and he regained the feeling in his legs.

Jimmy must've taken his evened-out breath as cue to gently pull him closer, righting his posture until he was standing up straight, opposite Jimmy.

One hand was still holding Stan's, while the other gently cupped Stan's cheek, tilting his head up. Stan noticed that he was no longer wearing his sunglasses, his blue eyes half-lidded and sympathetic.

"Talk about a bad joke, huh?" he said apologetically, "Sorry for bringin' that up. I didn't realize it was such a sore spot for ya. But I promise, I didn't mean nothin' by it."

Stan was on fire—from the fading panic attack, the summer heat, Jimmy's soft caresses on his hand and cheek, the realization that Jimmy wasn't upset with him.

"It's fine," he croaked, his voice strained and squeaky, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

"It's, uh. Fine, Jim. Really. I'm okay. It's just—fuck, I'm sorry for keeping so much from you. Same ol' Stanley, always messing things up, y'know? God, you must think I'm a real piece of shit."

As usual, Stan was ruining everything. Their outing was completely derailed because Stan couldn't keep his stupid, wimpy emotions in check. Jimmy had always been so patient with him, so faithful, so optimistic that they could make things work despite Stan's persistent commitment issues and overthinking, and for a wonderful few years, it did work.

Until it didn't anymore.

"Hey, hotshot. I can hear the circus in there runnin' at a mile-a-minute," Jimmy said softly, pointing to Stan's forehead. He brushed some of Stan's sweaty bangs out of his face and leaned close. From this distance, Stan could smell a faint hint of smoke on his breath.

"Tell me, Stan. You really think I drove all the way up here to buy some keychains?"

It'd been so long since he'd heard that tone in Jimmy's voice. Stan could never properly it into words, only that it sounded like Jimmy loved Stan more than anything in the world.

There was no betrayal in his eyes. No room for doubt.

Still, Stan had to know for sure.

"You askin' me out?"

He intended to sound suave and cheeky, yet his words only came out as a nervous whisper.

Jimmy was obviously not expecting Stan to address his intentions so directly, because he suddenly became very rigid.

"Like you don't already know," he muttered, avoiding Stan's gaze. The flustered, grumpy face he was trying to put on was just too funny, and that gave Stan enough confidence to mess with him a little.

"I dunno, Jim. I'm the handsome twin, not the smart one. Might need this one spelled out for me."

He grinned wolfishly at Jimmy, eagerly awaiting the question that he was fairly certain he was about to be asked.

Jimmy looked back at the bar, where a huge commotion had broken out, several bikers attacking each other and throwing various pieces of furniture all over the room.

"We're not payin' for those drinks, are we," he said, exasperated. It wasn't a question; he knew Stan well enough by now.

"Hold on, I'm sure I got some Stan Bucks crumpled in here somewhere," Stan said, patting his pockets, to no avail. He shrugged nonchalantly with a grunt.

Jimmy rolled his eyes and let out an affectionate chuckle.

"You drive me nuts, you know that?"

Stan didn't need to be the smart twin to decipher the true meaning behind those words.

Chapter Text

The walk home was peaceful. It was nothing like the times they'd walked home from bars back in the day, the two of them barely able to stand because of how shitfaced they were, taking turns holding each other's hair back as they puked on the ground, but that was okay. They weren't in their twenties anymore, and Stan wagered he had enough medical problems for the both of them.

Jimmy kept a comforting arm around his shoulders the entire time, probably out of fear that Stan would double over again. It was heavy and warm, almost too warm in this heat, but Stan couldn't complain.

They spent the walk catching up, with Jimmy talking about the new auto shop he opened in Texas, not far from where his mother lived. Apparently, she was sick, so he had to move from Colorado back home to keep an eye on her.

Stan punched down the sharp pang of guilt that stung him at the reminder that he hadn't been there for his own mother in her final days, not even having enough emotional strength to attend her funeral.

Not as Ford, and definitely not as himself.

Jimmy didn't ask him about his own folks, much to Stan's relief. Whether he picked up on Stan's awkwardness or if he just remembered how complicated his relationship had been with them, Stan wasn't sure, but he didn't press the issue.

He did have some questions about Shermie Jr, though, and Stan saw that as the perfect opportunity to bring up the two little gremlins that spent the summer with him.

Jimmy let out a low whistle and shook his head.

"Goddamn. Time really flies, don't it? Last I heard, your nephew was busy throwing up on your shirt and peein' on you while you were tryin' to change him," he said with a chuckle. "Now he's got two teenagers of his own. We really are ancient, aren't we?"

Stan snorted, as he was pretty sure he was the more obviously decrepit old man, but he played it off.

"Speak for yourself, old man," Stan boasted, pointing to his own chest, "I dunno about you, but this geezer's still got it."

Jimmy didn't respond, only smirking to himself as the ground lights from the Shack's parking lot came into view. Jimmy's motorcycle was the only vehicle in the lot aside from Stan's own car, and Stan couldn't help but notice that it looked different than he remembered.

When Stan brought it up, Jimmy gave him a sad smile.

"My old girl gave out on me about a decade ago. Tried everything I could, but she was just too far gone," he said, petting the bike's seat affectionately. "Wasn't much I could do. She had a good run, though."

"Yeah," Stan agreed lamely, not really knowing how to respond. Unlike Jimmy, he'd had the same car since he was a teenager, scrimping and saving as a freshly-licensed sixteen-year-old desperate for some wheels. His car held some of the worst memories of his life, back when he was starving and desperate for cash, yet it'd also sheltered him when the cold was at its most biting and unrelenting. It held memories of him teaching Soos how to drive, taking the kids around town for some quality bonding, and still had pictures of him and Ford tucked away in its compartments.

He couldn't imagine anything ever happening to it, so he sympathized with Jimmy's grief.

"If there was any way I could've kept her longer, I would've," Jimmy continued, and something in his tone made Stan feel that uneasy swirl in his gut again, "She was strong, dependable. Stuck by me through everything."

He took a tentative step towards Stan, cupping his face. Stan let him, despite the buzzing in his brain.

"Meant the world to me. Y'know?"

"Jim, I'm not sure if—" Stan stopped himself, trying to figure out how to put his feelings into words.

He knew how Jimmy felt, that he wanted them to be a couple again. On the one hand, that made his heart soar. Knowing Jimmy's feelings never wavered, that he wanted Stan just as much as he did back then, that he still had so much faith in Stan.

It was a type of love he hadn't felt in decades.

On the other hand, however, that was exactly the problem. Could Stan even give Jimmy what he wanted out of a real relationship? He couldn't even handle it before he'd grown old and grey.

How would that even work with his schedule on the Stan O'War II? If Stan were forced to choose between having a relationship with Jimmy or traveling around the world with Ford, Stan immediately knew what his answer would be.

Didn't that already tell him how shitty of a partner he'd be?

"Greasy's," Jimmy said lowly. When Stan simply stared at him in confusion, the taller man smirked fondly. "We were supposed to hit the diner today, remember? Why don't we grab some breakfast this weekend? On me."

A simple breakfast. Just a plate of pancakes, some watered-down coffee, and lots of bacon. He could handle that, couldn't he?

His unease must've been written on his face because Jimmy took one of his hands and rubbed it gently.

"We can take this slow, Stan," he offered sincerely, before looking down at his feet. "Or...not at all. That's always an option, too. I just...wanna get to know you again."

Stan wanted that, too. He wanted to hang out with his friend again, laugh with him, drink with him, hug him.

Kiss him.

Yet, every time he seriously thought about being intimate with Jimmy, those old feelings would resurface, making him feel nauseous with uncertainty and guilt.

"Here," Jimmy said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a pen and a crumpled up candy wrapper, and Stan watched him squint in the dark as he quickly scribbled something down.

It was a phone number.

"Why don't you sleep on it? Drop me a line after you've gotten some shut-eye."

Jimmy was right. Stan was exhausted, his earlier episode draining most of his energy, which was sparse enough as it is these days.

"Yeah," Stan took Jimmy's number with a sigh, "Yeah, no problem, Jim. I'm, uh. Sorry again. About all of that." He gestured broadly in the direction of the bar, shame creeping back into his chest at how badly he'd ruined their first outing together in thirty years. "Hope ya still had fun."

Jimmy ruffled his hair with a snort.

"With you? Always."

They hugged goodbye, Jimmy leaning down and running his fingers through Stan's hair, before he got on his bike and drove away.

Stan watched the lights fade into the darkness with a mixture of excitement, yearning, and dread.

"Should probably get some sleep," he mumbled to himself, walking back towards the Shack.

It was late, and he was expecting the house to be dark and quiet, as it was definitely past the Shack's business hours and the kids' bedtime. As for Ford, he assumed his brother would be tinkering away with some gadget or another in the lab, or maybe he'd actually be asleep for a change.

Unfortunately, Stan was wrong on all accounts.

The minute he walked through the front door, he was greeted with confetti in his face and high-pitched giggling.

"Grunkle Stan, I knew you weren't gonna be alone forever!"

Stan wiped his face and blinked irritably, and when his vision cleared, he noticed Mabel waiting for him by the door. She skipped her way to the kitchen, where Stan could hear other voices. He followed her and saw Dipper leaning up against the fridge while Ford was sitting at the table, a freshly-brewed cup of coffee in his hand.

"Never doubt a girl's intuition, boys. Especially mine," she said smugly.

"You're back," Ford said quietly. There was something in his tone that almost sounded like...relief?

"Yeah, Jimmy and I kinda lost track of time," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "What, uh, were you guys up to all day?"

"That's not important. The real question is, what were you doing?" Mabel wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Soos said you went off with some hot biker hunk."

"Those were his exact words, by the way," Dipper added bluntly, his arms folded, one foot pressed against the fridge.

In retrospect, he really should've expected this. Mabel could sniff out potential romance from a mile away, especially when it came to one of her family members. There's no way he would've been able to hide this from her for very long.

He just thought he'd have at least a little more time.

"That's classified," he said gruffly, dusting off stray pieces of confetti from his shirt. Where did Mabel even keep that stuff, anyway? It always seemed like she had an endless supply that she pulled out whenever she felt it was needed.

Which was all the time.

"You kids are officially banned from askin' me about my date."

Stan could've slapped himself. The second that word left his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. Mabel gasped excitedly, bouncing on her feet. She beamed at him, and Stan thought she was just about ready to launch herself into the air.

"So it was a date! I knew it! Pay up, bro." She held her hand out and made a grabbing motion at Dipper, who rolled his eyes with a groan. He reached into his pocket and forked over a ten dollar bill.

Mabel then turned to Ford with her hands on her hips. "See? I told you he was fine! You worry too much."

Ford's reply was an indignant scoff, but before he could properly defend himself, Dipper thumbed at him with a sly grin.

"He thought you were kidnapped by a siren and dragged to the bottom of the lake."

Ford choked around his coffee, coughing and shaking his head defiantly.

Stan raised his brows in genuine surprise. Ford was worried about him?

Behind him, his brother was still reeling from Dipper's traitorous accusation, beating his chest repeatedly as he hacked up his coffee.

"I did not—That's clearly an exaggeration of—I assure you, I was perfectly calm—"

Stan figured he'd throw him a bone. He turned to the kids and gently corralled them out of the room.

"Alright, alright. Look, it's late. Bed time. Now get upstairs, capiche?"

He pointed to the staircase, rolling his eyes when Mabel whined and threw her arms down dramatically.

"This isn't over," she grumbled under her breath, walking past him with a huff. Stan would've dismissed the threat if he wasn't sure she'd make good on it. He was gonna have to face the music with his romance-obsessed niece eventually, but at least for tonight, he could have some peace.

Once they were upstairs, Ford cleared his throat from his spot at the table.

"Am I banned, too?"

Stan quirked a confused brow at him.

"Huh?"

"From asking questions," Ford said casually, picking at his nails. "Am I not allowed to be curious about your mystery man, either?"

Stan stared at him incredulously. So much for having peace.

"You're not seriously that invested," he stated, folding his arms in disbelief. Since when did Ford care about gossip? Especially when it concerned Stan?

"You know, we used to tell each other everything," Ford sighed dramatically. He made a show of slumping his shoulders and resting his cheek in his hand, staring into his coffee mug miserably.

Thirty or forty years ago, those downcast eyes and wistful tone would've made Stan cave embarrassingly quick, eager to make Ford happy no matter what. He would've done anything to wipe that look off his brother's face.

Now, Stan knew better. He walked over to Ford and gave him a playful smack to the back of the head.

"Ack—! What was that for?!" Ford asked irritably, rubbing the sore spot with a grimace.

"Gotta up your game, Sixer," Stan said with a chuckle, "'Cause that won't work on me anymore. Trust me, if I can resist Mabel's puppy dog eyes, I can resist yours."

Ford stopped rubbing his head and crossed his arms haughtily.

"First off, that's not even an accurate statement," he argued, "Last time she gave you those eyes, we almost got arrested for trying to steal an ice cream costume from the mall. With the man still inside."

Explaining that one to the rent-a-cops at the mall was more awkward than he'd like to admit, but Stan didn't regret it. In fact, it'd actually been pretty fun. As far as Stan was concerned, family outings were always more fun when running from the cops was involved.

"Hey, it's not my fault she thought the mascot was cute. What am I, made of stone?"

Ford shot him a deadpan glare.

"I suppose I can't force you to open up to me. Well, I mean, technically I can. I'm pretty sure I still have truth serums lying around somewhere. But I won't! That's the important thing."

"So generous," Stan joked sarcastically, the reminder that Ford often toed the line of ethics never any less unsettling. He still hadn't completely forgiven him for giving the kids that damn mind-control tie.

It grew silent between them, Ford staring out the window, Stan standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, nearly equal distance from the table and the doorway.

He was conflicted.

It'd been ages since they'd sat down and had a heart-to-heart. If there was one thing their father had tried to instill in them, it was that real men talked with their fists. They didn't coddle each other, or have panic attacks, or overthink their entire lives.

You punched your frustrations into the first sap unlucky enough to piss you off (in their father's case, that was usually Stan), and repressed everything else. That's just the way things were.

Unfortunately for their old man, Stan was never good at following directions. Ford was right. There was a time where they'd tell each other everything, from crushes, to dates, to plans, to fears and insecurities.

Granted, that was forty years, several fights, and one odd-pocalypse ago, and Stan knew that they could never go back to exactly the way things had been before senior year of high school. Those carefree days walking along the shore of Glass Shard Beach, talking for hours in their run-down boat...they were long gone, and Stan doubted they'd ever be able to bring them back.

But they could try, couldn't they?

He pulled up a seat at the table across from Ford and bit his lip contemplatively. Ford raised his brows, clearly not expecting Stan to actually sit down. He straightened his posture, ready to hear whatever Stan had to say.

...And he stayed like that for what felt like nearly thirty minutes, because Stan wasn't talking. Where did he even start?

The day he and Jimmy met?

The horrible life on the streets Jimmy had practically saved him from?

The flips in his stomach whenever he thought about rebuilding their relationship?

He took a deep breath, and decided to start small.

"So...Jimmy and I were, uh. More than just friends."

Better to get it out there right away, rip the band-aid off early.

Ford's reaction was lackluster, to say the least. He nodded in acknowledgement and sniffled casually.

"I theorized as much, based on your interaction in the gift shop."

Stan groaned. So he was right about Ford figuring things out right away.

"God, was I that obvious?"

Heat rushed to his face as he thought back on his behavior when Jimmy first walked in the shop. Ford must think he was some kind of desperate, mushy wimp.

"No, no! Well...yes. A little," Ford admitted. His tone was cautious and reassuring, though that did little to quell Stan's embarrassment. "But honestly, that wasn't what tipped me off."

"Yeah, sure," Stan mumbled skeptically, "Then what was it?"

Ford lifted his gaze and locked eyes with him, and Stan noticed that the unreadable expression from that afternoon was back. He didn't really know what to make of it, just that it made him feel like he was under a microscope.

"He called you 'Stanley.'"

Stan was confused. That was it? That was all Ford needed to put the pieces together? It didn't make sense.

"Admittedly, I was a bit surprised when I heard it," Ford continued, absently swirling the coffee in his mug, "I'm used to being the only one to refer to you by your full name."

Stan was about to argue, but he stopped himself. That was the case, wasn't it? The kids, Soos, and Wendy all knew his real name, but they never used it. Everyone from his childhood was either gone or convinced he was dead.

To most people, he was simply "Stan." To others, he was "Stanford," or one of the many, many fake names he'd made up over the years.

Up until today, "Stanley" was a name that was used exclusively by Ford.

He scratched his cheek sheepishly, avoiding Stan's eyes.

"I guess in a rather, ah, childish way, it made me feel sort of...special. I mean, not even the kids call you that. Nobody does. So, for a stranger to come in and immediately act like you two had known each other your whole lives...I assumed he must've been someone pretty important to you."

"He was," Stan answered without hesitation, "Er, is."

Then why didn't you act like it? A cruel voice within his mind taunted him. Why did you keep so much from him? Why did you leave him?

Stan didn't really have answers to those questions. Ford was eyeing him curiously, but he didn't pry.

"It's just—I screw everything up, Ford. I ruined my relationship with him because I couldn't deal, just like I couldn't deal with you leavin' me for some nerd school. Or when Dad kicked me out and I couldn't deal with the thought of coming home a loser, so I just...never did."

He used to think he was just unlucky, that the world was out to get him, and he was always on the receiving end of fate's shitty deals. There had to be some balance in the universe. For every lucky bastard who got everything he ever wanted without having to lift a finger, there had to be a shmuck on the other end of the spectrum whose head was shoved further and further into the dirt.

But that wasn't true, of course.

Stan's problems were self-made, be it through his own impulsive recklessness, his poor judgement, his anger issues, or that classic Pines stubbornness, something Stan had in fucking spades.

He put his head in his hands.

"Now he wants to start things up again and I can't help but feel like I'll just make the same mistakes. I mean, shit, I couldn't even tell him I had a twin brother! We were together for two years and I kept so much from him!"

Jimmy talked about his family so openly, yet Stan had remained guarded about his own, even now.

"That was also pretty shocking," Ford said quietly, "And while I was initially taken aback, I suppose I can't really blame you. We were, uh. Less than amicable in those days." He straightened his glasses with an awkward clearing of his throat. "We were estranged for a decade. Regrettably, I realize a little of that was my own doing."

Stan scoffed.

"A little?"

"Don't push it," Ford grumbled, though there was no real malice in his tone. Owning up to their mistakes was something both of them still heavily struggled with, and Stan figured he might as well take whatever emotionally-stunted apology Ford was willing to offer him.

Besides, he knew his grudge against Ford wasn't the only reason he kept his existence a secret from Jimmy.

"I spent so much time living as someone else," he said suddenly, resting his cheek in his palm. "And I'm not even talkin' about just you, y'know? I was swapping between so many different identities back then, I almost felt like I was—"

Losing myself, was left unsaid. It felt too raw, too vulnerable, so Stan started over.

"As the years went on, Glass Shard Beach was getting further and further away from me. By the time I met Jimmy, I'd been a drifter for over half a decade. My old life didn't even feel real anymore."

The faces he wore were vast and ever-changing, depending on the circumstances; how well he needed to sell a product, the company he surrounded himself with, how empty his stomach and pockets were. He switched between them effortlessly, to the point where when it came time to pretend to be Ford, it was almost instinctual.

But Stan had been selfish.

"I needed somethin' to keep me there," he continued.

Ford, who had been mulling over his words with a combination of pity and deep concentration, cocked his head.

"Where?"

"Home," Stan said simply.

In a way, his memories of Ford are what kept him tethered to his real self. He'd lost everything else—his home, his parents, his dignity, his very identity.

His brotherhood with Ford, his one, true friend, the one with whom he shared his birthday, his name, his face, kept him grounded when he felt like he was slipping.

It's what sent him running to this weird, backwoods town in the first place all those years ago with nothing more than two words on a postcard, it's what made him fake his death, lying even to his own mother.

And it's what had him kneeling in the Fearamid, punching Bill out of existence as Ford erased his mind.

"You want to know something funny?"

Ford asked after a long beat of silence. When Stan lifted his head, Ford was pulling something out of his front chest pocket.

It was the childhood picture of them on the Stan O'War. The same one he'd shown Stan the day he'd asked to be given another chance at making their dream come true. It was crumpled and worn, and had obviously been through a lot of wear and tear throughout the years.

"I never showed anyone this picture," Ford admitted, holding its edges carefully as to not crinkle it further. "Not Fiddleford, not Bill, not even the kids. It's not from a lack of trust, but much like you, I just...wanted something to keep the fear and paranoia from eating me alive. Something that was just for me. Even now, it helps me get through some, uh, unsavory memories. It's a bit difficult to explain," he finished with a chuckle, tucking the picture safely back into his trench coat.

Stan understood perfectly. It was comforting, knowing that Ford had also dealt with similar issues.

"Look, Stan," Ford ran a hand through his hair, "I don't know the full extent of what happened between you and Jimmy, but I can tell you care about him. Seriously, I don't think even Carla used to make you blush that much."

Heat rushed to his face again at having been caught so hopelessly infatuated with his friend, and he dreaded Mabel ever finding out just how lovesick he'd acted. Maybe some bribes for Soos, Melody, and Ford were in order to make sure she'd never know.

"And he cares about you too, Stan. He came here after all this time for you. Not for Stanford, or Stetson Pinefield, or Panley Stines—how you managed to fool anyone with that absurd name is beyond me, by the way—but you. Stanley."

Stan felt the tightness constricting his chest release at Ford's reassurance. The phone number in his hand didn't feel quite as heavy as it did when Jimmy handed it to him, but Stan still couldn't help but doubt himself.

After all, it wasn't Stanford or Stetson or Panley that had lied to Jimmy in the first place. Those mistakes were all Stanley. He said as much to Ford, who smirked and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Stan, let me give you some wisdom that really helped me with my own past regrets."

Stan braced himself for some nerd jargon, or an otherworldly prophecy, or words written on an ancient alien scroll that Ford had seen while trapped in the multiverse.

"That giant pile of mistakes just confirms that you're a Pines."

They were Stan's own words, echoing back to when Ford had felt so embarrassed about his past with Bill. He flashed Stan a wide smile and squeezed his shoulder lightly.

"But Jimmy's not just in the past anymore. He's here now, and he wants to start over, so why not try to make up for lost time?"

Stan contemplated his brother's advice carefully. That dull ache in his abdomen had begun to subside, and the warmth of unconditional love took its place. It was like when Carla had broken up with him, and he was a snotty, sniveling mess, curled up in his bottom bunk with his head buried in his pillow.

It was some of the worst pain he'd felt at the time, even worse than some of the things his father had called him. Ford hadn't said much, hadn't hugged him or coddled him, simply offered a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly to let him know that he was there for him, just as he was right now.

It gave him a surge of confidence, and Stan vowed to call Jimmy first thing in the morning to confirm their breakfast date.

Baby steps.

"For what it's worth, I'm rooting for you," Ford said, taking his hand back to pick up his coffee mug, "And hey, if things don't work out, I've got four different guns that are capable of vaporizing the human body in less than a second."

Stan stared at his brother, disturbed at the casualness of his words. When Ford took notice, he waved his hand back and forth flippantly.

"Just think of it as insurance."

An image of Jimmy being eviscerated flashed through Stan's mind and he had to suppress a shudder.

"Won't be necessary, Doctor Doom. But, uh, thanks for the offer?"

Ford shrugged and brought his coffee mug up to his lips.

"I'll keep it on the backburner," he muttered, more to himself than Stan, before taking a loud slurp.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shook his head with a soft laugh.

"I'm just sorry I can't offer better dating advice. Unfortunately, my own romantic track record is abysmal."

Normally, Stan would've argued with Ford's self-deprecation, but in this case, he found himself nodding his head in agreement. If there was one situation in which Ford actually had worse luck than Stan, it was the dating game.

He never explicitly stated exactly what the hell he had going on with the pointy loser, and Stan never pried. Based on what he'd read in Bill's whiny diary, things between them got pretty bad, and honestly, it made Stan wish he could go back in time and punch Bill again for good measure.

"Please, don't be so quick to disagree," Ford said monotonously, sarcasm dripping from his words at Stan's lack of input.

"Hey, don't be so down, bro. I know of at least one broad that always had the hots for ya."

Ford perked up slightly at that, yet was obviously trying to appear nonchalant. It wasn't working.

"Oh?"

Stan couldn't help the snicker that escaped his mouth.

"Yeah! It's been a long time, though. She might be a little...rusty."

He punctuated his sentence with a wink and a click of his tongue, and waited for Ford to get the joke.

When he did, his expression slowly changing from confusion to exasperated disappointment, Stan burst out laughing.

"Very funny," Ford said with a quick flip of the bird. He stuck his nose up pretentiously. "And I'll have you know that the KissBot 4000 gave me quite valuable practice with—"

"Nope! Nuh-uh, stoppin' ya right there," Stan interrupted loudly, not even remotely wanting to hear the end of that sentence.

Ford shoved him playfully and Stan punched him back, and for the first time since leaving the gift shop that afternoon, Stan felt himself relax.

Really, truly relax.

"Thanks for talkin' to me, Sixer," he said earnestly. "Kinda takes me back to the Fort Stan days. Remember?"

Late nights spent huddled under old, worn blankets, holding flashlights with dying batteries over slapstick comics and books about mythical creatures, or maps of various islands that had been ripped out of their mother's travel guides. Laughing and crying and fighting, wrestling and dreaming and leaving way too many empty wrappers and soda cans.

"Of course," Ford said fondly, "Dad hated it. Always told Mom to take it down, but she never did. Even after you were gone."

Stan stood up, the motion causing what sounded like his entire body to crack at once.

"Off to bed?" Ford asked, finishing the last of his coffee. There was no doubt he'd be up late, especially now that he had some additional caffeine in him.

Stan stretched with a drawn-out groan.

"Eh, night's still young. Might toss and turn for a few hours before I punch myself into falling asleep. The usual, y'know?"

He began walking to the staircase, making it to the doorway when Ford spoke again.

"Well, if you're unable to sleep, I still have that old blanket in the lab, you know."

Stan froze.

"I also noticed some leftover toffee peanuts in the pantry," he continued quietly. "Got a couple cold beers in the fridge under my desk, some flashlights that won't ever burn out..."

Stan understood the invitation loud and clear. He turned around and shot Ford a smile over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

Seems like Fort Stan was still open for business.